There is a clergyman at the house, and a
midnight train for New York. Oh, my darling, do not hesitate: this
suspense is killing you. Can't you trust me, Fay?"
She listened eagerly: his voice seemed to soothe her. Seeing this, he
rose, and, still speaking words of love, approached her. Controlled
by, yet fearing, his influence, she slowly retreated as he advanced.
Suddenly he cried as if in agony, "Fay, come to me!"
She was standing on the brink of the rock with her back to the danger.
A moment she wavered: then Maurice could restrain himself no longer,
but, extending his arm, he rushed toward her.
A little step backward, a shy movement to yet delay the consent that
was already on her lips, a fall, a splash, and the waters of the lake
closed over the body of Fay Lafitte.
To save her or lose himself was the resolution of the doctor as he
leapt to the rescue. He was a good swimmer, and soon came to the
surface after the plunge, but the shadow of the rock retarded his
search. At last he found her, and then a new difficulty, that of
landing, presented itself. The shore was covered with a fringe of
impenetrable brushwood, which gave him the scantiest support, and it
was impossible to mount the face of the rock.
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