“It’s of no use to make a row,” she thought. “If anything can bring him back, certainly it is not tears or reproaches or threats. And how appeal to the honour of a man who has no honour?”
Her mind was clear enough, but her feelings were in a ferment. She knew that it was in some way her fault that she had lost him. “And I deserved to lose him,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t excuse him or help me.”
He answered promptly:
My Dear Friend:
How like you your letter was. If I did not know so well how unworthy of you I am, how I would plead for the honour of having such a woman as my wife. I wish I could look forward to seeing you soon—but I’m going abroad on Saturday and I shan’t return for some time. As soon as I do, I’ll let you know. It is good of you to offer me your friendship. I am proud to accept it. If you ever need a friend, you will find him in
Yours faithfully,
Edgar Wayland.
The expression of Emily’s face was anything but good, it was the reverse of “lady-like,” as she read this death-warrant of her last hope. “The coward!” she exclaimed, and, as her eyes fell on the satirical formality, “Yours faithfully,” she uttered an ugly laugh which would have given a severe shock to Wayland’s new ideas of her.
“Fooled—jilted—left for dead,” she thought, despair closing in, thick and black. And she crawled into bed, to lie sleepless and tearless, her eyes burning.
CHAPTER VI.
A CHANGED CRUSOE.
IN the third night Emily had ten hours of the sleep of exhausted youth. She awoke in the mood of the brilliant July morning which was sending sunshine and song and the odour of honeysuckles through the rifts in the lattices of her shutters. She was restored to her normal self. She was able to examine her affairs calmly in the light of her keen and courageous mind.