“Yes,” he said, and he took a long deep breath: “there is no other way.”
“You—you have thought of something?” she cried eagerly.
“It is a forlorn hope,” he replied. “I ought not to advise it, and your brother will blame me, and tell me I am not acting as an honest friend.”
“The danger sweeps away all ideas of worldly custom, Mr Pacey,” she cried with animation, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks flushed; and as he gazed at her, the artist mentally said that if his friend could see the woman he had so cruelly jilted, now, he would humbly ask her to pardon him, and take him back to her heart.
“Yes,” he said firmly, “this is not time to study etiquette. Go to him, then. Don’t look upon it as sinking your womanly dignity, but as a last effort to save the man you once loved from a deadly peril.”
“Yes; and when I go,” said Cornel faintly, “what can I say more than I have said?”
“Say nothing, child. If your face, and your reproachful forgiving eyes do not bring him to your feet, come away, and go down upon your knees to thank God for saving you from a man not worthy of a second thought.”