She sat down at the desk again, shaking and sobbing. Her tears fell upon the paper after she had written a few words, so that she had to tear it up and throw it away. Then, drying her eyes, she started once more.
“...You must never leave me after this. I have your solemn promise, have not I? I couldn’t stand any more of it, the loneliness. I must feel that when I put out my hand it will touch you and not close upon the empty air. You must, you must give me a few happy years after all the waiting. You said once you could be happy with me in Devonshire—in the dear west country that people have called the land of sunsets. That’ll seem the right place, Tony, for our sunset—I mean, the closing of our day.
“Oh, Tony”—and she had another fit of sobbing before she could go on writing—“God or Fate cannot mean to separate us. If you were dead I should die too. Not by my own hand. But I simply could not go on living without you.
“There.” She was dabbing her eyes; and after forcing back the tears, she sniffed courageously. “You will read this and laugh your big laugh, and make a noise of crackers with your bony fingers, and think how cowardly and faint-hearted your little Emmie has become. I wasn’t cowardly in the beginning, was I, darling? It is the waiting that has worn me out and broken my nerve. Good-night and God bless you and guard you.”
She refused now even to glance at the newspapers; she would not look at anything that could remind her of the passing days—those days that she dared not count. September was close upon her, and still she went on writing to him.
Old Louisa came into the room late one night, to fetch the cat.
“Won’t you go to bed, miss?”
“No,” said Emmie, “I am busy. I have something to finish.”
“Is it so very important?” asked Louisa. “Won’t it keep?”
Emmie answered with great firmness. “No, it won’t. The mail goes to-morrow. I am writing to Mr. Dyke.”