That consciousness of gratitude to God was her last sensation before falling asleep; and, when morning came, her first sensation was that of having a letter to write.  Before she had breakfasted she had written her letter and sent it to be posted.

This was the letter: 

“MY ONE LOVE:  I was a fool—­oh, such a fool!  How could I have done it?  How could I have sent you away in such coldness last night?  Believe me, it was not I who did it.  How could I have done it?  You know that my love for you is limitless.  You know that it is my life.  I tell you that my love for you laughs at such limits as are laid down by religion and honor.  Why should I protest?  My love is love, and there can be no love where there are any limits.

“Come to me on Thursday.  I shall be at home after dinner, at nine, and see if I am not now in my right mind.  Come to me; come to me, Bertie, my love.”

CHAPTER XVII.

WHAT AM I THAT I SHOULD DO THIS THING?

“At last!”

He sat with the letter before him after he had breakfasted, and perhaps for a time, say a minute or so, he caught a glimpse of the nature of the woman who had written those lines to him.  If he had not had some appreciation of her nature he would have spent an hour or two—­perhaps a day or two—­trying to reconcile her attitude of the previous night with the tone of her letter.  He did not, however, waste his time over such an endeavor.  He knew that she loved him, and that she did not love her husband.  He knew that she had allowed him to kiss her, and it had been a puzzle to him for some months why she had not come to his arms forever—­he meant her to be his own property forever.  He had been amazed to hear her allude, as she had done on the previous night, to such abstractions as honor, religion, her husband.  He could not see what they had to do with the matter in hand.  He could not see why such considerations should be potent to exercise a restraining influence on the intentions of a man and a woman who love each other.

Well, now it would appear that she had cast to the winds all such considerations as she had enumerated, and was prepared to live under the rule of love alone, and it was at his suggestion she was doing so.

For a moment or two he saw her as she was:  a woman in the midst of a seething ocean, throwing up her hands and finding an absolute relief in going down—­down—­down into very hell.  For a moment or two his heart was full of pity for her.  Who could be a spectator of a woman’s struggles for life in the midst of that turbulent sea of passion which was overwhelming her, and refrain from feeling pity?  That letter which lay before him represented the agonizing cry of a drowning creature; one whom the long struggle has made delirious; one who looks forward to going down with the delight born of delirium.

He recollected a picture which he had once seen—­the picture of a drowning woman.  He saw it now before him with hideous vividness, and the face of the woman was the face of Ella Linton.  The agony of that last fight with an element that was overpowering, overwhelming in its ruthless strength, was shown upon every feature, and his soul was filled with pity.