Then the agony to wake and find her gone! What made her go after all?
How had she slipped from his arms without awakening him?
If he had only heard her when she was stealing from the room, he could have reasoned with her, and even have again caught her and kissed her into obedience--but he had slept on.
He remembered all his emotions--rage at her daring to cross his will to begin with, and then the deep wound to his self-love.

That is what had made him write the hard letter which forever put an end to their reunion.
"What a paltry, miserable, arrogant wretch I was then," he thought--"and how pitifully uncontrolled." But all was now too late.
The next morning's post brought him a letter from Henry Fordyce, in which he told him he had been meaning to write to him ever since he had returned from France more than a month ago, but had been too occupied.
The whole epistle breathed ecstatic happiness.

He was utterly absorbed in his lady love, it was plain to be seen, and since his mind seemed so peaceful and joyous, it was evident she must reciprocate.

Well, Henry was worthy of her--but this in no way healed the hurt.

Michael violently tore up the letter and bounded from his bed, passion boiling in him again.