This was in the drawing-room, and before Adela could venture to speak to him again, one of the girls came into the room.
"Adela," said she, "we are waiting for you to go down to the school."
"I am coming directly," said Adela, jumping up, and still hoping that Mary would go on, so as to leave her one moment alone with Bertram. But Mary showed no sign of moving without her friend. Instead of doing so, she asked her cousin whether he had a headache?
"Not at all," said he, looking up; "but I am half asleep. This Hurst Staple is a sleepy place, I think. Where's Arthur?"
"He's in the study."
"Well, I'll go into the study also. One can always sleep there without being disturbed."
"You're very civil, master George." And then Adela followed her friend down to the school.
But she could not rest while the matter stood in this way. She felt that she had been both harsh and unjust to Bertram. She knew that the fault had been with Caroline; and yet she had allowed herself to speak of it as though he, and he only, had been to blame. She felt, moreover, an expressible tenderness for his sorrow. When he declared how cruel was his punishment, she could willingly have given him the sympathy of her tears. For were not their cases in many points the same?
She was determined to see him again before she went, and to tell him that she acquitted him;—that she knew the greater fault was not with him. This in itself would not comfort him; but she would endeavour so to put it that he might draw comfort from it.
"I must see you for a moment alone, before I go," she said to him that evening in the drawing-room. "I go very early on Thursday morning. When can I speak to you? You are never up early, I know."