She might as well have talked to a statue. Animated by a spirit of despair she at last put the question point blank:—
“Lord Courtenay, will you not speak?”
No! he would not; and to hide her vexation and tears, she flung herself from the room.
“The woman is yielding,” was his thought. “Her next coming will be to set me free.”
An opinion that proved correct. From the moment when she had first locked the door upon Wilfrid, Pauline had been miserable. She could not see him mortified without being mortified herself. What her head bade her do, her heart bade her not do. All day long this struggle had been going on in her mind, and when night came the struggle was too great to be borne any longer.
The key turned in the lock, the door swung wide, and Pauline entered. With timid steps she drew near to Wilfrid.
“Lord Courtenay,” she said humbly, “forgive me for carrying matters with so high a hand. It has been done with good intent, to avert bloodshed; but it—it pains me to keep you a prisoner. See! the door is open. My Finland henchmen are withdrawn. You are free.”
Then, overcoming a sort of shame that had hitherto kept her from the act, she knelt before him.
“Say that you forgive me, for I—I have been most wretched all the day.”