"I beg your pardon," she humbly began again, having halted just inside the window. "I would not have presumed to follow you in, or to speak to you, but that it is the last opportunity we shall have of meeting on earth. I go away the day after tomorrow to seclude myself from the world; and I—I cannot go without your forgiveness. When I saw you come in now, not knowing even that you were at Netherleigh—an impulse I could not resist brought me after you to ask you to forgive me. Just to ask it!"
But still Sir Francis did not answer. Poor Adela, now white, now hectic, went on, in her weak and imploring tone.
"It has seemed to me that if I went away for good without your forgiveness, I should almost die as the days went on—knowing that I could never ask it then. If you could believe how truly, how bitterly I have repented, perhaps you would not in pity withhold it from me. Will you not give it me? Will you not hear me?" she added, lifting her trembling hands, as he yet made no sign. "God forgives: will not you forgive also?"
Advancing, she sank on her knees before him, as he stood; her sad face lifted to his in yearning. He drew a step back: he had listened in impassive silence; but he spoke now.
"Rise, rise, Lady Adela. Do not kneel to me."
She bent forward; she laid her poor weak hands upon him; the scalding tears began to stream down her face, so pitiful in its sad entreaty. Sir Francis gently touched her hands with his, essaying to raise her; a cold, distant touch, evidently not of goodwill.
"Lady Adela, I will not say another word, or allow you to say one, until you rise. You must be aware that you are only vexing me."
She rose to her feet obediently. She stood still, apart from him. He drew back yet, and stood still also, his arms folded.
"Tell me what it is you wish. I scarcely understand."
"Only your forgiveness, your pardon for the past. It will be a comfort to carry it with me where I am going."