"Could the past come over again, you would, then, be a different wife to me?"
"Don't reproach me," she sobbed. "None can know how cruel my fate is, how bitter my repentance. Will you not be merciful?—will you not say that you forgive me before I go away for ever?"
"Yes, Adela, I will say it," he answered then. "I forgive you from my heart. I will say more. If you do wish to atone for the past, to be my true and loving wife, these arms are open to you."
He opened them as he spoke. She staggered back, unable to comprehend or believe. He did not move: simply stood still where he was, his extended arms inviting her.
"Do not mock me, pray," she feebly wailed. "Do not be cruel: you were never that. I have told you how bitterly I repent—that my remorse is greater than I can bear. If my life could undo the past, could atone to you in the least degree, I would gladly lay it down."
"Adela, I am not mocking you. You cannot surely think it, knowing me as you do. You may come back to me, if you will, and be once more my dear wife. My arms are waiting for you; my heart is waiting for you: it shall be as you will."
Panting, breathless, the hectic coming and going on her wasted cheeks, she slowly, doubtfully advanced; and when near him she halted and fell at his feet. His own breath was shortening, emotion nearly overcame him. Raising her, he enfolded her to his loving heart.
For a little while, as she lay in his arms, their tears mingled together; ay, even his were falling. A moment of agitation, such as this, does not often visit a man during his lifetime.
"There must be no mistake in future, Adela? You will be to me a loving wife?"
Once more, in deep humiliation, she bent before him. "Your loving and faithful wife for ever and for ever."