(The Serenade plays on steadily.)
Dr. Thorne (puts his hands to his ears, as if to shut out the music, which falls very faintly as he speaks). Between herself and me the awful gates of death have shut. To pass them—though I would die again to do it—to pass them for one hour, for one moment, for love’s sake, for grief’s sake—or for pity’s own—I am forbidden. (Breaks off.) ... Her forgiveness! Her forgiveness! The longing for it gnaws upon me.... Oh, her unfathomable tenderness—passing the tenderness of women!—It would lean out and take me back to itself, as her white arms took me to her heart—when I came home—after a hard day’s work—tired out.... Helen! Helen!
(The music strengthens as he ceases to speak; then faints again.)
Dr. Thorne (moans). For very longing for her, I would fain forget her.... No! No! No! (Starts.) Never would I forget her! To all eternity would I think of her and suffer, if I must, because I think of her.... I ... love her ... so.
(The Serenade ceases slowly, and sighs away.)
(Dr. Thorne stands with the moonlight on his face. It is rapt, and carries a certain majesty.)
(Spirits pass. Some of them glance at him, with wonder and respect. No one addresses him. He stands like a statue of strong and noble solitude. He does not perceive the presence of any spirit.)
Enter The Child. (Runs to his father.
Springs into his arms.)
The Child. Lonesome, Papa? I will comfort you.