"But how could you know the bitterness, the shame of feeling that it was all the result of my own mistake—of my own sin."
Taking his hand in hers, she sat for a moment in silence with her ecstatic gaze fixed on his face. "I know that in spite of your sin you are better than they are," she said at last, "because your sin was on the outside—a thing to be sloughed off and left far behind, while their self-righteousness is of their very souls——"
"Oh, hush, hush," he interrupted sternly, "they have forgiven me for what I did, that is enough."
"Sixteen years ago," she returned, dropping her voice, "my husband forgave me in the same way, and he has never forgotten it."
At his start of surprise, he felt that she clung the more closely to the hand she held. "Oh, it wasn't so big a thing," she went on, "I had been married to him for five years, and I was very unhappy when I met someone who seemed to understand and to love me. For a time I was almost insane with the wonder and delight of it—I might have gone away with him—with the other—in my first rapture, had not Richard found it all out two days before. He behaved very generously—he forgave me. I should have been happier," she added a little wistfully, "if he had not."
As she broke off trembling, he lifted her hand to his lips, kissing it with tenderness, almost with passion. "Then that was the beginning of your unhappiness—of your long illness!" he exclaimed.
She nodded smiling, while a tear ran slowly down her flushed cheek. "He forgave me sixteen years ago and he has never allowed me to forget it one hour—hardly a minute since."
"Then you understand how bitter—how intolerable it is!" he returned in an outbreak of anger.
"I thought I knew," she replied more firmly than he had ever heard her speak, "but I learned afterwards that it was a mistake. I see now that they are kind—that they are good in their way, and I love them for it. It isn't our way, I know, but the essence of charity, after all, is to learn to appreciate goodness in all its expressions, no matter how different they may be from our own. Even Richard is kind—he means everything for the best, and it is only his nature that is straightened—that is narrow—not his will. I felt bitterly once, but not now because I am so happy at last."
Beyond the pale outline of her head, he saw the elm leaves drifting slowly down, and beyond them the low roofs and the dim church spires of the quiet town. Was it possible that even here he might find peace in the heart of the storm?