She lifted her eyes to his, and waited in silence.
“Myra,” he said, “can you forgive me?”
“I do not know, Jim,” she answered, gently. “I want to be quite honest with you, and with myself. If I had cared less, I could have forgiven more easily.”
“I know,” he said. “Oh, Myra, I know. And I would not have you forgive lightly, so great a sin against our love. But, dear—if, before I go, you could say, ‘I understand,’ it would mean almost more to me, than if you said, ‘I forgive.’”
“Jim,” said Myra, gently, a tremor of tenderness in her sweet voice, “I understand.”
He came quite near, and took her hands in his, holding them for a moment, with tender reverence.
“Thank you, dear,” he said. “You are very good.”
He loosed her hands, and again she folded them in her lap. He walked to the mantelpiece and stood looking down upon the ferns and lilies.
She marked the stoop of his broad shoulders; the way in which he seemed to find it difficult to hold up his head. Where was the proud gay carriage of the man who swung along the Cornish cliffs, whistling like a blackbird?
“Jim,” she said, “understanding fully, of course I forgive fully, if it is possible that between you and me, forgiveness should pass. I have been thinking it over, since I knew you were in the house, and wondering why I feel it so impossible to say, ‘I forgive you.’ And, Jim—I think it is because you and I are so one that there is no room for such a thing as forgiveness to pass from me to you, or from you to me. Complete comprehension and unfailing love, take the place of what would be forgiveness between those who were less to each other.”