“Of course. What do you mean?”
In his manner there was something penetrating, something that went ever straight to its object, and it confused her somewhat. Had it been Vincent, she would very soon have plunged into some more or less misty philosophical discussion, and lost herself in a maze of sentences thin and filmy as cloudlets of steam—discussions in which neither of them knew what they were really aiming at. But St. Clare threw her entirely off her qui vive with his “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she answered with much indecision, “whether you would not even be readier to forgive one who had passed through great grief, that lack of energy and activity, than—you would forgive Vincent, who has only been ill.”
He looked at her fixedly for a moment.
“Yes, I should, that is, if he had tried to be energetic and had failed in the attempt; not otherwise, not if he had allowed himself, without an effort, to be dragged along by the force of circumstances with the simple reflection that one cannot fight against destiny. Vincent has some of that fatalism, and there is nothing that is so unnerving as that. Life would degenerate into a moral lethargy if every one did so, and simply sat down with folded hands and thought, ‘I cannot help it, come what may.’ ”
Her thoughts wandered a little. In fact, she did not know what she thought. And she, had she had any energy? Had she allowed herself to be dragged along by the force of circumstances? She did not know. His strength of will, his determination, oppressed and crushed her, and arrested the flow of her thoughts.
“But if that person had gone through much suffering, if he had suffered, especially with remorse, at what he once had done?” she whispered almost imploringly, with a moist glitter in her eyes, and her little foot wandered nervously along the rug, her fingers clutched [[273]]at her black locket. His glance softened, filling with tenderness and pity.
“In that case—yes, then I should forgive him all,” he whispered, with a merciful assurance.
But his last words completely unnerved and abashed her. It suddenly seemed to her as if she had entirely exposed herself, as if she had said things which she should not have said, and yet it seemed as if the strength failed her to withdraw herself now that she had said so much as that.
After that day St. Clare and Vincent stayed away for about a week, and Eline began to long for their return. When they came again it was the day before New Year’s Eve, and Elise invited both for the following day, when she was giving a big soirée.