“I will wait as long as you wish me, Arthur, my poor boy, for I need your forgiveness, too. I have wronged you also, depriving you these long and weary years of a father’s love. Besides, there was all your bitter trouble over Cinthia. But thank Heaven, it is all over now, that sorrow.”
“Yes, it is all over now,” he said, calmly, but with white lips.
And then he went away to his father’s room, where Mrs. Flint was sitting alone, wishing he were not so restless, fearing it was a bad sign.
Arthur bent over him caressingly, and whispered:
“My poor mother, after years of sorrow, divided between doubt and anger, is at last convinced of your innocence, and her poor heart is breaking with remorse for her sin and love that she could never conquer.”
He saw a strange gleam in the deep blue eyes, and the pale lips twitched with emotion.
He continued, almost pleadingly:
“Her pride is humbled in the dust, and her dearest wish is to express her penitence and pray for forgiveness. Her sin was great, but, dear father, you have a noble heart. Is it shut against her forever?”
What a light came over the pallid face, what strange new fire to the dim eyes, what deep emotion quivered in the voice that answered:
“When your mother first entered into my heart Arthur, she locked the door and threw away the key forever. How could I bar her out after lifelong possession?”