“For my unfaith, which has been the source of all. For my readiness to believe evil of you five years ago, for having burnt unread your letter and the proof of your innocence that accompanied it.”
He smiled upon her very kindly. “I think you said your instinct guided you. Even though I had not done the thing imputed to me, your instinct knew me for evil; and your instinct was right, for evil I am—I must be. These are your own words. But do not think that I mock you with them. I have come to recognize their truth.”
She stretched out her hands to him. “If... if I were to say that I have come to realize the falsehood of all that?”
“I should understand it to be the charity which your pitiful heart extends to one in my extremity. Your instinct was not at fault.”
“It was! It was!”
But he was not to be driven out of his conviction. He shook his head, his countenance gloomy. “No man who was not evil could have done by you what I have done, however deep the provocation. I perceive it clearly now—as men in their last hour perceive hidden things.”
“Oh, why are you so set on death?” she cried upon a despairing note.
“I am not,” he answered with a swift resumption of his more habitual manner. “’Tis death that is so set on me. But at least I meet it without fear or regret. I face it as we must all face the inevitable—the gifts from the hands of destiny. And I am heartened—gladdened almost—by your sweet forgiveness.”
She rose suddenly, and came to him. She caught his arm, and standing very close to him, looked up now into his face.
“We have need to forgive each other, you and I, Oliver,” she said. “And since forgiveness effaces all, let... let all that has stood between us these last five years be now effaced.”