“John—John, what must it be to lose everything, even the love of one’s own son? That touches me, even to the heart. Is it not strange that I should feel that, even more than you?”
He looked at her questioningly, mutely. She had not seen what he had seen—cowardice, squalor, bestial fawning that was infamous in a man. And yet her words woke a depth of feeling in him, something finer and more delicate than his man’s nature had fashioned of itself.
He opened his mouth to tell her more of the gross truth, but some impulse rebuked him. He waited instinctively for her.
Barbara had raised her head. For a moment she stared at the fire and then turned to him with a look he would never forget.
“John, it may help you if I tell you what is in my heart.”
“Child!”
“It is this, John: I can forgive—yes, I can forgive.”
He looked at her wonderingly, and then sprang up, opening his arms. She went to him with a low, inarticulate cry, and let him hold her to him, while a great tremor passed through her, as though the old self were vanishing with a last spasm of pain and bitterness.
“Barbe, you can forgive!”
“Yes.”