I turned a step aside, his mere
outline before my eyes sent the hate running hotly through me.
"I can't," I muttered; "no, I can't."
Howard sprang forward and put his hand on my arm, and at the touch I
seemed to abhor him more.
"Victor, I wish I could say how I regret it. I wish I could express
myself, but I can't. If you knew--I would cut off my right hand now
to undo it! I would indeed!"
"Who wants you right hand" I said, savagely, stopping and turning on
him as I shook off his detestable touch. "Fool! You can talk now!
Replace a single chapter of that book I slaved at--that would be
more to the purpose!"
Howard's face grew paler. I saw that, even in the darkness.
"It is not open to me, Victor, now," he said; "but it is still open
to you to forgive."
His voice had a grave significance in it. No words that he could
have chosen would have been better. The short, quiet sentence was
like a sword to divide my hatred, and penetrate to the better part
of man. The truth, the unerring force, the reflections of this
life's chances and decrees in those words went home. It was not open
to him now to repair; later, it might not be open to me to forgive.
And later, when all these present vivid feelings were swept away in
the past, should I not wish I had forgiven.
I stood silent, and the query went through me--What is forgiveness?
Is it to feel again as we have felt before the injury? This is
impossible.
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