Do what I would that affection I had had for him could
never re-awaken. It was stamped out, obliterated, as a flower is
ground into the dust beneath one's heel.
Still the loathing and the hatred I had for him now would pass.
Years would cancel it all, and bring with them mere indifference
towards him, the thought of him and of his act. To say the words
now, and let the time to come slowly fill them with truth, was
better, surely, than to reiterate my hatred of him--hatred which
years hence would seem almost foolish to me myself.
"I can't think that my forgiveness can be of very serious import to
you," I said quietly. "However, it is yours."
"You will shake hands with me, then, won't you?" and he held out his
hand.
With an effort I stretched out mine and took his, and held it for a
second as in old times.
"Good-bye, Victor," he said, in rather a strained voice, "I shall
never cease to regret what I have done."
He hesitated, as if wondering if I should speak. I did not, and he
turned and went down the alley, and the darkness closed up after
him. I leant silent against the wall, hating myself for forgiving
him and letting him go, and yet knowing I would do the same again.
"One must forgive, one must forgive; otherwise one is no better than
brute," I thought mechanically. "Later I shall be glad,"--and
similar phrases by which Principle excuses itself to furious,
disappointed Nature.
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