The longer he watched
that slender and pale hand plucking at the grasses, the harder and
rougher grew the fight between pride and its kindly adversary.
'Seraphina,' he said at last, 'it is right you should know one
thing: I never . . .' He was about to say 'doubted you,' but was
that true? And, if true, was it generous to speak of it? Silence
succeeded.
'I pray you, tell it me,' she said; 'tell it me, in pity.'
'I mean only this,' he resumed, 'that I understand all, and do not
blame you. I understand how the brave woman must look down on the
weak man. I think you were wrong in some things; but I have tried
to understand it, and I do. I do not need to forget or to forgive,
Seraphina, for I have understood.'
'I know what I have done,' she said. 'I am not so weak that I can
be deceived with kind speeches. I know what I have been - I see
myself. I am not worth your anger, how much less to be forgiven!
In all this downfall and misery, I see only me and you: you, as you
have been always; me, as I was - me, above all! O yes, I see
myself: and what can I think?'
'Ah, then, let us reverse the parts!' said Otto. 'It is ourselves
we cannot forgive, when we deny forgiveness to another - so a friend
told me last night. On these terms, Seraphina, you see how
generously I have forgiven myself. But am not I to be forgiven?
Come, then, forgive yourself - and me.
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