"Don't judge her harshly," he said. "She is wrong, miserably
wrong. She has recklessly degraded herself; she has recklessly
tempted you. Still, is it generous--is it even just--to hold her
responsible for deliberate sin? She is at the close of her days;
she can feel no new affection; she can never replace you. View
her position in that light, and you will see (as I see) that it
is no base motive which has led her astray. Think of her wounded
heart and her wasted life--and say to yourself forgivingly, She
loves me!"
Mercy's eyes filled with tears.
"I do say it!" she answered. "Not forgivingly--it is _I_ who have
need of forgiveness. I say it gratefully when I think of her--I
say it with shame and sorrow when I think of myself."
He took her hand for the first time. He looked, guiltlessly
looked, at her downcast face. He spoke as he had spoken at the
memorable interview between them which had made a new woman of
her.
"I can imagine no crueler trial," he said, "than the trial that
is now before you. The benefactress to whom you owe everything
asks nothing from you but your silence. The person whom you have
wronged is no longer present to stimulate your resolution to
speak.
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