There was, it is true, a something
deprecating in John Saltram's manner that had not been common to him of
old, and in Gilbert Fenton a deeper gravity than was quite natural; but
that was all. It was difficult to believe that any latent spirit of
animosity could lurk in the mind of either. In sober truth, Gilbert, in
his heart of hearts, had forgiven his treacherous friend. Again and again
he had told himself that the wrong he had suffered was an unpardonable
offence, a thing not to be forgiven upon any ground whatever. But, lo,
when he looked into his mind to discover the smouldering fires of that
burning anger which he had felt at first against the traitor, he could
find nothing but the gray ashes of a long-expired flame. The wrong had
been suffered, and he loved his old friend still. Yes, there was that in
his heart for John Saltram which no ill-doing could blot out.
So he tended the convalescent's couch with a quiet devotion that touched
the sinner very deeply, and there was a peace between those two which
had in it something almost sacred. In the mind of the one there was a
remorseful sense of guilt, in the heart of the other a pitying tenderness
too deep for words.
One night, as they were together on opposite sides of the fire, John
Saltram lying on a low sofa drawn close to the hearth, Gilbert seated
lazily in an easy-chair, the invalid broke out suddenly into a kind of
apology for his wrong-doing.
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