FORGIVENESS
"Celie," said John, "honestly he was devilish to me, and I deserved
it!" John was lying on a lounge, covered and looking wan. The
library fire burned cheerfully, and the portrait of an Irish mother
smiled down on Cecilia and John.
Stuyvesant Twombly had just left. He had uttered some scathing
truths.
"He said I was a 'callow pup,'" said John. "He said I shouldn't have
called you to that place if I'd been half dead. Cecilia dear, he was
right. Celie, forgive me!"
"Dearest!" said Cecilia. She sank to her knees by the lounge, and
pressed John's face to hers. He felt her tears.
"I never will again!" he said huskily. "God help me!" She didn't
reply. She couldn't, but only pressed him closer.
"I can't bear to see you take the tawdry and cheap," she whispered at
length, "for, John dear, it does crowd out the real. I know it does."
He nodded.
"Kiss me," he ordered. She turned her face, and then the door opened.
"I beg pardon," said Stuyvesant uncomfortably, "I thought you were
alone." Cecilia had gotten to her feet, and stood, shy and flushing
adorably.
"Cecilia's been weeping over the prodigal pup," explained John. "I
told her I was sorry. I am. If you and she will give me another
chance----" He held out his hand with his words, and Stuyvesant took
it.
"I came back to say I was sorry I was so darn brutal," he said,
squeezing John's hand, "but I'm afraid I meant it all."
Cecilia left them with a word or two. At the door she turned.
Stuyvesant was looking after her, oblivious to John's presence.
"Celie's tears," said John, using a handkerchief on his cheeks. He
recalled the new leaf, and added, "Three or four of mine too, I
guess." His expression was sheepish, but that vanished, for in
Stuyvesant's face was approval. "John," said Stuyvesant, "you're
_all_ right!"
John coughed. The genuine gruffness of Stuyvesant unsettled him.
"I'm awfully glad you came back," said John. "You'll stay? Let's
play rum."