Can you, will you, forgive me?"
Helen stood up. The mysterious stranger held one of her hands in a
strong and trembling clasp.
There she stood, and I pity the stage that it has not acquired a scene
like that and her emotions to portray.
For she stood with a divided heart. The fresh, unforgettable, virginal
love for her bridegroom was hers; the treasured, sacred, honored memory
of her first choice filled half her soul. She leaned to that pure
feeling. Honor and faith and sweet, abiding romance bound her to it. But
the other half of her heart and soul was filled with something else--a
later, fuller, nearer influence. And so the old fought against the new.
And while she hesitated, from the room above came the soft, racking,
petitionary music of a violin. The hag, music, bewitches some of the
noblest. The daws may peck upon one's sleeve without injury, but whoever
wears his heart upon his tympanum gets it not far from the neck.
This music and the musician caller her, and at her side honor and the
old love held her back.
"Forgive me," he pleaded.
"Twenty years is a long time to remain away from the one you say you
love," she declared, with a purgatorial touch.
"How could I tell?" he begged.
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