Lilith by J. R. Salamanca Page A

at the ground for a moment and then said, “I guess you didn’t care whether I came back or not, after the way I acted.”
    “I thought you might,” she said. “So I saved it for a while.”
    There was a breath of evening breeze that made the big tree stir softly, and I looked up and watched the white curtains blowing out into the yard from the open windows of the upstairs bedrooms—a clean, blithe, gentle billowing which I have always loved for the sense of purification which it suggests: the cleansing out of old, fraught, winter-stale houses in a sweet, cool, vernal bath of air.
    “How is your father, Laura?” I asked.
    “Oh, he’s getting weaker all the time. I guess we just have to expect the worst.”
    “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
    “He had another attack this morning. Mother’s upstairs with him right now.”
    “That certainly is too bad.”
    “It’s such an awful strain on her; that’s the worst part.”
    “Yes.”
    There was a long pause, during which I gathered the determination to make my apology.
    “The main reason I came back, Laura,” I said, “was that I wanted to tell you I was very sorry for the way I acted the last time I was here. I’m very sorry about it, and I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings, or anything.”
    “Thank you, Vincent. It’s nice of you to say that.”
    “I don’t know why I did it, but I hope you don’t feel too—well, too disgusted with me.”
    “No, I don’t, Vincent. I know you were very upset about your horse, and people do all kinds of things when they get very upset like that.”
    “Yes.” I felt a vague sense of chagrin at the ease with which she apparently forgave me, and wondered, with a swiftly growing apprehension, whether I had really expected or desired it. The sense of guilt which my adventure had created in me lay like a monstrous weight on my heart, and I bore it with the terrible sensitivity of which only a boy of that age is capable. I felt unclean and vicious; and I think for this reason I experienced my sudden doubt as to whether I could ever decently resume my relationship with Laura: I was not worthy of her; I could no longer honorably enjoy her affection and companionship with so foul a secret on my conscience. I almost wished that she would refuse to accept my apology, or ever to see me again, and thus relieve me of the imposture—the feigned respectability—that I would otherwise have to make.
    “My father says that one of a Christian’s chief duties is to forgive people, no matter what they do to him, and no matter whether he understands it or not,” Laura said. “And I believe that. So I don’t think we have to talk about it any more, Vincent. I think we ought to just pretend it never happened.”
    I stared wretchedly at the shadowed lawn, feeling a growing constriction of my breath and blood at the suddenly imminent necessity of my confession. I saw that there was no way to avoid making it.
    “I don’t think we can, Laura,” I said.
    “What do you mean?”
    “Well, sometimes people do things that nobody would ever think they were capable of. I don’t think people ever really understand each other. I don’t even think they understand themselves a lot of times.”
    “You don’t have to understand people in order to forgive them,” Laura said. “That’s what I just said. It shouldn’t make any difference.”
    “I know, but you don’t know the worst of it. You don’t know what else I did; and you wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me any more if you did.”
    “What do you mean? What else did you do, Vincent?”
    She turned to face me and I stared into her eyes with a look of desperate resolution.
    “I hate to tell you this, Laura, but I have to, because I just don’t think it would be right for you not to know about it. I’m not asking you to forgive me, or anything, but I have to tell you. You don’t have to listen if you won’t want to; you can just leave now, and then we won’t have to see