When Harold was in his bunk the little maid was brought in. When they had all gone and the cabin was dark, save for the gleam from
the nightlight which the careful mother had placed out of sight in the
basin at the foot of the bunk, Harold lay a long time in a negative
state, if such be possible, in so far as thought was concerned. Presently he became conscious of a movement of the child his arms; a
shuddering movement, and a sort of smothered groan. The little thing was
living over again in sleep the perils and fears of the day. Instinctively
she put up her hands and felt the a round her. Then with a sigh clasped
her arms round his neck, and with a peaceful look laid her head upon his
breast. Even through the gates of sleep her instinct had recognised and
realised protection. And then this trust of a little child brought back the man to his nobler
self. Once again came back to him that love which he had had, and which
he knew now that he had never lost, for the little child that he had seen
grow into full womanhood; whose image must dwell in his heart of hearts
for evermore. The long night's sleep quite restored Pearl. She woke fairly early and
without any recurrence of fear. At first she lay still, fearing she
would wake The Man, but finding that he was awake--he had not slept a
wink all night--she kissed him and then scrambled out of bed. It was still early morning, but early hours rule on shipland. Harold
rang for the steward, and when the man came he told him to tell Mr.
Stonehouse that the child was awake. His delight when he found the child
unfrightened looking out of the port was unbounded. CHAPTER XXVI--A NOBLE OFFER


That day Harold passed in unutterable gloom. The reaction was strong on
him; and all his woe, his bitter remembrance of the past and his
desolation for the future, were with him unceasingly. In the dusk of the evening he wandered out to his favourite spot, the
cable-tank on top of the aft wheelhouse. Here he had been all alone, and
his loneliness had the added advantage that from the isolated elevation
he could see if anyone approached. He had been out there during the day,
and the Captain, who had noticed his habit had had rigged up a canvas
dodger on the rail on the weather side. When he sat down on the coiled
hawsers in the tank he was both secluded and sheltered. In this peaceful
corner his thoughts ran freely and in sympathy with the turmoil of wind
and wave. How unfair it all was! Why had he been singled out for such misery? What
gleam of hope or comfort was left to his miserable life since he had
heard the words of Stephen; those dreadful words which had shattered in
an instant all the cherished hopes of his life. Too well he remembered
the tone and look of scorn with which the horrible truths had been
conveyed to him. In his inmost soul he accepted them as truths;
Stephen's soul had framed them and Stephen's lips had sent them forth. From his position behind the screen he did not see the approaching figure
of Mr. Stonehouse, and was astonished when he saw his head rise above the
edge of the tank as he climbed the straight Jacob's ladder behind the
wheelhouse. The elder man paused as he saw him and said in an apologetic
way:

'Will you forgive my intruding on your privacy? I wanted to speak to you
alone; and as I saw you come here a while ago I thought it would be a
good opportunity.' Harold was rising as he spoke. 'By all means. This place is common property. But all the same I am
honoured in your seeking me.' The poor fellow wished to be genial; but
despite his efforts there was a strange formality in the expression of
his words. The elder man understood, and said as he hurried forward and
sank beside him:

'Pray don't stir! Why, what a cosy corner this is. I don't believe at
this moment there is such peace in the ship!' Once again the bitterness of Harold's heart broke out in sudden words:

'I hope not! There is no soul on board to whom I could wish such evil!' The old man said as he laid his hand softly on the other's shoulder:

'God help you, my poor boy, if such pain is in your heart!' Mr.
Stonehouse looked out at the sea, at last turning his face to him again
he spoke:

'If you feel that I intrude on you I earnestly ask you to forgive me; but
I think that the years between your age and mine as well as my feeling
towards the great obligation which I owe you will plead for excuse. There
is something I would like to say to you, sir; but I suppose I must not
without your permission. May I have it?' 'If you wish, sir. I can at least hear it.' The old man bowed and went on:

'I could not but notice that you have some great grief bearing upon you;
and from one thing or another--I can tell you the data if you wish me to
do so--I have come to the conclusion that you are leaving your native
land because of it.' Here Harold, wakened to amazement by the readiness
with which his secret had been divined, said quickly, rather as an
exclamation than interrogation:

'How on earth did you know that!' His companion, taking it as a query,
answered:

'Sir, at your age and with your strength life should be a joy; and yet
you are sad: Companionship should be a pleasure; yet you prefer solitude. That you are brave and unselfish I know; I have reason, thank God! to
know it. That you are kindly and tolerant is apparent from your bearing
to my little child this morning; as well as your goodness of last night,
the remembrance of which her mother and I will bear to our graves; and to
me now. I have not lived all these years without having had trouble in
my own heart; and although the happiness of late years has made it dim,
my gratitude to you who are so sad brings it all back to me.' He bowed,
and Harold, wishing to avoid speaking of his sorrow, said:

'You are quite right so far as I have a sorrow; and it is because of it I
have turned my back on home. Let it rest at that!' His companion bowed
gravely and went on. 'I take it that you are going to begin life afresh in the new country. In
such case I have a proposition to make. I have a large business; a
business so large that I am unable to manage it all myself. I was
intending that when I arrived at home I would set about finding a
partner. The man I want is not an ordinary man. He must have brains and
strength and daring.' He paused. Harold felt what was coming, but
realised, as he jumped at the conclusion, that it would not do for him to
take for granted that he was the man sought. He waited; Mr. Stonehouse
went on:

'As to brains, I am prepared to take the existence of such on my own
judgment. I have been reading men, and in this aspect specially, all my
life. The man I have thought of has brains. I am satisfied of that,
without proof. I have proof of the other qualities.' He paused again;
as Harold said nothing he continued in a manner ill at ease:

'My difficulty is to make the proposal to the man I want.