There was a proud look in the old
man's eyes as he said quietly:

'It was my desire, is my desire, to share with you what I have that is
best; and that, I take it, is not the least valuable of my possessions,
such as they are! And why not? You have given to me all that makes life
sweet; without which it would be unbearable. That child who came to my
wife and me when I was old and she had passed her youth is all in all to
us both. Had your strength and courage been for barter in the moments
when my child was quivering between life and death, I would have
cheerfully purchased them with not half but all! Sir, I should have
given my soul! I can say this now, for gratitude is above all barter;
and surely it is allowed to a father to show gratitude for the life of
his child!' This great-hearted generosity touched Harold to the quick. He could
hardly speak for a few minutes. Then instinctively grasping the old
man's hand he said:

'You overwhelm me. Such noble trust and generosity as you have shown me
demands a return of trust. But I must think! Will you remain here and
let me return to you in a little while?' He rose quickly and slipped down the iron ladder, passing into the
darkness and the mist and the flying spray. CHAPTER XXVII--AGE'S WISDOM


Harold went to and fro on the deserted deck. All at once the course he
had to pursue opened out before him. He was aware that what the noble-
minded old man offered him was fortune, great fortune in any part of the
world. He would have to be refused, but the refusal should be gently
done. He, believing that the other had done something very wrong, had
still offered to share with him his name, his honour. Such confidence
demanded full confidence in return; the unwritten laws which governed the
men amongst whom he had been brought up required it. And the shape that confidence should take? He must first disabuse his
new friend's mind of criminal or unworthy cause for his going away. For
the sake of his own name and that of his dead father that should be done. Then he would have to suggest the real cause . . . He would in this have
to trust Mr. Stonehouse's honour for secrecy. But he was worthy of
trust. He would, of course, give no name, no clue; but he would put
things generally in a way that he could understand. When his mind was so far made up he wanted to finish the matter, so he
turned to the wheelhouse and climbed the ladder again. It was not till
he sat in the shelter by his companion that he became aware that he had
become wet with the spray. The old man wishing to help him in his
embarrassment said:

'Well?' Harold began at once; the straightforward habit of his life stood
to him now:

'Let me say first, sir, what will I know give you pleasure.' The old man
extended his hand; he had been hoping for acceptance, and this seemed
like it. Harold laid his hand on it for an instant only, and then raised
it as if to say 'Wait':

'You have been so good to me, so nobly generous in your wishes that I
feel I owe you a certain confidence. But as it concerns not myself alone
I will ask that it be kept a secret between us two. Not to be told to
any other; not even your wife!' 'I will hold your secret sacred. Even from my wife; the first secret I
shall have ever kept from her.' 'First, then, let me say, and this is what I know will rejoice you, that
I am not leaving home and country because of any crime I have committed;
not from any offence against God or man, or law. Thank God! I am free
from such. I have always tried to live uprightly . . . ' Here a burst
of pain overcame him, and with a dry sob he added: 'And that is what
makes the terrible unfairness of it all!' The old man laid a kindly hand on his shoulder and kept it there for a
few moments. 'My poor boy! My poor boy!' was all he said. Harold shook himself as if
to dislodge the bitter thoughts. Mastering himself he went on:

'There was a lady with whom I was very much thrown in contact since we
were children. Her father was my father's friend. My friend too, God
knows; for almost with his dying breath he gave sanction to my marrying
his daughter, if it should ever be that she should care for me in that
way. But he wished me to wait, and, till she was old enough to choose,
to leave her free. For she is several years younger than I am; and I am
not very old yet--except in heart! All this, you understand, was said in
private to me; none other knew it. None knew of it even till this moment
when I tell you that such a thing has been.' He paused; the other said:

'Believe me that I value your confidence, beyond all words!' Harold felt
already the good effects of being able to speak of his pent-up trouble. Already this freedom from the nightmare loneliness of his own thoughts
seemed to be freeing his very soul. 'I honestly kept to his wishes. Before God, I did! No man who loved a
woman, honoured her, worshipped her, could have been more scrupulously
careful as to leaving her free. What it was to me to so hold myself no
one knows; no one ever will know. For I loved her, do love her, with
every nerve and fibre of my heart. All our lives we had been friends;
and I believed we loved and trusted each other. But . . . but then there
came a day when I found by chance that a great trouble threatened her. Not from anything wrong that she had done; but from something perhaps
foolish, harmlessly foolish except that she did not know . . . ' He
stopped suddenly, fearing he might have said overmuch of Stephen's side
of the affair. 'When I came to her aid, however, meaning the best, and
as single-minded as a man can be, she misunderstood my words, my meaning,
my very coming; and she said things which cannot be unsaid. Things . . . matters were so fixed that I could not explain; and I had to listen. She
said things that I did not believe she could have said to me, to anyone. Things that I did not think she could have thought . . . I dare say she
was right in some ways. I suppose I bungled in my desire to be
unselfish. What she said came to me in new lights upon what I had done
. . . But anyhow her statements were such that I felt I could not, should
not, remain. My very presence must have been a trouble to her hereafter. There was nothing for it but to come away. There was no place for me! No
hope for me! There is none on this side of the grave! . . . For I love
her still, more than ever. I honour and worship her still, and ever
will, and ever must! . . . I am content to forego my own happiness; but I
feel there is a danger to her from what has been. That there is and must
be to her unhappiness even from the fact that it was I who was the object
of her wrath; and this adds to my woe. Worst of all is . . . the thought
and the memory that she should have done so; she who . . . she . . . ' He turned away overcome and hid his face in his hands. The old man sat
still; he knew that at such a moment silence is the best form of
sympathy.