It is so
difficult to talk business to a man to whom you under great obligation;
to whom you owe everything. He might take a friendly overture ill.'
There was but one thing to be said and Harold said it. His heart warmed
to the kindly old man and he wished to spare him pain; even if he could
not accept him proposition:

'He couldn't take it ill; unless he was an awful bounder.' 'It was you I thought of!' 'I thought so much, sir;' said Harold after a pause, 'and I thank you
earnestly and honestly. But it is impossible.' 'Oh, my dear sir!' said the other, chagrined as well as surprised. 'Think
again! It is really worth your while to think of it, no matter what your
ultimate decision may be!' Harold shook his head. There was a long silence. The old man wished to
give his companion time to think; and indeed he thought that Harold was
weighing the proposition in his mind. As for Harold, he was thinking how
best he could make his absolute refusal inoffensive. He must, he felt,
give some reason; and his thoughts were bent on how much of the truth he
could safely give without endangering his secret. Therefore he spoke at
last in general terms:

'I can only ask you, sir, to bear with me and to believe that I am very
truly and sincerely grateful to you for your trust. But the fact is, I
cannot go anywhere amongst people. Of course you understand that I am
speaking in confidence; to you alone and to none other?' 'Absolutely!' said Mr. Stonehouse gravely. Harold went on:

'I must be alone. I can only bear to see people on this ship because it
is a necessary way to solitude.' 'You "cannot go anywhere amongst people"! Pardon me. I don't wish to be
unduly inquisitive; but on my word I fail to understand!' Harold was in
a great difficulty. Common courtesy alone forbade that he should leave
the matter where it was; and in addition both the magnificently generous
offer which had been made to him, and the way in which accident had
thrown him to such close intimacy with Pearl's family, required that he
should be at least fairly frank. At last in a sort of cold desperation
he said:

'I cannot meet anyone . . . There it something that happened . . . Something I did . . . Nothing can make it right . . . All I can do is to
lose myself in the wildest, grimmest, wilderness in the world; and fight
my pain . . . my shame . . . !' A long silence. Then the old man's voice came clear and sweet, something
like music, in the shelter from the storm:

'But perhaps time may mend things. God is very good . . . !' Harold
answered out of the bitterness of his heart. He felt that his words were
laden with an anger which he did not feel, but he did not see his way to
alter them:

'Nothing can mend this thing! It is at the farthest point of evil; and
there is no going on or coming back. Nothing can wipe out what is done;
what is past!' Again silence, and again the strong, gentle voice:

'God can do much! Oh my dear young friend, you who have been such a
friend to me and mine, think of this.' 'God Himself can do nothing here! It is done! And that is the end!' He
turned his head; it was all he could do to keep from groaning. The old
man's voice vibrated with earnest conviction as he spoke:

'You are young and strong and brave! Your heart is noble! You can think
quickly in moments of peril; therefore your brain is sound and alert. Now, may I ask you a favour? it is not much. Only that you will listen,
without interruption, to what, if I have your permission, I am going to
say. Do not ask me anything; do not deny; do not interrupt! Only
listen! May I ask this?' 'By all means! It is not much!' he almost felt like smiling as he spoke. Mr. Stonehouse, after a short pause, as if arranging his thoughts, spoke:

'Let me tell you what I am. I began life with nothing but a fair
education such as all our American boys get. But from a good mother I
got an idea that to be honest was the best of all things; from a
strenuous father, who, however, could not do well for himself, I learned
application to work and how best to use and exercise such powers as were
in me. From the start things prospered with me. Men who knew me trusted
me; some came with offers to share in my enterprise. Thus I had command
of what capital I could use; I was able to undertake great works and to
carry them through. Fortune kept growing and growing; for as I got
wealthier I found newer and larger and more productive uses for my money. And in all my work I can say before God I never willingly wronged any
man. I am proud to be able to say that my name stands good wherever it
has been used. It may seem egotistical that I say such things of myself. It may seem bad taste; but I speak because I have a motive in so doing. I
want you to understand at the outset that in my own country, wherever I
am known and in my own work, my name is a strength.' He paused a while. Harold sat still; he knew that such man would not,
could not, speak in such a way without a strong motive; and to learn that
motive he waited. 'When you were in the water making what headway you could in that awful
sea--when my little child's life hung in the balance, and the anguish of
my wife's heart nearly tore my heart in two, I said to myself, "If we had
a son I should wish him to be like that." I meant it then, and I mean it
now! Come to me as you are! Faults, and past, and all. Forget the
past! Whatever it was we will together try to wipe it out. Much may be
done in restoring where there has been any wrong-doing. Take my name as
your own. It will protect you from the result of what ever has been, and
give you an opportunity to find your place again. You are not bad in
heart I know. Whatever you have done has not been from base motives. Few
of us are spotless as to facts. You and I will show ourselves--for
unless God wills to the opposite we shall confide in none other--that a
strong, brave man may win back all that was lost. Let me call you by my
name and hold you as the son of my heart; and it will be a joy and
pleasure to my declining years.' As he had spoken, Harold's thought's had at first followed in some
wonderment. But gradually, as his noble purpose unfolded, based as it
was on a misconception as to the misdoing of which he himself had spoken,
he had been almost stricken dumb. At the first realisation of what was
intended he could not have spoken had he tried; but at the end he had
regained his thoughts and his voice. There was still wonderment in it,
as realising from the long pause that the old man had completed his
suggestion, he spoke:

'If I understand aright you are offering me your name! Offering to share
your honour with me. With me, whom, if again I understand, you take as
having committed some crime?' 'I inferred from what you said and from your sadness, your desire to shun
your kind, that there was, if not a crime, some fault which needed
expiation.' 'But your honour, sir; your honour!'