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:
