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.  But his heart glowed; the wisdom of his years told him that he had heard as yet of no absolute bar to his friend’s ultimate happiness.
 
‘I am rejoiced, my dear boy, at what you tell me of your own conduct.  It would have made no difference to me had it been otherwise.  But it would have meant a harder and longer climb back to the place you should hold.  But it really seems that nothing is so hopeless as you think.  Believe me, my dear young friend who are now as a son to my heart, that there will be bright days for you yet . . . ’  He paused a moment, but mastering himself went on in a quiet voice:
 
‘I think you are wise to go away.  In the solitudes and in danger things that are little in reality will find their true perspective; and things that are worthy will appear in their constant majesty.’
 
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