Part 65 (2/2)
”Oh, no, mother! I think I could even exert myself more; but there is such sweetness in this dreamy life. I am so happy! It will be almost a pain to go back to the troublesome world again.”
”Do not say so, my son. Indeed, we must have you quite well soon--the sooner the better--and then you will return to all your old duties. When I sat in church this morning, I was counting how many Sundays it would possibly be before I heard my son Harold's voice there again.”
Harold moved restlessly.
”What say you, Olive, my dear?” continued Mrs. Gwynne. ”Will it not be a pleasure to hear him in his own pulpit again? How soon, think you, will he be able to preach?”
”I cannot tell,” answered Olive, in a low voice; and she looked anxiously at her betrothed. For well she knew his heart, and well she guessed that though that heart was pure and open in the sight of G.o.d and in _her_ sight, it might not be so in that of every man. And although his faith was now the Christian faith--even, in many points, that of the Church--still Olive doubted whether he would ever be a Church of England minister again. No wonder that she watched his face in anxious love, and then looked from him to his mother, who, all unconscious, continued to speak.
”In truth, all your paris.h.i.+oners will be glad to have you back. Even Mrs. Fludyer was saying so yesterday; and noticing that it was a whole year since you had preached in your own church. A long absence! Of course, it could not be helped; still it was rather a pity. Please G.o.d, it shall not happen again--shall it, Harold?”
”Mother--mother!” His hands were crushed together, and with a look of pain. Olive stole to his side.
”Perhaps we are talking too much. Shall we go away, Harold, and leave you to sleep?”
”Hush, Olive! hus.h.!.+” he whispered. ”I have thought of this before. I knew I must tell it to her--all the truth.”
”But not now--not now. Wait till you are stronger; wait a week--a day.”
”No, not an hour. It is right!”
”What are you talking to my son about?” said Mrs. Gwynne, with a quick jealousy, which even yet was not altogether stilled.
Neither of the betrothed spoke.
”You are not hiding anything from me, Harold; from me, your mother!”
”My mother--my n.o.ble, self-denying, mother!” murmured Harold, as if thinking aloud. ”Surely, if I sinned for her, G.o.d will forgive me!”
”Sinned for me! What are you talking of, Harold? Is there anything in your mind--anything I do not know?” And her eyes--still tender, yet with a half-formed suspicion--were fixed searchingly on her son. And when, as if to s.h.i.+eld him even from his mother, Olive leaned over him, Mrs.
Gwynne's voice grew stern with reproof.
”Stand aside, Olive. Let me see his face. Not even you have a right to interpose between me and my son.”
Olive moved a little aside. Very meek was she--as one had need to be whom Mrs. Gwynne would call daughter and Harold wife. Yet by her meekness she had oftentimes controlled them both. She did so now.
”Olive--darling,” whispered Harold, his eyes full of love; ”my mother says right Let her come and sit by me a little. Nay, stay near, though.
I must have you in my sight--it will strengthen me.”
She pressed his hand, and went away to the other end of the room.
Then Harold said, tenderly, ”Mother, I want to tell you something.”
”It is no misfortune--no sin? O, my son, I am too old to bear either!”
she answered, as she sat down, trembling a little.
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