Chapter XXVII--Age's Wisdom

by Bram Stoker

　　Harold went to and fro on the deserted deck. All at once the coursehe had to pursue opened out before him. He was aware that what thenoble-minded old man offered him was fortune, great fortune in anypart of the world. He would have to be refused, but the refusalshould be gently done. He, believing that the other had donesomething very wrong, had still offered to share with him his name,his honour. Such confidence demanded full confidence in return; theunwritten laws which governed the men amongst whom he had beenbrought up required it.And the shape that confidence should take? He must first disabusehis new friend's mind of criminal or unworthy cause for his goingaway. For the sake of his own name and that of his dead father thatshould 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, noclue; but he would put things generally in a way that he couldunderstand.When his mind was so far made up he wanted to finish the matter, sohe turned to the wheelhouse and climbed the ladder again. It was nottill he sat in the shelter by his companion that he became aware thathe had become wet with the spray. The old man wishing to help him inhis embarrassment said:'Well?' Harold began at once; the straightforward habit of his lifestood to him now:'Let me say first, sir, what will I know give you pleasure.' The oldman extended his hand; he had been hoping for acceptance, and thisseemed like it. Harold laid his hand on it for an instant only, andthen raised it as if to say 'Wait':'You have been so good to me, so nobly generous in your wishes that Ifeel I owe you a certain confidence. But as it concerns not myselfalone I will ask that it be kept a secret between us two. Not to betold to any other; not even your wife!''I will hold your secret sacred. Even from my wife; the first secretI 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 havecommitted; not from any offence against God or man, or law. ThankGod! 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 fora few moments.'My poor boy! My poor boy!' was all he said. Harold shook himselfas if to dislodge the bitter thoughts. Mastering himself he went on:'There was a lady with whom I was very much thrown in contact sincewe were children. Her father was my father's friend. My friend too,God knows; for almost with his dying breath he gave sanction to mymarrying his daughter, if it should ever be that she should care forme in that way. But he wished me to wait, and, till she was oldenough to choose, to leave her free. For she is several yearsyounger than I am; and I am not very old yet--except in heart! Allthis, 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 athing has been.' He paused; the other said:'Believe me that I value your confidence, beyond all words!' Haroldfelt already the good effects of being able to speak of his pent-uptrouble. Already this freedom from the nightmare loneliness of hisown thoughts seemed to be freeing his very soul.'I honestly kept to his wishes. Before God, I did! No man who loveda woman, honoured her, worshipped her, could have been morescrupulously careful as to leaving her free. What it was to me to sohold myself no one knows; no one ever will know. For I loved her, dolove her, with every nerve and fibre of my heart. All our lives wehad been friends; and I believed we loved and trusted each other.But . . . but then there came a day when I found by chance that agreat trouble threatened her. Not from anything wrong that she haddone; but from something perhaps foolish, harmlessly foolish exceptthat she did not know . . . ' He stopped suddenly, fearing he mighthave said overmuch of Stephen's side of the affair. 'When I came toher aid, however, meaning the best, and as single-minded as a man canbe, she misunderstood my words, my meaning, my very coming; and shesaid things which cannot be unsaid. Things . . . matters were sofixed that I could not explain; and I had to listen. She said thingsthat I did not believe she could have said to me, to anyone. Thingsthat I did not think she could have thought . . . I dare say she wasright in some ways. I suppose I bungled in my desire to beunselfish. What she said came to me in new lights upon what I haddone . . . But anyhow her statements were such that I felt I couldnot, should not, remain. My very presence must have been a troubleto her hereafter. There was nothing for it but to come away. Therewas no place for me! No hope for me! There is none on this side ofthe grave! . . . For I love her still, more than ever. I honour andworship her still, and ever will, and ever must! . . . I am contentto forego my own happiness; but I feel there is a danger to her fromwhat has been. That there is and must be to her unhappiness evenfrom the fact that it was I who was the object of her wrath; and thisadds to my woe. Worst of all is . . . the thought and the memorythat she should have done so; she who . . . she . . . 'He turned away overcome and hid his face in his hands. The old mansat still; he knew that at such a moment silence is the best form ofsympathy. But his heart glowed; the wisdom of his years told himthat he had heard as yet of no absolute bar to his friend's ultimatehappiness.'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 itwould have meant a harder and longer climb back to the place youshould hold. But it really seems that nothing is so hopeless as youthink. Believe me, my dear young friend who are now as a son to myheart, that there will be bright days for you yet . . . ' He pauseda moment, but mastering himself went on in a quiet voice:'I think you are wise to go away. In the solitudes and in dangerthings that are little in reality will find their true perspective;and things that are worthy will appear in their constant majesty.'He stood, and laying once again his hand on the young man's shouldersaid:'I recognise that I--that we, for my wife and little girl would be atone with me in my wish, did they know of it, must not keep you fromyour purpose of fighting out your trouble alone. Every man, as theScotch proverb says, must "dree his own weird." I shall not, I mustnot, ask you for any promise; but I trust that if ever you do comeback you will make us all glad by seeing you. And remember that whatI said of myself and of all I have--all--holds good so long as Ishall live!'Before Harold could reply he had slipped down the ladder and wasgone.During the rest of the voyage, with the exception of one occasion, hedid not allude to the subject again by word or implication, andHarold was grateful to him for it.On the night before Fire Island should be sighted Harold was in thebow of the great ship looking out with eyes in which gleamed no hope.To him came through the darkness Mr. Stonehouse. He heard thefootsteps and knew them; so with the instinct of courtesy, knowingthat his friend would not intrude on his solitude without purpose, heturned and met him. When the American stood beside him he said,studiously avoiding looking at his companion:'This is the last night we shall be together, and, if I may, there isone thing I would like to say to you.''Say all you like, sir,' said Harold as heartily as he could, 'I amsure it is well meant; and for that at any rate I shall be gratefulto you.''You will yet be grateful, I think!' he answered gravely. 'When itcomes back to you in loneliness and solitude you will, I believe,think it worth being grateful for. I don't mean that you will begrateful to me, but for the thing itself. I speak out of the wisdomof many years. At your time of life the knowledge cannot come fromobservation. It may my poor boy, come through pain; and if what Ithink is correct you will even in due time be grateful to the painwhich left such golden residuum.' He paused, and Harold grewinterested. There was something in the old man's manner whichpresaged a truth; he, at least, believed it. So the young manlistened at first with his ears; and as the other spoke, his heartlistened too:'Young men are apt to think somewhat wrongly of women they love andrespect. We are apt to think that such women are of a different clayfrom ourselves. Nay! that they are not compact of clay at all, butof some faultless, flawless material which the Almighty keeps forsuch fine work. It is only in middle age that men--except scamps,who learn this bad side of knowledge young--realise that women arehuman beings like themselves. It may be, you know, that you may havemisjudged this young lady! That you have not made sufficientallowance for her youth, her nature, even the circumstances underwhich she spoke. You have told me that she was in some deep grief ortrouble. May it not have been that this in itself unnerved her,distorted her views, aroused her passion till all within and aroundwas tinged with the jaundice of her concern, her humiliation--whatever it was that destroyed for the time that normal self whichyou had known so long. May it not have been that her bitterestmemory even since may be of the speaking of these very words whichsent you out into the wide world to hide yourself from men. I havethought, waking and sleeping, of your position ever since youhonoured me with your confidence; and with every hour the convictionhas strengthened in me that there is a way out of this situationwhich sends a man like you into solitude with a heart hopeless andfull of pain; and which leaves her perhaps in greater pain, for shehas not like you the complete sense of innocence. But at presentthere is no way out but through time and thought. Whatever may beher ideas or wishes she is powerless. She does not know yourthoughts, no matter how she may guess at them. She does not knowwhere you are or how to reach you, no matter how complete herpenitence may be. And oh! my dear young friend, remember that youare a strong man, and she is a woman. Only a woman in her passionand her weakness after all. Think this all over, my poor boy! Youwill have time and opportunity where you are going. God help you tojudge wisely!' After a pause of a few seconds he said abruptly:'Good night!' and moved quickly away.When the time for parting came Pearl was inconsolable. Not knowingany reason why The Man should not do as she wished she was persistentin her petitions to Harold that he should come with her, and to herfather and mother that they should induce him to do so. Mrs.Stonehouse would have wished him to join them if only for a time.Her husband, unable to give any hint without betraying confidence,had to content himself with trying to appease his little daughter byvague hopes rather than promises that her friend would join them atsome other time.When the Scoriac was warped at the pier there was a tendency on thepart of the passengers to give Harold a sort of public send-off; butbecoming aware of it he hurried down the gangway without waiting.Having only hand luggage, for he was to get his equipment in NewYork, he had cleared and passed the ring of customs officers beforethe most expeditious of the other passengers had collected theirbaggage. He had said good-bye to the Stonehouses in their own cabin.Pearl had been so much affected at saying good-bye, and his heart hadso warmed to her, that at last he had said impulsively:'Don't cry, darling. If I am spared I shall come back to you withinthree years. Perhaps I will write before then; but there are notmany post-offices where I am going to!'Children are easily satisfied. Their trust makes a promise a realthing; and its acceptance is the beginning of satisfaction. But forweeks after the parting she had often fits of deep depression, and atsuch times her tears always flowed. She took note of the date, andthere was never a day that she did not think of and sigh for The Man.And The Man, away in the wilds of Alaska, was feeling, day by day andhour by hour, the chastening and purifying influences of thewilderness. Hot passions cooled before the breath of the snowfieldand the glacier. The moaning of a tortured spirit was lost in theroar of the avalanche and the scream of the cyclone. Pale sorrow andcold despair were warmed and quickened by the fierce sunlight whichcame suddenly and stayed only long enough to vitalise all nature.And as the first step to understanding, The Man forgot himself.