“I know it; and, being such, it fell down upon my head in a curse. Since then I have been what you now see me—a very honest, painstaking clergyman; doing good, preaching, certainly not doctrine, but blameless moralities, carrying a civil face to the world, and a heart—Oh God! whosoever and whatsoever Thou art, Thou knowest what blackest darkness there is there!”
She made no answer.
After a few minutes, Mr. Gwynne said, “You must forgive me, Miss Rothesay.”
“I do. And so will He whom you do not know, but whom you will know yet! I will pray for you—I will comfort you. I wish I were indeed your sister, that I might never leave you until I brought you to faith and peace.”
He smiled very faintly. “Thank you; it is something to feel there is goodness in the world. I did not believe in any except my mother's. Perhaps if she had known all this—if I could have told her—I had not been the wretched man I am.”
“Hush; do not talk any more.” And then she stood beside him for some minutes quite silent, until he grew calm.
They were on the verge of the forest, close to Olive's home. It was about seven in the evening, but all things lay as in the stillness of midnight. They two might have been the only beings in the living world—all else dead and buried under the white snow. And then, lifting itself out of the horizon's black nothingness, arose the great red moon, like an immortal soul.
“Look!” said Olive. He looked once, and no more. Then, with a sigh, he placed her arm in his, and walked with her to her own door.
Arrived there, he bade her adieu, adding, “I would bid God bless you; but in such words from me, you would not believe. How could you?”
He said this with a mournful emphasis, to which she could not reply.