“I said so, did I? Well, you give my opinions—what think you of me? Answer truly—like a friend.”
She did so. She never could look in Harold's eyes and tell him what was not true.
“I think you are one of those men in whom strong intellect prevents the need of love. Youthful passion you may have felt; but true, deep, earnest love you never did know, and, as I believe, never will! Nay, forgive me if I err; I only take you on your own showing.”
“Thank you, thank you! You speak honestly and frankly—that is something for a woman,” muttered Harold; and then there was a long, awkward pause. How one poor heart ached the while!
At last, fearing that her silence annoyed him, Olive took courage to say, “You were going to talk to me about your plans. Do so now; that is, if you are not angry with me,” she added, with a little deprecatory soothing.
It seemed to touch him. “Angry! How could you think so? I am never angry with you. But what do you desire to hear about? Whither I am going, and when? Do you, then, wish—I mean, advise me to go?”
“Yes, if it is for your good. If leaving Harbury would give you rest on that one subject of which we never speak.”
“But of which I, at least, think night and day, and never without a prayer—(I can pray now)—for the good angel who brought light into my darkness,” said Harold, solemnly. “That comfort is with me, whatever else may—But you wanted to hear about my going abroad?”
“Yes, tell me all. You know I like to hear.”
“Well, then, I have only to decide, and I might depart immediately; to America, I think. I should engage in science and literature. Mine would be a safe, sure course; but, at the beginning, I might have a hard struggle. I do not like to take any one to share it.”