“He has not gone then. He has started with his friend Lord Arundale, to travel all through Europe. It is a pity, I think, for one of his cloth, and it shows a wandering and restless mind. I know not what has come over my dear Harold.”
“Was it a sudden journey?—is it long since he went?” said Olive, shading her eyes from the fire-light.
“Only yesterday. I told him you were coming to-day; and he desired me to say how grieved he was that he thus missed you, but it was unavoidable. He had kept Lord Arundale waiting already, and it would not be courteous to delay another day. You will not mind?”
“Oh no! oh no!” The hand was pressed down closer over the eyes.
Mrs. Gwynne pursued. “Though I have all confidence in my son, yet I own this sudden scheme has troubled me. His health is better;—why could he not stay at Harbury?”
Olive, wishing to discover if she knew anything of her son's sad secret, observed, “It is a monotonous life that Mr. Gwynne leads here—one hardly suited for him.”
“Ah, I know,” said the mother, sighing. “His heart is little in his calling. I feared so, long ago. But it is not that which drives him abroad; for I told him if he still wished to resign his duties to his curate, we would give up the Parsonage, and he should take pupils. There is a charming little house in the neighbouring village that would suit us. But no; he seemed to shrink from this plan too. He said he must go entirely away from Harbury.”
“And for how long?”
“I cannot tell—he did not say. I should think, not above a year—his mother may not have many more years to spend with him;” and there was a little trembling of Mrs. Gwynne's mouth; but she continued with dignity: “Do not imagine, Olive, that I mean to blame my son. He has done what he thought right. Against my wish, or my happiness, he would not have done it at all. So I did not let him see any little pain it might have given me. 'Twas best not. Now we will let the subject rest.”
But, though they spoke no more, Olive speculated vainly on what had induced Harold to take this precipitate journey. She thought she had known him so thoroughly—better than any one else could. But in him lay mysteries beyond her ken. She could only still rest on that which had comforted her in all she suffered;—an entire faith in him and in his goodness.