“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 God 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 parishioners 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 God, 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! hush!” 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.”