“No.” A vague suspicion here darted through Leonard’s mind, but as suddenly vanished. His father! Impossible. His father must have deliberately wronged the dead mother. And was Harley L’Estrange a man capable of such wrong? And had he been Harley’s son, would not Harley have guessed it at once, and so guessing, have owned and claimed him? Besides, Lord L’Estrange looked so young,—old enough to be Leonard’s father!—he could not entertain the idea. He roused himself and said, falteringly,
“You told me you did not know by what name I should call my father.”
“And I told you the truth, to the best of my belief.”
“By your honour, sir?”
“By my honour, I do not know it.”
There was now a long silence. The carriage had long left London, and was on a high road somewhat lonelier, and more free from houses than most of those which form the entrances to the huge city. Leonard gazed wistfully from the window, and the objects that met his eyes gradually seemed to appeal to his memory. Yes! it was the road by which he had first approached the metropolis, hand in hand with Helen—and hope so busy at his poet’s heart. He sighed deeply. He thought he would willingly have resigned all he had won—independence, fame, all—to feel again the clasp of that tender hand, again to be the sole protector of that gentle life.
The doctor’s voice broke on his revery. “I am going to see a very interesting patient,—coats to his stomach quite worn out, sir,—man of great learning, with a very inflamed cerebellum. I can’t do him much good, and he does me a great deal of harm.”
“How harm?” asked Leonard, with an effort at some rejoinder.
“Hits me on the heart, and makes my eyes water; very pathetic case,—grand creature, who has thrown himself away. Found him given over by the allopathists, and in a high state of delirium tremens, restored him for a time, took a great liking to him,—could not help it,—swallowed a great many globules to harden myself against him, would not do, brought him over to England with the other patients, who all pay me well (except Captain Higginbotham). But this poor fellow pays me nothing,—costs me a great deal in time and turnpikes, and board and lodging. Thank Heaven, I’m a single man, and can afford it! My poy, I would let all the other patients go to the allopathists if I could but save this poor, big, penniless, princely fellow. But what can one do with a stomach that has not a rag of its coats left? Stop” (the doctor pulled the check-string). “This is the stile. I get out here and go across the fields.”
That stile, those fields—with what distinctness Leonard remembered them. Ah, where was Helen? Could she ever, ever again be, his child-angel?