“Perhaps you inquired of my friend, Mr. Egerton? He was with me when—when—as you say, I hurried from the place.”
“I did, my Lord.”
“And he?”
“Denied your guilt; but still, a man of honour so nice, of heart so feeling, could not feign readily. His denial did not deceive me.”
“Honest man!” said Harley; and his hand griped at the breast over which still rustled, as if with a ghostly sigh, the records of the dead. “He knew she had left a son, too?”
“He did, my Lord; of course, I told him that.”
“The son whom I found starving in the streets of London! Mr. Dale, as you see, your words move me very much. I cannot deny that he who wronged, it may be with no common treachery, that young mother—for Nora Avenel was not one to be lightly seduced into error—”
“Indeed, no!”
“And who then thought no more of the offspring of her anguish and his own crime—I cannot deny that that man deserves some chastisement,—should render some atonement. Am I not right here? Answer with the plain speech which becomes your sacred calling.”
“I cannot say otherwise, my Lord,” replied the parson, pitying what appeared to him such remorse. “But if he repent—”