“I find that my Lord is now particularly engaged, since he has given strict orders that he is not to be disturbed.”
“Engaged! on what, whom with?”
“He is in his own room, sir, with a clergyman, who arrived, and dined here, to-day. I am told that he was formerly curate of Lansmere.”
“Lansmere! curate! His name, his name! Not Dale?”
“Yes, sir, that is the name,—the Reverend Mr. Dale.”
“Leave me,” said Audley, in a faint voice. “Dale! the man who suspected Harley, who called on me in London, spoke of a child,—my child,—and sent me to find but another grave! He closeted with Harley,—he!”
Audley sank back on his chair, and literally gasped for breath. Few men in the world had a more established reputation for the courage that dignifies manhood, whether the physical courage or the moral. But at that moment it was not grief, not remorse, that paralyzed Audley,—it was fear. The brave man saw before him, as a thing visible and menacing, the aspect of his own treachery,—that crime of a coward; and into cowardice he was stricken. What had he to dread? Nothing save the accusing face of an injured friend,—nothing but that. And what more terrible? The only being, amidst all his pomp of partisans, who survived to love him, the only being for whom the cold statesman felt the happy, living, human tenderness of private affection, lost to him forever! He covered his face with both hands, and sat in suspense of something awful, as a child sits in the dark, the drops on his brow, and his frame trembling.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Meanwhile Harley had listened to Mr. Dale’s vindication of Leonard with cold attention.