“Oh,” exclaimed Harley, with a voice thrilling in its mournful anguish, “it is not since I have cherished the revenge that I am changed, that right and wrong grow dark to me, that hypocrisy seems the atmosphere fit for earth. No; it is since the discovery that demands the vengeance. It is useless, sir,” he continued impetuously,—“useless to argue with me. Were I to sit down, patient and impotent, under the sense of the wrong which I have received, I should feel, indeed, that debasement which you ascribe to the gratification of what you term revenge. I should never regain the self-esteem which the sentiment of power now restores to me; I should feel as if the whole world could perceive and jeer at my meek humiliation. I know not why I have said so much,—why I have betrayed to you so much of my secret mind, and stooped to vindicate my purpose. I never meant it. Again I say, we must close this conference.” Harley here walked to the door, and opened it significantly.
“One word more, Lord L’Estrange,—but one. You will not hear me. I am a comparative stranger, but you have a friend, a friend dear and intimate, now under the same roof. Will you consent, at least, to take counsel of Mr. Audley Egerton? None can doubt his friendship for you; none can doubt that whatever he advise will be that which best becomes your honour. What, my Lord, you hesitate,—you feel ashamed to confide to your dearest friend a purpose which his mind would condemn? Then I will seek him, I will implore him to save you from what can but entail repentance.”
“Mr. Dale, I must forbid you to see Mr. Egerton. What has passed between us ought to be as sacred to you as a priest of Rome holds confession. This much, however, I will say to content you: I promise that I will do nothing that shall render me unworthy of Mr. Audley Egerton’s friendship, or which his fine sense of honour shall justify him in blaming. Let that satisfy you.”
“Ah, my Lord,” cried Mr. Dale, pausing irresolute at the doorway, and seizing Harley’s hand, “I should indeed be satisfied if you would submit yourself to higher counsel than mine,—than Mr. Egerton’s, than man’s. Have you never felt the efficacy of prayer?”
“My life has been wasted,” replied Harley, “and I dare not, therefore, boast that I have found prayer efficacious. But, so far back as I can remember, it has at least been my habit to pray to Heaven, night and morning, until at least—until—” The natural and obstinate candour of the man forced out the last words, which implied reservation. He stopped short.
“Until you have cherished revenge? You have not dared to pray since? Oh, reflect what evil there is within us, when we dare not come before Heaven,—dare not pray for what we wish. You are moved. I leave you to your own thoughts.” Harley inclined his head, and the parson passed him by, and left him alone,—startled indeed; but was he softened? As Mr. Dale hurried along the corridor, much agitated, Violante stole from a recess formed by a large bay window, and linking her arm in his, said anxiously, but timidly: “I have been waiting for you, dear Mr. Dale; and so long! You have been with Lord L’Estrange?”
“Well!”
“Why do you not speak? You have left him comforted, happier?”
“Happier! No.”
“What!” said Violante, with a look of surprise, and a sadness not unmixed with petulance in her quick tone. “What! does he then so grieve that Helen prefers another?”