"I do,—from what you have said, and from what I myself know of Lord L'Estrange. Go, then, at once to Knightsbridge, see Miss Digby, show her your heart, explain to her, if you will, your prospects, ask her permission to apply to Lord L'Estrange (since he has constituted himself her guardian); and if Lord L'Estrange hesitate,—which, if your happiness be set on this union, I think he will not,—let me know, and leave the rest to me."
Leonard yielded himself to the parson's persuasive eloquence. Indeed, when he recalled to mind those passages in the manuscripts of the ill- fated Nora, which referred to the love that Harley had once borne to her,—for he felt convinced that Harley and the boy suitor of Nora's narrative were one and the same; and when all the interest that Harley had taken in his own fortunes was explained by his relationship to her (even when Lord L'Estrange had supposed it less close than he would now discover it to be), the young man, reasoning by his own heart, could not but suppose that the noble Harley would rejoice to confer happiness upon the son of her, so beloved by his boyhood.
"And to thee, perhaps, O my mother!" thought Leonard, with swimming eyes —"to thee, perhaps, even in thy grave, I shall owe the partner of my life, as to the mystic breath of thy genius I owe the first pure aspirations of my soul."
It will be seen that Leonard had not confided to the parson his discovery of Nora's manuscripts, nor even his knowledge of his real birth; for the proud son naturally shrank from any confidence that implicated Nora's fair name, until at least Harley, who, it was clear from those papers, must have intimately known his father, should perhaps decide the question which the papers themselves left so terribly vague,—namely, whether he were the offspring of a legal marriage, or Nora had been the victim of some unholy fraud.
While the parson still talked, and while Leonard still mused and listened, their steps almost mechanically took the direction towards Knightsbridge, and paused at the gates of Lord Lansmere's house.
"Go in, my young friend; I will wait without to know the issue," said the parson, cheeringly. "Go, and with gratitude to Heaven, learn how to bear the most precious joy that can befall mortal man; or how to submit to youth's sharpest sorrow, with the humble belief that even sorrow is but some mercy concealed."
CHAPTER XIII.
Leonard was shown into the drawing-room, and it so chanced that Helen was there alone. The girl's soft face was sadly changed, even since Leonard had seen it last; for the grief of natures mild and undemonstrative as hers, gnaws with quick ravages; but at Leonard's unexpected entrance, the colour rushed so vividly to the pale cheeks that its hectic might be taken for the lustre of bloom and health. She rose hurriedly, and in great confusion faltered out, "that she believed Lady Lansmere was in her room,—she would go for her," and moved towards the door, without seeming to notice the hand tremulously held forth to her; when Leonard exclaimed in uncontrollable emotions which pierced to her very heart, in the keen accent of reproach,—
"Oh, Miss Digby—oh, Helen—is it thus that you greet me,—rather thus that you shun me? Could I have foreseen this when we two orphans stood by the mournful bridge,—so friendless, so desolate, and so clinging each to each? Happy time!" He seized her hand suddenly as he spoke the last words, and bowed his face over it.
"I must not hear you. Do not talk so, Leonard, you break my heart. Let me go, let me go!"