"Your mother, as became her, separated you. It was not unknown to me that you still cherished a passion which your rank forbade to be lawful. Poor girl! she left the roof of her protectress, Lady Jane. Nothing was known of her till she came to her father's house to give birth to a child, and die. And the same day that dawned on her corpse, you hurried from the place. Ah, no doubt your conscience smote you; you have never returned to Lansmere since."
Harley's breast heaved, he waved his hand; the parson resumed,
"Whom could I suspect but you? I made inquiries: they confirmed my suspicions."
"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!"