'I recollect—I understand,' he said, presently, and sat down, grave and meditative—no longer dreamy, but going over events, which had at last acquired assurance to his memory from external circumstances. Presently his fingers were clasped together over his face, his head bent, and then he looked up, and said, 'Do they know it—my sister and brother?'
'No. We would not write till you were free. You must date the first letter from Stoneborough.'
The thought had brought a bitter pang. 'One half year sooner—' and he leant back in his seat, with fingers tightly pressed together, and trembling with emotion.
'Nay, Leonard; may not the dear child be the first to rejoice in the fulfilment of her own sweet note of comfort? They could not harm the innocent.'
'Not innocent,' he said, 'not innocent of causing all the discord that has ended in their exile, and the dear child's death.'
'Then this is what has preyed on you, and changed you so much more of late,' said Dr. May.
'When I knew that I was indeed guilty of her death,' said Leonard, in a calm full conviction of too long standing to be accompanied with agitation, though permanently bowing him down.
'And you never spoke of this: not to the chaplain?'
'I never could. It would have implied all the rest that he could not believe. And it would not have changed the fact.'
'The aspect of it may change, Leonard. You know yourself how many immediate causes combined, of which you cannot accuse yourself—your brother's wrongheadedness, and all the rest. And,' added the Doctor, recovering himself, 'you do see it in other aspects, I know. Think of the spirit set free to be near you—free from the world that has gone so hard with you!'