"It matters not--it matters not," answered Leyton; "so you are here--that is enough. I have much to say to you, and that of immediate importance."
"I know it already," answered Digby. "But here is our good friend, Warde, who seems to have something to say to you on the same subject."
Sir Henry Leyton turned towards the old man with some surprise. "I think Digby must be mistaken," he said, "for though, I am aware, from what you told me some little time ago, that you have been in this part of the country before, yet it must have been long ago, and you can know nothing of the events which have affected myself since."
The old man smiled, and shook his head. "I know more than you imagine," he answered. "It is, indeed, long since first I was in this land; but not so long since I was here last; and all its people and its things, its woods, its villages, its hills, are as familiar to me--ay, more so than to you. Of yourself, Leyton, and your fate, I also know much--I might say I know all; for certainly I know more than you do, can do more than you are able to do, will do more than you can. To show you what I know; I will give you a brief summary of your own history--at least, that part of it, of which you think I know nothing. Young, eager, and impatient, you were thrown constantly into the society of one, good, beautiful, gentle, and true. You had much encouragement from those who should not have given it, unless they had the intention of continuing it to the end. You loved, and were beloved; and then, in the impatience of your boyish ardour, you bound Edith Croyland to yourself, without her parent's knowledge and consent, by vows which, whatever human laws may say, are indissoluble by the law of Heaven; and therein you did wrong. It was a great error.--Do I say right?"
"It was, indeed," answered Sir Henry Leyton, casting down his eyes sternly on the ground--"it was, indeed."
"More--I will tell you more," continued Mr. Warde; "you have bitterly repented it, and bitterly suffered for it. You are suffering even now."
"Not for it," replied the young officer--"not for it. My sufferings are not consequences of my fault."
"You are wrong," answered the old man; "wrong, as you will find. But I will go on, and tell you what you have done this day. Those who have behaved ill to you have been punished likewise; and their punishment is working itself out, but sweeping you in within its vortex. You have been over to see Edith Croyland. She has told you her tale. You have met in love, and parted in sorrow.--Is it not so? And now you know not which way to turn for deliverance."
"It is so, indeed, my good friend," said Leyton, sadly; "but how you have discovered all this, I cannot divine."
"That has nought to do with the subject," answered Warde. "Now tell me, Leyton, tell me--and remember you are dearer to me than you know--are you prepared to make atonement for your fault? The only atonement in your power--to give back to Edith the vows she plighted, to leave her free to act as she may judge best. I have marked you well, as you know, for years. I have seen you tried as few men, perhaps, are tried; and you have come out pure and honest. The last trial is now arrived; and I ask you here, before your friend, your worldly friend, if you are ready to act honestly still, and to annul engagements that you had no right to contract?"