"I am," answered Sir Henry Leyton; "I am, if----"
"Ay, if! There is ever an 'if' when men would serve their own purposes against their conscience," said Mr. Warde, sternly.
"Nay, but hear me, my good friend," replied the young officer. "I have every respect for you. Your whole character commands it and deserves it, as well as your profession; but, at the same time, though I may think fit to answer you candidly, in matters where I would reject any other man's interference, yet I must shape my answer as I think proper, and rule my conduct according to my own views. You must, therefore, hear me out. I say that I am ready to give back to Edith Croyland the vows she plighted me, to set her free from all engagements, to leave her, as far as possible, as if she had never known Henry Leyton, whatever pang it may cost me--if it can be proved to me that by so doing I have not given her up to misery, as well as myself. My own wretchedness I can bear--I have borne it long, cheered by one little ray of hope. I can bear it still, even though that light go out; but to know that by any act of mine--however seemingly generous, or, as you term it, honest--I had yielded her up to a life of anguish, that I could not bear. Show me that this will not be the case; and, as I have said before, I am ready to make the sacrifice, if it cost me life. Nay, more: I returned hither prepared, if at the last, and with every effort to avert it, I found that circumstances of which I know not the extent, rendered the keeping of her vows to me more terrible in its consequences than her union with another, however hateful he may be,--I came hither prepared, I say, in such a case, to set her free; and I will do it!"
The old man took both his hands, and gazed on him with a look of glad satisfaction. "Honest to the last," he said--"honest to the last! The resolution to do this, is as good as the deed; for I know you are not one to fail where you have resolved.--But those who might exact the sacrifice are not worthy of it. Your willingness has made the atonement, Leyton; and I will deliver you from your difficulty."
"You, Mr. Warde!" exclaimed Sir Edward Digby; "I cannot suppose that you really have the power; or, perhaps, after all, you do not know the whole circumstances."
"Hush, hush, young man!" answered Warde, with a wave of the hand; "I know all, I see all, where you know little or nothing. You are a good youth, as the world goes--better than most of your bad class and station; but these matters are above you. Listen to me, Leyton. Did not Edith tell you that her father had worked upon her, by fears for his safety--for his honour--for his life, perhaps?"
"Yes, indeed," exclaimed Leyton, eagerly, and with a ray of hope beginning to break upon him. "Was the tale not true, then?"
"I guessed so," answered the old man. "I was sure that would be the course at last. Nevertheless, the tale he told was true--too true. It was forced from him by circumstances. Yet, I have said I will deliver you from your difficulty; and I will. Pursue your own course; as you have commenced, go on to the end. I ask you not now to give Edith back her promises. Nay, I tell you, that her misery, her wretchedness--ay, tenfold more than any you could suffer--would be the consequence, if you did so. Let her go on firmly in her truth to the last; but tell her, that deliverance will come. Now I leave you; but, be under no doubt. Your course is clear; do all you can by your own efforts to save her; but it is I who must deliver her in the end."
Without any further farewell, he turned and left the room; and Sir Henry Leyton and his friend remained for a minute or two in thought.
"His parting advice is the best," said Digby, at length; "and doubtless you will follow it, Leyton; but, of course, you will not trust so far to the word of a madman, as to neglect any means that may present themselves."