HELEN (shrinking back, and greatly disturbed).—"Hush, hush! you must not speak to me thus; it is wicked,—I cannot bear it. I would not have it be so; it must not be,—it cannot!"
She clasped her hands over her eyes for a moment, and then lifted her face, and the face was very sad, but very calm.
VIOLANTE (twining her arm round Helen's waist).—"How have I wounded you,—how offended? Forgive me, but why is this wicked? Why must it not be? Is it because he is below you in birth?"
HELEN.—"No, no,—I never thought of that. And what am I? Don't ask me,—I cannot answer. You are wrong, quite wrong as to me. I can only look on Leonard as—as a brother. But—but, you can speak to him more freely than I can. I would not have him waste his heart on me, nor yet think me unkind and distant, as I seem. I know not what I say. But— but—break to him—indirectly—gently—that duty in both forbids us both to—to be more than friends—than—"
"Helen, Helen!" cried Violante, in her warm, generous passion, "your heart betrays you in every word you say. You weep; lean on me, whisper to me; why—why is this? Do you fear that your guardian would not consent? He not consent? He who—"
HELEN.—"Cease—cease—cease!"
VIOLANTE.—"What! You can fear Harley—Lord L'Estrange? Fie; you do not know him."
HELEN (rising suddenly).—"Violante, hold; I am engaged to another."
Violante rose also, and stood still, as if turned to stone; pale as death, till the blood came, at first slowly, then with suddenness from her heart, and one deep glow suffused her whole countenance. She caught Helen's hand firmly, and said in a hollow voice,
"Another! Engaged to another! One word, Helen,—not to him—not to—
Harley—to—"