Considering the opinion entertained by Sir Gilbert of what he was pleased to term Mr. Cartwright's finished character, it is surprising that no idea should even have occurred to him of the possible suppression of this important epistle; but, in truth, the same interpretation of it had suggested itself to the minds of them all. They believed that Helen, from a sense of duty, had submitted the proposal to her mother, and that, forbidden to accept it by the vindictive feelings of the "parvenu priest," she had been weak enough to obey even his commands, to leave the letter unanswered—a degree of timidity, and want of proper feeling, productive of almost equal disappointment to all three.
Impressed with such feelings against her, it is perhaps not very surprising, that neither the heart-stricken lover, nor his offended parents, rose to welcome the approach of poor Helen.
"Some family quarrel, I suppose," said Lady Harrington. "They seem to have turned her out of doors in some haste."
"I will promise her that she shall not now find an entrance into mine," said Sir Gilbert. "Perhaps the young lady thinks better of it, and that it may be as well to contradict pa and ma a little for the sake of being Mrs. Harrington. Those who will not when they may, when they will they shall have—" But before Sir Gilbert could finish his stave, Helen Mowbray was stretched upon the turf.
Colonel Harrington, not too well knowing what he did, ran to the spot where she lay, and hardly daring to look at her, stammered out—"Miss Mowbray! Gracious Heaven, how fearfully she changes colour! So red, and now so deadly pale! Speak to me, Helen—What has happened to you?—How comes it that you are here? After——Oh, Helen, open your eyes, and speak to me! Mother! mother! she is very ill!"
Lady Harrington now rose slowly and gloomily from her seat, and walked to the place where Helen lay, her head supported by the arm of Colonel Harrington; every tinge of colour fled from her cheeks, her eyes closed, and no symptom of life remaining, excepting that tears from time to time escaped from beneath her long eyelashes.
It is difficult to see a person one has ever loved, asleep, and yet retain anger towards them; they look so helpless, so innocent, so free from all that could have ever moved our spleen, that not the most eloquent defence that language ever framed could plead their cause so well as that mute slumber. Still more difficult would it be to look at a fair creature in the state in which Helen now lay, and retain any feeling harsher than pity.
"There is something more in all this, William, than we yet understand," said Lady Harrington, after gazing silently at Helen for some minutes. "This poor child has not fainted, her tears prove that; but she is suffering from bodily fatigue and mental misery.—Helen! rouse yourself. Let us understand each other at once. Why did you not reply to my son William's letter?"
Helen did rouse herself. She opened her eyes, and fixing them on Lady Harrington, while the colour for a moment rapidly revisited her cheeks, she said, in a voice so low as to be scarcely audible, "A letter from Colonel Harrington?—To me?—A letter to me?—I never received it."
"Thank Heaven!" cried Colonel Harrington, springing from the ground, for Helen's head no longer rested on his arm. "Oh! what suffering should we have been spared, if we had done her but the justice to think of this!"