He hastily returned to his father, who, though he had not advanced a step, had risen from his seat, and, to do him justice, was looking towards Helen with great anxiety. "She never received it, sir!" said he, in a voice husky from agitation: "Oh! come to her; soothe her with kindness, my dearest father, and all may yet be happiness amongst us."
"What, Helen!—Helen, my poor girl, are you come to us with some new trouble?—And did you indeed never get William's letter, my dear child?"
The mention of such a letter again dyed Helen's cheeks with blushes; but she raised her eyes to Sir Gilbert's face, with a look that seemed to ask a thousand questions as she replied, "I never received any letter from Colonel Harrington in my life."
"I am devilish glad to hear it, my dear, that's all. So, then, you don't know that——"
"Hold your peace, Sir Knight," said Lady Harrington, interrupting him.—"And you come with me, sweet love. I'll lay my best herbal to that dead leaf, that you are the only one perfectly faultless among us; and that one, two, and three of us deserve to be—I can hardly tell what—in the power of the vicar, I think, for having been so villanous as to suspect you; and worse still, for having lived so close to you without ever having found out whether you were really watched like a state prisoner or not."
"Has the rascal dared——" cried Sir Gilbert, but before he could finish his sentence, Lady Harrington and her son were leading Helen between them towards the house, her ladyship laying a finger on her lip as she passed her husband, in token that he was to say no more.
Having reached what Lady Harrington called a place of safety, where, as she said the men could neither come nor hear, she made Helen lay herself upon a sofa, and then said, "Now, my Helen, if you are ill at ease in body, lay there quiet, and try to sleep; but if you are only, or chiefly ill at ease in mind, let your limbs only remain at rest, and relieve yourself and me by telling me every thing that has happened since we parted last."
"It is a long and sad history, my dearest friend," replied Helen, kissing the hand which still held hers, "but I am very anxious that you should know it all; for so only can the action I have committed to-day be excused."
"What action, Helen?—what is it you have done, my child?"
"I have eloped from my mother's house, Lady Harrington."