“Yes, we were always good friends, Helen,” said he; “and I hope that we shall always remain so.”
“We shall—I feel that we shall, Harold,” said she.
Her eyes were overflowing with tears, as she put out a hand to him—a hand which he took and held between both his own, but without speaking a word. “I felt that I must go to you if only for a moment—if only to say to you as I do now, ‘I feel for you with all my heart. You have all my sympathy.’ That is all I have to say. I knew you would allow me to see you, and to give you my message. Good-bye.”
“You are so good—so kind—so thoughtful,” said he. “I shall always feel that you are my friend—my best friend, Helen.”
“And you may always trust in my friendship—my—my—friendship,” said she. “You will come and see us soon—mamma and me. We should be so glad. Lady Innisfail wanted me to go with her to Netherford Hall—several of your sister’s party are going with Lady Innisfail; but of course I could not think of going. I shall go nowhere for some time—a long time, I think. We shall be at home whenever you call, Harold.”
“And you may be certain that I shall call soon,” said he. “Pray tell Mrs. Craven how deeply touched—how deeply grateful I am for her kindness. And you—you know that I shall never forget your thoughtfulness, Helen.”
Her eyes were still glistening as he took her hand and pressed it. She looked at him through her tears; her lips moved, but no words came. She turned and went down the stairs. He followed her for a few steps, and then Martin met her, opened the hall-door, and saw her put into the brougham by her footman.
“Well,” said her mother, when the brougham got upon the wood pavement. “Well, did you find the poor orphan in tears and comfort him?” Mrs. Craven was not devoid of an appreciation of humour of a certain form. She had lived in Birmingham for several years of her life.
“Dear mamma,” said Helen, “I think you may always trust to me to know what is right to do upon all occasions. My visit was a success. I knew that it would be a success. I know Harold Wynne.”
“I know one thing,” said Mrs. Craven, “and that is, that he will never marry you. Whatever Harold Wynne might have done, Lord Fotheringay will never marry you, my dear. Make up your mind to that.”