"There is the London house, Helena. You can make any use of it you like."

"No, I think not," she said resolutely. Then with an odd laugh which recalled an earlier Helena--"I don't expect Lucy Friend would want to have the charge of me in town; and you too--perhaps--would still be responsible--and bothered about me--if I were in your house."

Buntingford could not help a smile.

"My responsibility scarcely depends--does it--upon where you are?" Then his voice deepened. "I desire, wherever you are, to cherish and care for you--in your mother's place. I can't say what a joy it has been to me to have you here."

"No!--that's nonsense!--ridiculous!--" she said, suddenly breaking down, and dashing the tears from her eyes.

"It's very true," he said gently. "You've been the dearest pupil, and forgiven me all my pedantic ways. But if not London--I will arrange anything you wish."

She turned away, evidently making a great effort not to weep. He too was much agitated, and for a little while he busied himself with some letters on his table.

When, at her call, he returned to her, she said, quite in her usual voice:

"I should like to go somewhere--to some beautiful place--and draw. That would take a month--perhaps. Then we can settle." After a pause, she added without hesitation--"And you?--what is going to happen?"

"It depends--upon whether it's life at the Rectory--or death."

She was evidently startled, but said nothing, only gave him her beautiful eyes again, and her unspoken sympathy.

Then an impulse which seemed invincible came upon him to be really frank with her--to tell her more.

"It depends, also,--upon something else. But this I asked Geoffrey not to tell the others in the drawing-room--just yet--and I ask you the same. Of course you may tell Mrs. Friend." She saw his face work with emotion. "Helena, this woman that was my wife declares to me--that I have a son living."

He saw the light of amazement that rushed into her face, and hurried on:--"But in the same breath that she tells me that, she tells me the tragedy that goes with it." And hardly able to command his voice, he repeated what had been told him.

"Of course everything must be enquired into--verified. I go to town to-morrow--with Ramsay. Possibly I shall bring him back--perhaps to Ramsay's care, for the moment. Possibly, I shall leave him with someone in town."

"Couldn't I help," she said, after a moment, "if I stayed?"

"No, no!" he said with repugnance, which was almost passion. "I couldn't lay such a burden upon you, or any young creature. You must go and be happy, dear Helena--it is your duty to be happy! And this home for a time will be a tragic one. Well, but now, where would you like to go? Will you and Geoffrey and Mrs. Friend consult? I will leave any money you want in Geoffrey's hands."

"You mean"--she said abruptly--"that I really ought to go at once--to-morrow."

"Wouldn't it be best? It troubles me to think of you here--under the shadow--of this thing."

"I see!--I see! All right. You are going to London to-morrow morning?"

She had risen, and was moving towards the door.

"Yes, I shall go to the Rectory first for news. And then on to the station."

She paused a moment.

"And if--if she--I don't know what to call her--if she lives?"

"Well, then--I must be free," he said, gravely; adding immediately--"She passed for fifteen years after she left me as the wife of an Italian I used to know. It would be very quickly arranged. I should provide for her--and keep my boy. But all that is uncertain."

"Yes, I understand." She held out her hand. "Cousin Philip--I am awfully sorry for you. I--I realized--somehow--only after I'd come down here--that you must have had--things in your life--to make you unhappy.

And you've been so nice--so awfully nice to me! I just want to thank you--with all my heart."

And before he could prevent her, she had seized his hands and kissed them. Then she rushed to the door, turning to show him a face between tears and laughter.

"There!--I've paid you back!"

And with that she vanished.

Helena was going blindly through the hall, towards her own room, when Peter Dale emerged from the shadows. He caught her as she passed.

"Let me have just a word, Helena! You know, everything will be broken up here. I only want to say my mother would just adore to have you for the season. We'd all make it nice for you--we'd be your slaves--just let me wire to Mater to-morrow morning."

"No, thank you, Peter. Please--please! don't stop me! I want to see Mrs. Friend."

"Helena, do think of it!" he implored.

"No, I can't. It's impossible!" she said, almost fiercely. "Let me go, Peter! Good-night!"

He stood, a picture of misery, at the foot of the stairs watching her run up. Then at the top she turned, ran down a few steps again, kissed her hand to him, and vanished, the bright buckles on her shoes flashing along the gallery overhead.

But in the further corner of the gallery she nearly ran into the arms of Geoffrey French, who was waiting for her outside her room.

"Is it too late, Helena--for me to have just a few words in your sitting-room?"

He caught hold of her. The light just behind him showed him a tense and frowning Helena.

"Yes--it is much too late! I can't talk now."

"Only a few words?"

"No"--she panted--"no!--Geoffrey, I shall _hate_ you if you don't let me go!"

It seemed to her that everybody was in league to stand between her and the one thing she craved for--to be alone and in the dark.

She snatched her dress out of his grasp, and he fell back.

She slipped into her own room, and locked the door. He shook his head, and went slowly downstairs. He found Peter pacing the hall, and they went out into the June dark together, a discomfited pair.

Meanwhile Mrs. Friend waited for Helena. She heard voices in the passage and the locking of Helena's door. She was still weak from her illness, so it seemed wisest to get into bed. But she had no hope or intention of sleep. She sat up in bed, with a shawl round her, certain that Helena would come. She was in a ferment of pity and fear,--she scarcely knew why--fear for the young creature she had come to love with all her heart; and she strained her ears to catch the sound of an opening door.

But Helena did not come. Through her open window Lucy could hear steps along the terrace coming and going--to and fro. Then they ceased; all sounds in the house ceased. The church clock in the distance struck midnight, and a little owl close to the house shrieked and wailed like a human thing, to the torment of Lucy's nerves. A little later she was aware of Buntingford coming upstairs, and going to his room on the further side of the gallery.

Then, nothing. Deep silence--that seemed to flow through the house and all its rooms and passages like a submerging flood.

Except!--What was that sound, in the room next to hers--in Helena's room?

Lucy Friend got up trembling, put on a dressing-gown, and laid an ear to the wall between her and Helena. It was a thin wall, mostly indeed a panelled partition, belonging to an old bit of the house, in which the building was curiously uneven in quality--sometimes inexplicably strong, and sometimes mere lath and plaster, as though the persons, building or re-building, had come to an end of their money and were scamping their work.

Lucy, from the other side of the panels, had often heard Helena singing while she dressed, or chattering to the housemaid. She listened now in an anguish, her mind haunted alternately by the recollection of the scene in the drawing-room, and the story told by Geoffrey French, and by her rising dread and misgiving as to Helena's personal stake in it. She had observed much during the preceding weeks. But her natural timidity and hesitancy had forbidden her so far to draw hasty deductions. And now--perforce!--she drew them.