Leonard was shown into the drawing-room, and it so chanced that Helen was there alone. The girl’s soft face was sadly changed, even since Leonard had seen it last; for the grief of natures mild and undemonstrative as hers, gnaws with quick ravages; but at Leonard’s unexpected entrance, the colour rushed so vividly to the pale cheeks that its hectic might be taken for the lustre of bloom and health. She rose hurriedly, and in great confusion faltered out, “that she believed Lady Lansmere was in her room,—she would go for her,” and moved towards the door, without seeming to notice the hand tremulously held forth to her; when Leonard exclaimed in uncontrollable emotions which pierced to her very heart, in the keen accent of reproach,—

“Oh, Miss Digby—oh, Helen—is it thus that you greet me,—rather thus that you shun me? Could I have foreseen this when we two orphans stood by the mournful bridge,—so friendless, so desolate, and so clinging each to each? Happy time!” He seized her hand suddenly as he spoke the last words, and bowed his face over it.

“I must not hear you. Do not talk so, Leonard, you break my heart. Let me go, let me go!”

“Is it that I am grown hateful to you; is it merely that you see my love and would discourage it? Helen, speak to me,—speak!”

He drew her with tender force towards him; and, holding her firmly by both hands, sought to gaze upon the face that she turned from him,—turned in such despair.

“You do not know,” she said at last, struggling for composure,—“you do not know the new claims on me, my altered position, how I am bound, or you would be the last to speak thus to me, the first to give me courage, and bid me—bid me—”

“Bid you what?”

“Feel nothing here but duty!” cried Helen, drawing from his clasp both her hands, and placing them firmly on her breast.

“Miss Digby,” said Leonard, after a short pause of bitter reflection, in which he wronged, while he thought to divine, her meaning, “you speak of new claims on you, your altered position—I comprehend. You may retain some tender remembrance of the past; but your duty now is to rebuke my presumption. It is as I thought and feared. This vain reputation which I have made is but a hollow sound,—it gives me no rank, assures me no fortune. I have no right to look for the Helen of old in the Helen of to-day. Be it so—forget what I have said, and forgive me.”

This reproach stung to the quick the heart to which it appealed. A flash brightened the meek, tearful eyes, almost like the flash of resentment; her lips writhed in torture, and she felt as if all other pain were light compared with the anguish that Leonard could impute to her motives which to her simple nature seemed so unworthy of her, and so galling to himself.

A word rushed as by inspiration to her lip, and that word calmed and soothed her.

“Brother!” she said touchingly, “brother!”

The word had a contrary effect on Leonard. Sweet as it was, tender as the voice that spoke it, it imposed a boundary to affection, it came as a knell to hope. He recoiled, shook his head mournfully: “Too late to accept that tie,—too late even for friendship. Henceforth—for long years to come—henceforth, till this heart has ceased to beat at your name to thrill at your presence, we two—are strangers.”

“Strangers! Well—yes, it is right—it must be so; we must not meet. Oh, Leonard Fairfield, who was it that in those days that you recall to me, who was it that found you destitute and obscure; who, not degrading you by charity, placed you in your right career; opened to you, amidst the labyrinth in which you were well-nigh lost, the broad road to knowledge, independence, fame? Answer me,—answer! Was it not the same who reared, sheltered your sister orphan? If I could forget what I have owed to him, should I not remember what he has done for you? Can I hear of your distinction, and not remember it? Can I think how proud she may be who will one day lean on your arm, and bear the name you have already raised beyond all the titles of an hour,—can I think of this, and not remember our common friend, benefactor, guardian? Would you forgive me, if I failed to do so?”

“But,” faltered Leonard, fear mingling with the conjectures these words called forth—“but is it that Lord L’Estrange would not consent to our union? Or of what do you speak? You bewilder me.”

Helen felt for some moments as if it were impossible to reply; and the words at length were dragged forth as if from the depth of her very soul.

“He came to me, our noble friend. I never dreamed of it. He did not tell me that he loved me. He told me that he was unhappy, alone; that in me, and only in me, he could find a comforter, a soother—He, he! And I had just arrived in England, was under his mother’s roof, had not then once more seen you; and—and—what could I answer? Strengthen me, strengthen me, you whom I look up to and revere. Yes, yes, you are right. We must see each other no more. I am betrothed to another,—to him! Strengthen me!”

All the inherent nobleness of the poet’s nature rose at once at this appeal.

“Oh, Helen—sister—Miss Digby, forgive me. You need no strength from me; I borrow it from you. I comprehend you, I respect. Banish all thought of me. Repay our common benefactor. Be what he asks of you,—his comforter, his soother; be more,—his pride and his joy. Happiness will come to you, as it comes to those who confer happiness and forget self. God comfort you in the passing struggle; God bless you, in the long years to come. Sister, I accept the holy name now, and will claim it hereafter, when I too can think more of others than myself.”

Helen had covered her face with her hands, sobbing; but with that soft, womanly constraint which presses woe back into the heart. A strange sense of utter solitude suddenly pervaded her whole being, and by that sense of solitude she knew that he was gone.