During these two days Mr. Jerningham and Helen de Bergerac had not met. The girl had retired when her father’s friend entered the sitting-room which they shared in common. She shrank from seeing him after that moment of anguish in which she had betrayed that secret which, of all others, she would most jealously have guarded. She now avoided Mr. Jerningham, and he guessed the reason of her avoidance. Nor did her father attempt to conceal the truth. “You were wiser than I, dear friend,” he said, “when you warned me against the peril of that young man’s residence in our home. Only the night before his unhappy disappearance he made a confession of his love for my darling, and pleaded his cause with me, with all possible humility, and with very little hope of acceptance, I am sure.” “And you rejected his suit?” “What else could I do? In the first place I considered myself pledged to you. I had no brighter hope than that you should win my daughter’s love, and I believed her heart to be free. In the second place this young man--for whom I have a real affection--could offer no security for my dear girl’s happiness, except his love; and at my age one has outlived the idea that true love will pay rent and taxes, and butcher and baker. No, I gave Eustace a point-blank refusal, and he left me broken-hearted.” “Did Helen know of his appeal to you?” “Not a syllable. Nor did I imagine until the other night that he had made so fatal an impression on her mind. I see now that it is so, and fear that his untimely doom will only render the impression more lasting.” “Yes,” replied Mr. Jerningham, gravely; “that is a thing to be dreaded. My dear friend, do not think of _my_ disappointment, though I will own to you without shame that it is a bitter one. The dream was so bright. Let us think only of this dear girl’s happiness, or if that cannot be secured, her peace of mind. Would it not be wise to remove her from this scene as soon as possible?” “Decidedly; she broods perpetually upon that poor young man’s fate, and is kept in a fever of expectation by the hope of tidings which I fear will never come. Yes, it would certainly be better to take her away.” “That is easily done. You can take her to Pendarvoch. We are expected there, you know. I will remain here a day or two longer, for the last feeble chance of the missing man’s reappearance, and will then follow you. We are only fifty miles from Pendarvoch, and you can manage the journey easily with one change of horses. Shall I order the carriage for to-morrow morning?” “If you please. I will talk to Helen about the arrangement. I do not think she can object.”