“If she does, you must do your utmost to overrule her objections. Be sure that it is of vital consequence to remove her from this scene of gloom and terror. Believe me, I am influenced by no selfish motive when I ask you to take her to Pendarvoch. If that young man should be restored to us, I will bring him there to her. He shall plead to you again, and this time shall not be rejected.” “Harold!” “Yes, you think me mad, no doubt. For my own part, I can only wonder that I am not mad. I tell you, if Eustace Thorburn comes forth from the jaws of death, he shall come to you a new creature--with new hopes, new ambitions--perhaps even a new name. Oh, for pity’s sake do not question me. Wait till we know the issue of this hideous uncertainty.” “My dear Harold, you astound me. I thought you disliked my secretary, and you speak of him with emotion that seems foreign to your very nature. The change is most extraordinary.” “The circumstances that have brought about the change are not ordinary circumstances. I say again, for God’s sake do not question me. Prepare Helen for the journey. I will go and give the necessary orders. Good night!” The two men shook hands, and Harold Jerningham departed, leaving his old friend sorely perplexed by his conduct. “What a heart that man conceals under an affectation of cynicism!” thought Theodore de Bergerac. “He is immeasurably distressed by the untimely fate of a man whom he pretended to dislike.” M. de Bergerac called his daughter from the adjoining room. She came to him, deadly pale, but with the sweet air of resignation that made her beauty so pathetic. “My darling,” said her father, tenderly, “Mr. Jerningham wishes us to leave this sad place, early to-morrow morning, for Pendarvoch, where we are hourly expected. He will remain here some days longer, in the hope of obtaining some tidings about poor Eustace; but he wishes us to leave immediately. You have no objection to this arrangement, have you, dearest?” “I had rather we stayed here, papa.” “But, my dear girl, what good can you and I do here?” “None, oh, none! But I had much rather we stayed.” “My child, it is so useless.” “Oh, papa, I know that,” she answered, piteously. “I know we can do nothing, except pray for him, and I do pray for him without ceasing; but to go away--to abandon the place where he has been lost--it seems so cruel, so cowardly.” “But, my darling! the place will not be abandoned. Mr. Jerningham will remain here, and will omit no effort to discover our poor friend’s fate. His uncle, Mr. Mayfield, will be here. What could we do that they will not do better?” “I know that, dear father! I know we can do nothing. But let me stay. I loved him so dearly!” The words slipped from her lips unawares, and she stood before her father, blushing crimson.