George was silent. He found himself in that rare condition for him--perplexity. It would be most awkward if the thing came to be talked of! Some would even be fools enough to believe the story! Entire proof of madness would only make such set it down as the consequence--or, if pity prevailed, then as the cause of the deed. They might be compelled to shut him up, to avoid no end of the most frightful annoyances. But Helen, he feared, would not consent to that. And then his story was so circumstantial--and therefore so far plausible--that there was no doubt most magistrates would be ready at once to commit him for trial--and then where would there be an end of the most offensive embarrassments! Thus George reflected uneasily. But at length an idea struck him. “Well,” he said lightly, “if you will, you will. We must try to make it as easy for you as we can. I will manage it, and go with you. I know all about such things, you know. But it won’t do just to-day. If you were to go before a magistrate, looking as you do now, he would not listen to a word you uttered. He would only fancy you in a fever and send you to bed. If you are quiet to-day--let me see--to-morrow is Sunday--and if you are in the same mind on Monday, I will take you to Mr. Hooker--he’s one of the county magistrates, and you shall make your statement to him.” “Thank you.--I should like Mr. Wingfold to go too.” “Soh!” said George to himself. “By all means,” he answered. “We can take him with us.” He went again to Helen. “This is a most awkward business,” he said. “Poor girl! what you must have gone through with him! I had no idea! But I see my way out of it. Keep your mind easy, Helen. I do see what I can do. Only what’s the meaning of his wanting that fellow Wingfold to go with him? I shouldn’t a bit wonder now if it all came of some of his nonsense! At least, it may be that ass of a curate that has put confession in his head--to save his soul, of course! How did he come to see him?” “The poor boy would see him.” “What made him want to see him?” Helen held her peace. She saw George suspected the truth. “Well, no matter,” said George. “But one never knows what may come of things. We ought always to look well ahead.--You had better go and lie down awhile, Helen; you don’t seem quite yourself.” “I am afraid to leave Leopold,” she answered. “He will be telling aunt and everybody now.” “That I will take care he does not,” said George. “You go and lie down a while.” Helen’s strength had been sorely tried: she had borne up bravely to the last; but now that she could do no more, and her brother had taken himself out of her hands, her strength had begun to give way, and, almost for the first time in her life, in daylight, she longed to go to bed. Let George, or Wingfold, or who would, see to the wilful boy! She had done what she could. She gladly yielded to George’s suggestion, sought an unoccupied room, bolted the door, and threw herself upon the bed. CHAPTER XXXI.