“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.”