Though the marriage might be, and no doubt was, a perfectly legal and creditable marriage in the eye of the world, still, in the eyes of honest men, it would be deemed altogether unworthy and unfortunate, and he knew the minister would think it so.  How could he tell the poor old father, who had so generously given up his only daughter for the one simple reason—­sufficient reason for any righteous marriage—­ “Helen loved him,” that his new son-in-law was proved by proof irresistible to be a deliberate liar, a selfish, scheming, mercenary knave?

So, under this heavy responsibility, Lord Cairnforth decided to do what, in minor matters, he had often noticed Helen do toward her gentle and easily-wounded father—­to lay upon him no burdens greater than he could bear, but to bear them herself for him.  And in this instance the earl’s only means of so doing, for the present at least, was by taking refuge in that last haven of wounded love and cruel suffering—­ silence.

The earl determined to maintain a silence unbroken as the grave regarding all the past, and his own relations with Captain Bruce—­ that is, until he saw the necessity for doing otherwise.

One thing, however, smote his heart with a sore pang, which, after a week or so, he could not entirely conceal from Mr. Cardross.  Had Helen left him—­him, her friend from childhood—­no message, no letter?  Had her happy love so completely blotted out old ties that she could go away without one word of farewell to him?

The minister thought not.  He was sure she had written; she had said she should, the night before her marriage, and he had heard her moving about in her room, and even sobbing, he fancied, long after the house was gone to rest.  Nay, he felt sure he had seen her on her wedding morning give a letter to Captain Bruce, saying “it was to be posted to Edinburg.”

“Where, you know, we believed you then were, and would remain for some time.  Otherwise I am sure my child would have waited, that you might have been present at her marriage.  And to think you should have come back the very next day!  She will be so sorry!”

“Do you think so?” said the earl, sadly, and said no more.

But, on his return to the Castle, he saw lying on his study-table a letter, in the round, firm, rather boyish hand, familiar to him as that of his faithful amanuensis of many years.

“It’s surely frae Miss Helen—­Mrs. Bruce, that is,” said Malcolm, lifting it.  “But folk in love are less mindfu’ than ordinar.  She’s directed it to Charlotte Square, Edinburg, and then carried it up to London wi’ hersel’, and some other body, the captain, I think, has redirected it to Cairnforth Castle.”

“No remarks, Malcolm,” interrupted the earl, with unwonted sharpness.  “Break the seal and lay the letter so that I can read it.  Then you may go.”

Bur, when his servant had gone, he closed his eyes in utter hopelessness of dejection, for he saw how completely Helen had been deceived.