That he loved Helen for herself, or was capable of loving her or any woman in the one noble, true way, the largest limit of charitable interpretation could hardly suppose possible.
Still, she had loved him--she must have done so--with that strange, sudden idealization of love which sometimes seizes upon a woman who has reached--more than reached--mature womanhood, and never experienced the passion.

And she had married him, and gone away with him--left, for his sake, father, brothers, friends--her one special friend, who was now nothing to her--nothing! Whatever emotions the earl felt--and it would be almost sacrilegious to intrude upon them, or to venture on any idle speculation concerning them--one thing was clear; in losing Helen, the light of his eyes, the delight of his life was gone.
He sat in his chair quite still, as indeed he always was, but now it was a deathlike quietness, without the least sign of the wonderful mobility of feature and cheerfulness of voice and manner which made people so soon grow used to his infirmity--sat until his room was prepared.
Then he suffered himself to be carried to his bed, which, for the first time in his life, he refused to leave for several days.
Not that he was ill--he declined any medical help, and declared that he was only "weary, weary"-- at which, after his long journey, no one was surprised.

He refused to see any body, even Mr.Cardross, and would suffer no one beside him but his old nurse, Mrs.Campbell, whom he seemed to cling to as when he was a little child.

For hours she sat by his bed, watching him, but scarcely speaking a word; and for hours he lay, his eyes wide open, but with that blank expression in them which Mrs.Campbell had first noticed when he sat by the housekeeper's fire.
"My bairn! My bairn!" was all she said--for she loved him.

And, somehow, her love comforted him.