Tales and Novels, vol 10 | Page 9

her uncle's
affairs with a tremulous voice, and before she could come to a
conclusion Lady Davenant exclaimed,
"I foresaw it long since: with all my friend's virtues, all his talents--but
we will not go back upon the painful past. You, my dear Helen, have
done just what I should have expected from you,--right;--right, too, the
condition Mr. Collingwood has made--very right. And now to the next
point:--where are you to live, Helen? or rather with whom?"
Helen was not quite sure yet, she said she had not quite determined.
"Am I to understand that your doubt lies between the Collingwoods and
my daughter?"
"Yes; Cecilia most kindly invited me, but I do not know General
Clarendon yet, and he does not know me yet. Cecilia might wish most
sincerely that I should live with her, and I am convinced she does; but
her husband must be considered."
"True," said Lady Davenant--"true; a husband is certainly a thing to be
cared for--in Scottish phrase, and General Clarendon is no doubt a
person to be considered,--but it seems that I am not a person to be

considered in your arrangements."
Even the altered, dry, and almost acrid tone in which Lady Davenant
spoke, and the expression of disappointment in her countenance--were,
as marks of strong affection, deeply gratifying to Helen. Lady
Davenant went on.
"Was not Cecilhurst always a home to you, Helen Stanley?"
"Yes, yes,--always a most happy home!"
"Then why is not Cecilhurst to be your home?"
"My dear Lady Davenant! how kind!--how very, very kind of you to
wish it--but I never thought of----"
"And why did you not think of it, Helen?'"
"I mean--I thought you were going to Russia."
"And have you settled, my dear Helen," said Lady Davenant, smiling,
"have you settled that I am never to come back from Russia? Do not
you know that you are--that you ever were--you ever will be to me a
daughter?" and drawing Helen fondly towards her, she added, "as my
own very dear--I must not say dearest child,--must not, because as I
well remember once--little creature as you were then---you whispered
to me, 'Never call me dearest,'--generous-hearted child!" And tears
started into her eyes as she spoke; but at that moment came a knock at
the door. "A packet from Lord Davenant, by Mr. Mapletofft, my lady."
Helen rose to leave the room, but Lady Davenant laid a detaining hand
upon her, saying, "You will not be in my way in the least;" and she
opened her packet, adding, that while she read, Helen might amuse
herself "with arranging the books on that table, or in looking over the
letters in that portfolio."
Helen had hitherto seen Lady Davenant only with the eyes of very early
youth; but now, after an absence of two years--a great space in her
existence, it seemed as if she looked upon her with new eyes, and every

hour made fresh discoveries in her character. Contrary to what too
often happens when we again see and judge of those whom we have
early known, Lady Davenant's character and abilities, instead of
sinking and diminishing, appeared to rise and enlarge, to expand and be
ennobled to Helen's view. Strong lights and shades there were, but
these only excited and fixed her attention. Even her defects--those
inequalities of temper of which she had already had some example,
were interesting as evidences of the power and warmth of her
affections.
The books on the table were those which Lady Davenant had had in her
travelling carriage. They gave Helen an idea of the range and variety of
the reader's mind. Some of them were presentation copies, as they are
called, from several of the first authors of our own, and foreign
countries; some with dedications to Lady Davenant; others with
inscriptions expressing respect or propitiating favour, or anxious for
judgment.
The portfolio contained letters whose very signatures would have
driven the first of modern autograph collectors distracted with
joy--whose meanest scrap would make a scrap-book the envy of the
world.
But among the letters in this portfolio, there were none of those
nauseous notes of compliment, none of those epistles adulatory,
degrading to those who write, and equally degrading to those to whom
they are written: letters which are, however cleverly turned,
inexpressibly wearisome to all but the parties concerned.
After opening and looking at the signature of several of these letters,
Helen sat in a delightful embarras de richesse. To read them all--all at
once, was impossible; with which to begin, she could not determine.
One after another was laid aside as too good to be read first, and after
glancing at the contents of each, she began to deal them round
alphabetically till she was struck by a passage in one of them--she
looked to