Tales and Novels, vol 10 | Page 6

wrong."
"Not the least, my dear child; you told us nothing but what everybody knows--that she is a great politician; you told us no more."
"But I should have told you more, and what nobody knows better than I do," cried Helen, "that Lady Davenant is a great deal more, and a great deal better than a politician. I was too young to judge, you may think, hut young as I was, I could see and feel, and children can and do often see a great deal into character, and I assure you Lady Davenant's is a sort of deep, high character, that you would admire."
Mrs. Collingwood observed with surprise, that Helen spoke of her with even more enthusiasm than of her dear Lady Cecilia. "Yes, because she is a person more likely to excite enthusiasm."
"You did not feel afraid of her, then?"
"I do not say that," replied Helen; "yet it was not fear exactly, it was more a sort of awe, but still I liked it. It is so delightful to have something to look up to. I love Lady Davenant all the better, even for that awe I felt of her."
"And I like you all the better for everything you feel, think, and say about your friends," cried Mrs. Collingwood; "but let us see what they will do; when I see whether they can write, and what they write to you, I will tell you more of my mind--if any letters come."
"If!--" Helen repeated, but would say no more--and there it rested, or at least stopped. By common consent the subject was not recurred to for several days. Every morning at post-time Helen's colour rose with expectation, and then faded with disappointment; still, with the same confiding look, she said, "I am sure it is not their fault."
"Time will show," said Mrs. Collingwood.
At length, one morning when she came down to breakfast, "Triumph, my dear Helen!" cried Mrs. Collingwood, holding up two large letters, all scribbled over with "Try this place and try that, mis-sent to Cross-keys--Over moor, and heaven knows where--and--no matter."
Helen seized the packets and tore them open; one was from Paris, written immediately after the news of Dean Stanley's death; it contained two letters, one from Lady Davenant, the other from Lady Cecilia--"written, only think!" cried she, "how kind!--the very day before her marriage; signed 'Cecilia Davenant, for the last time,'--and Lady Davenant, too--to think of me in all their happiness."
She opened the other letters, written since their arrival in England, she read eagerly on,--then stopped, and her looks changed.
"Lady Davenant is not coming to Cecilhurst. Lord Davenant is to be sent ambassador to Petersburgh, and Lady Davenant will go along with him!--Oh! there is an end of everything, I shall never see her again!--Stay--she is to be first with Lady Cecilia at Clarendon Park, wherever that is, for some time--she does not know how long--she hopes to see me there--oh! how kind, how delightful!" Helen put Lady Davenant's letter proudly into Mrs. Collingwood's hand, and eagerly opened Lady Cecilia's.
"So like herself! so like Cecilia," cried she. Mrs. Collingwood read and acknowledged that nothing could be kinder, for here was an invitation, not vague or general, but particular, and pressing as heart could wish or heart could make it. "We shall be at Clarendon Park on Thursday, and shall expect you, dearest Helen, on Monday, just time, the general says, for an answer; so write and say where horses shall meet you," &c. &c.
"Upon my word, this is being in earnest, when it comes to horses meeting," cried Mr. Collingwood. "Of course you will go directly?"
Helen was in great agitation.
"Write--write--my dear, directly," said Mrs. Collingwood, "for the post-boy waits."
And before she had written many lines the Cross-post boy sent up word that he could wait no longer.
Helen wrote she scarcely knew what, but in short an acceptance, signed, sealed, delivered, and then she took breath. Off cantered the boy with the letters bagged, and scarcely was he out of sight, when Helen saw under the table the cover of the packet, in which were some lines that had not yet been read. They were in Lady Cecilia's handwriting--a postscript.
"I forgot, dear Helen, the thing that is most essential, (you remember our friend Dumont's definition of une bet?se: c'est d'oublier la chose essentielle;) I forgot to tell you that the general declares he will not hear of a mere visit from you. He bids me tell you that it must be 'till death or marriage.' So, my dear friend, you must make up your mind in short to live with us till you find a General Clarendon of your own. To this postscript no reply--silence gives consent."
"If I had seen this!" said Helen, as she laid it before Mr. and Mrs. Collingwood, "I ought to have answered, but,