When Helen rose, she was startled to see the countess seated by the fire, and hastily drew her hand across her eyes. She had been weeping.
Lady Lansmere did not, however, turn to observe those traces of tears, which Helen feared were too visible. The countess was too absorbed in her own thoughts; and as Helen timidly approached, she said—still with her eyes on the clear low fire—“I beg your pardon, Miss Digby, for my intrusion; but my son has left it to me to prepare Lord Lansmere to learn the offer you have done Harley the honour to accept. I have not yet spoken to my Lord; it may be days before I find a fitting occasion to do so; meanwhile I feel assured that your sense of propriety will make you agree, with me that it is due to Lord L’Estrange’s father, that strangers should not learn arrangements of such moment in his family before his own consent be obtained.”
Here the countess came to a full pause; and poor Helen, finding herself called upon for some reply to this chilling speech, stammered out, scarce audibly,
“Certainly, madam, I never dreamed of—”
“That is right, my dear,” interrupted Lady Lansmere, rising suddenly, and as if greatly relieved. “I could not doubt your superiority to ordinary girls of your age, with whom these matters are never secret for a moment. Therefore, of course, you will not mention, at present, what has passed between you and Harley, to any of the friends with whom you may correspond.”
“I have no correspondents, no friends, Lady Lansmere,” said Helen, deprecatingly, and trying hard not to cry.
“I am very glad to hear it, my dear; young ladies never should have. Friends, especially friends who correspond, are the worst enemies they can have. Good-night, Miss Digby. I need not add, by the way, that though we are bound to show all kindness to this young Italian lady, still she is wholly unconnected with our family; and you will be as prudent with her as you would have been with your correspondents, had you had the misfortune to have any.”
Lady Lansmere said the last words with a smile, and left an ungenial kiss (the stepmother’s kiss) on Helen’s bended brow. She then left the room, and Helen sat on the seat vacated by the stately, unloving form, and again covered her face with her hands, and again wept. But when she rose at last, and the light fell upon her face, that soft face was sad indeed, but serene,—serene, as with some inward sense of duty, sad, as with the resignation which accepts patience instead of hope.