“And there are but two letters, Mamma,” said Helen, “in the bag this morning?”
“But two,” said Lady Eleanor; “one of them from Lionel.”
“Oh, from Lionel!” cried the young girl, eagerly; “let me see it.”
“Read this first,” said Lady Eleanor, as she handed across the table a letter bearing a large seal impressed with an Earl's coronet; “if I mistake not very much, Helen, that's my cousin Lord Netherby's writing; but what eventful circumstance could have caused his affectionate remembrance of me, after something nigh twenty years' silence, is beyond my power of divination.”
Helen Darcy well knew that the theme on which her mother now touched was the sorest subject on her mind, and, however anxiously she might, under other circumstances, have pressed for a sight of her brother's letter, she controlled all appearance of the wish, and opened the other without speaking.
“It is dated from Carlton House, Mamma, the 2d———”
“He is in waiting, I suppose,” said Lady Eleanor, calmly; and Helen began.
“'My dear cousin—'”
“Ah! so he remembers the relationship at least,” muttered the old lady to herself.
“'My dear cousin, it would be a sad abuse of the small space a letter affords, to inquire into the cause of our long silence; faults on both sides might explain much of it. I was never a brilliant correspondent, you were always an indolent one; if I wrote stupid letters, you sent me very brief answers; and if you at last grew weary of giving gold for brass, I can scarcely reproach you for stopping the exchange. Still, at the risk of remaining unanswered, once more—'”