“Do, Lady Davenant,” said Helen, who saw, or thought she saw, a singular emotion in Beauclerc’s countenance, and fancied he was upon the point of yielding; but Lady Davenant, without looking at him, replied,—“No, my dear, I will not ask him—I will not encourage him in affectation.”
At that word dark grew the brow of Beauclerc, and he drew back, as it were, into his shell, and out of it came no more that night, nor the next morning at breakfast. But, as far as could be guessed, he suffered internally, and no effort made to relieve did him any good, so every one seemed to agree that it was much better to let him alone, or let him be moody in peace, hoping that in time the mood would change; but it changed not till the middle of that day, when, as Helen was sitting working in Lady Davenant’s room, while she was writing, two quick knocks were heard at the door.
“Come in!” said Lady Davenant.
Mr. Beauclerc stood pausing on the threshold——
“Do not go, Miss Stanley,” said he, looking very miserable and ashamed, and proud, and then ashamed again.
“What is the matter, Granville?” said Lady Davenant.
“I am come to have a thorn taken out of my mind,” said he—“two thorns which have sunk deep, kept me awake half the night. Perhaps, I ought to be ashamed to own I have felt pain from such little things. But so it is; though, after all, I am afraid they will be invisible to you, Lady Davenant.”
“I will try with a magnifying-glass,” said she; “lend me that of your imagination, Granville—a high power, and do not look so very miserable, or Miss Stanley will laugh at you.”
“Miss Stanley is too good to laugh.”
“That is being too good indeed,” said Lady Davenant. “Well, now to the point.”