“Talking! yes, yes!” said Mr. Collingwood, “I understand it all—Lady Davenant is a great politician, and female politicians, with their heads full of the affairs of Europe, cannot have time to think of the affairs of their families.”
“What is the matter, my dear Helen?” said Mrs. Collingwood, taking her hand. Helen had tears in her eyes and looked unhappy.
“I have done very wrong,” said she; “I have said something that has given you a bad, a false opinion of one for whom I have the greatest admiration and love—of Lady Davenant. I am excessively sorry; I have done very 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, but 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.”