“It is a sad thing for you, ma’am, Lady Davenant’s going away,” said her maid.
Helen sighed again. “Very sad indeed.” Suddenly a thought darted into her mind, that the whole danger might be avoided. A hope came that the general might not open the packet before Lady Davenant’s departure, in which case Cecilia could not expect that she should abide by her promise, as it was only conditional. It had been made really on her mother’s account; Cecilia had said that if once her mother was safe out of the house, she could then, and she would the very next day tell the whole to her husband. Helen sprang from under the hands of her maid as she was putting up her hair behind, and ran to Cecilia’s dressing-room, but she was not there. It was now her usual time for coming, and Helen left open the door between them, that she might go to her before Felicie should be rung for. She waited impatiently, but no Cecilia came. The time, to her impatience, seemed dreadfully long. But her maid observed, that as her ladyship had not been well yesterday, it was no wonder she was later this morning than usual.
“Very true, but there is somebody coming along the gallery now, see if that is Lady Cecilia.”
“No, ma’am, Mademoiselle Felicie.”
Mademoiselle Felicie said ditto to Helen’s own maid, and, moreover, supposed her lady might not have slept well. Just then, one little peremptory knock at the door was heard.
“Bon Dieu! C’est Monsieur le Général!” exclaimed Felicie.
It was so—Felicie went to the door and returned with the general’s compliments to Miss Stanley, and he begged to see her as soon as it might suit her convenience in the library, before she went into the breakfast-room, and after she should have seen Lady Cecilia, who wished to see her immediately.
Helen found Lady Cecilia in bed, looking as if she had been much agitated, two spots of carnation colour high up in her cheeks, a well-known sign in her of great emotion. “Helen!” she cried, starting up the moment Helen came in, “he has opened the packet, and you see me alive. But I do believe I should have died, when it came to the point, but for you—dearest Helen, I should have been, and still but for you I must be, undone—and my mother—oh! if he had gone to her!”
“What has happened, tell me clearly, my dear Cecilia, and quickly, for I must go to General Clarendon; he has desired to see me as soon as I can after seeing you.”
“I know, I know,” said Cecilia, “but he will allow time, and you had better be some time with me, for he thinks I have all to explain to you this morning—and so I have, a great deal to say to you; sit down—quietly—Oh if you knew how I have been agitated, I am hardly able yet tell anything rightly.” She threw herself back on the pillows, and drew a long breath, as if to relieve the oppression of mind and body. “Now I think I can tell it.”