“Come in, Helen, come in,” cried Lady Davenant, looking up, and the face of care was cleared, and there was a radiance of pleasure—“Interrupt—yes: disturb—no. Often in your little life, Helen, you have interrupted—never disturbed me. From the time you were a child till this moment, never did I see you come into my room without pleasure.”
Then sweeping away heaps of papers, she made room for Helen on the sofa beside her.
“Now tell me how things are with you—somewhat I have heard reported of my friend the dean’s affairs—tell me all.”
Helen told all as briefly as possible; she hurried on through her uncle’s affairs with a tremulous voice, and before she could come to a conclusion Lady Davenant exclaimed,
“I foresaw it long since: with all my friend’s virtues, all his talents—but we will not go back upon the painful past. You, my dear Helen, have done just what I should have expected from you,—right;—right, too, the condition Mr. Collingwood has made—very right. And now to the next point:—where are you to live, Helen? or rather with whom?”
Helen was not quite sure yet, she said she had not quite determined.
“Am I to understand that your doubt lies between the Collingwoods and my daughter?”
“Yes; Cecilia most kindly invited me, but I do not know General Clarendon yet, and he does not know me yet. Cecilia might wish most sincerely that I should live with her, and I am convinced she does; but her husband must be considered.”
“True,” said Lady Davenant—“true; a husband is certainly a thing to be cared for—in Scottish phrase, and General Clarendon is no doubt a person to be considered,—but it seems that I am not a person to be considered in your arrangements.”
Even the altered, dry, and almost acrid tone in which Lady Davenant spoke, and the expression of disappointment in her countenance—were, as marks of strong affection, deeply gratifying to Helen. Lady Davenant went on.