“I owe to you,” continued he, “the happiness of my whole future life.”
“Then I am happy,” cried Helen, “happy in this, at all events, whatever may become of me.”
She had not yet raised her eyes towards the general; she felt as if her first look must betray Cecilia; but she now tried to fix her eyes upon him as he looked anxiously at her, and she said, “thank you, thank you, General Clarendon! Oh, thank you for all the kindness you have shown me; but I am the more grieved, it makes me more sorry to sink quite in your esteem.”
“To sink! You do not: your candour, your truth raises you——”
“Oh! do not say that——”
“I do,” repeated the general, “and you may believe me. I am incapable of deceiving you—this is no matter of compliment. Between friend and friend I should count a word, a look of falsehood, treason.”
Helen’s tears stopped, and, without knowing what she did, she began hastily to gather up the packet of letters which she had let fall; the general assisted her in putting them into her bag, and she closed the strings, thanked him, and was rising, when he went on—“I beg your indulgence while I say a few words of myself.”
She sat down again immediately. “Oh! as many as you please.”
“I believe I may say I am not of a jealous temper.”
“I am sure you are not,” said Helen.