“You are right, my love—quite right,” said Lady Davenant. “The best way is always to employ one’s self always to the last. Yes, put up those drawings carefully, in this portfolio, Elliott; take silver paper, Helen.”
They were Helen’s own drawings, so all went on, and all was safe—even when Cecilia was spoken of; while the silver paper went over the drawings, Helen answered that she had seen her. “She was not well, but still not seriously ill, though—”
“Yes,” said Lady Davenant; “only the general is too anxious about her—very naturally. He sent me word just now,” continued she, “that he has forbidden her to get up before breakfast. I will go and see her now; dear Cecilia! I hope she will do well—every way—I feel sure of it, Helen—sure as you do yourself, my dear—But what is the matter?”
“Nothing!” said Helen. That was not quite true; but she could not help it—“Nothing!” repeated she. “Only I am anxious, my dear Lady Davenant,” continued poor Helen blundering, unaccustomed to evasions—“only I am very anxious you should go soon to Cecilia; I know she is awake now, and you will be hurried after breakfast.”
Elliott looked reproachfully at Miss Stanley, for she thought it much better for her lady to be engaged in more indifferent matters till after breakfast, when she would have but a few minutes to spend with her daughter; so Helen, correcting herself, added—“But, perhaps I’m wrong, so do not let me interrupt you in whatever you are doing.”
“My dear child,” said Lady Davenant; “you do not know what you are saying or doing yourself this morning.”
But no suspicion was excited in her mind, as she accounted for Helen’s perturbation by the sorrow of their approaching separation, and by the hurry of her spirits at Beauclerc’s arrival the day before. And then came the meeting the general at breakfast, which Helen dreaded; but so composed, so impenetrable was he that she could hardly believe that anything could have occurred that morning to agitate him.
Lady Davenant, after being with her daughter, came to take leave of Helen, and said gravely, “Helen! remember what I said of Cecilia’s truth, my trust is in you. Remember, if I never see you again, by all the love and esteem I bear you, and all which you feel for me, remember this my last request—prayer—adjuration to you, support, save Cecilia!”
At that moment the general came to announce that the carriage was ready; promptly he led her away, handed her in and the order to “drive on,” was given. Lady Davenant’s last look, her last anxious smile, was upon Helen and Beauclerc as they stood beside each other on the steps, and she was gone.
Helen was so excessively agitated that Beauclerc did not attempt to detain her from hurrying to her own room, where she sat down, and endeavoured to compose herself. She repeated Lady Davenant’s last words, “Support, save Cecilia,” and, unlocking the cabinet in which she had deposited the fatal letters, she seized the bag that contained them, and went immediately to Cecilia. She was in her dressing-room, and the general sitting beside her on the sofa, upon which she was resting. He was sitting directly opposite to Helen as she entered; she started at the sight of him: his eye instantly fell upon the bag, and she felt her face suddenly flush. He took out his watch, said he had an appointment, and was gone before Helen raised her eyes.