“Yes,” said Cecilia; and then indeed she looked much disturbed. “I am very sorry that this notion of your telling Beauclerc came into Clarendon’s head—very, very sorry, for he will not forget it. And yet, after all,” continued she, “he will never ask you point blank, ‘Have you told Beauclerc?’—and still more impossible that he should ask Beauclerc about it.”
“Cecilia!” said Helen, “if it were only for myself I would say no more; there is nothing I would not endure—that I would not sacrifice—even my utmost happiness.”—She stopped, and blushed deeply.
“Oh, my dearest Helen! do you think I could let you ever hazard that? If I thought there was the least chance of injuring you with Granville!—I would do any thing—I would throw myself at Clarendon’s feet this instant.”
“This instant—I wish he was here,” cried Helen.
“Good Heavens! do you?” cried Lady Cecilia, looking at the door with terror—she thought she heard his step.
“Yes, if you would but tell him—O let me call him!”
“Oh no, no! Spare me—spare me, I cannot speak now. I could not utter the words; I should not know what words to use. Tell him if you will, I cannot.”
“May I tell him?” said Helen, eagerly.
“No, no—that would be worse; if anybody tells him it must be myself.”
“Then you will now—when he comes in?”