“He is coming!” cried Cecilia.
General Clarendon came to the door—it was bolted.
“In a few minutes,” said Helen. Lady Cecilia did not speak, but listened, as in agony, to his receding footsteps.
“In a few minutes, Helen, did you say?—then there is nothing for me now, but to die—I wish I could die—I wish I was dead.”
Helen felt she was cruel, she began to doubt her own motives; she thought she had been selfish in urging Cecilia too strongly; and, going to her kindly, she said, “Take your own time, my dear Cecilia: only tell him—tell him soon.”
“I will, I will indeed, when I can—but now I am quite exhausted.”
“You are indeed,” said Helen, “how cruel I have been!—how pale you are!”
Lady Cecilia lay down on the sofa, and Helen covered her with a soft India shawl, trembling so much herself that she could hardly stand.
“Thank you, thank you, dear, kind Helen; tell him I am going to sleep, and I am sure I hope I shall.”
Helen closed the shutters—she had now done all she could; she feared she had done too much; and as she left the room, she said to herself,—“Oh, Lady Davenant! if you could see—if you knew—what it cost me!”