“So I suppose,” said the general, “as he is not here.”
“He said he was engaged to breakfast.”
“With some of his friends, I suppose,” said the general.
There the dialogue came to a full stop, and breakfast, uncomfortably on her part, and with a preoccupied air on his, went on in absolute silence. At length the general signified to the servant who was in waiting, by a nod, and a look towards the door, that his further attendance was dispensed with. At another time Helen would have felt such a dismissal as a relief, for she disliked, and recollected that her uncle particularly disliked, the fashion of having servants waiting at a family breakfast, which he justly deemed unsuited to our good old English domestic habits; but somehow it happened that at this moment she was rather sorry when the servant left the room. He returned however in a moment, with something which he fancied to be yet wanting; the general, after glancing at whatever he had brought, said, “That will do, Cockburn; we want nothing more.”
Cockburn placed a screen between him and the fire; the general put it aside, and, looking at him, said sternly—“Cockburn, no intelligence must ever go from my house to any newspapers.”
Cockburn bowed—“None shall, Sir, if I can prevent it; none ever did from me, general.”
“None must ever go from anyone in my family—look to it.”
Cockburn bowed again respectfully, but with a look of reservation of right of remonstrance, answered by a look from his master, of “No more must be said.” Yet Cockburn was a favourite; he had lived in the family from the time he was a boy. He moved hastily towards the door, and having turned the handle, rested upon it and said, “general, I cannot answer for others.”
“Then, Cockburn, I must find somebody who can.”
Cockburn disappeared, but after closing the door the veteran opened it again, stood, and said stoutly, though seemingly with some impediment in his throat—“General Clarendon, do me the justice to give me full powers.”