“No, no, not quite; two from eighteen and sixteen remain, I think, and in our days sixteen is not absolutely a child.”
Helen made no answer; her thoughts had gone back to the time when Colonel D’Aubigny was first introduced to her, which was just before her uncle’s illness, and when her mind had been so engrossed by him, that she had but a confused recollection of all the rest.
“Now you are right, my dear,” said Lady Davenant; “right to be absolutely silent. In difficult cases say nothing; but still you are wrong in sitting so uneasily under it, for that seems as if there was something.”
“Nothing upon earth!” cried Helen, “if you would not look at me so, my clear Lady Davenant.”
“Then, my dear Helen, do not break my embroidery silk; that jerk was imprudent, and trust me, my dear, the screw of that silk winder is not so much to blame as you would have me think; take patience with yourself and with me. There is no great harm done, no unbearable imputation, you are not accused of loving or liking, only of having been admired.” “Never!” cried Helen.
“Well, well! it does not signify in the least now; the man is either dying or dead.”
“I am glad of it,” cried Helen.
“How barbarous!” said Lady Davenant, “but let it pass, I am neither glad nor sorry; contempt is more dignified and safer than hatred, my dear.
“Now to return to Cecilia; soon after, I will not say the D’Aubigny era, but soon after you left us, I fell sick, Cecilia was excessively kind to me. In kindness her affectionate heart never failed, and I felt this the more, from a consciousness that I had been a little harsh to her. I recovered but slowly; I could not bear to have her confined so long in a sick room, and yet I did not much like either of the chaperons with whom she went out, though they were both of rank, and of unimpeachable character—the one English, one of the best women in the world, but the most stupid; the other a foreigner, one of the most agreeable women in the world, but the most false. I prevailed on Cecilia to break off that—I do not know what to call it, friendship it was not, and my daughter and I drew nearer together. Better times began to dawn, but still there was little sympathy between us; my mind was intent on Lord Davenant’s interests, hers on amusement and admiration. Her conquests were numerous, and she gloried in their number, for, between you and me, Cecilia was, before the reformation, not a little of a coquette. You will not allow it, you did not see it, you did not go out with her, and being three or four years younger, you could not be a very good critic of Cecilia’s conduct; and depend upon it I am right, she was not a little of a coquette. She did not know, and I am sure I did not know, that she had a heart, till she became acquainted with General Clarendon.
“The first time we met him,”—observing a quickening of attention in Helen’s eyes, Lady Davenant smiled, and said, “Young ladies always like to hear of ‘the first time we saw him.’—The first time we saw General Clarendon was—forgive me the day of the month—in the gallery at Florence. I forget how it happened that he had not been presented to me—to Lord Davenant he must have been. But so it was and it was new to Cecilia to see a man of his appearance who had not on his first arrival shown himself ambitious to be made known to her. He was admiring a beautiful Magdalene, and he was standing with his back towards us. I recollect that his appearance when I saw him as a stranger—the time when one can best judge of appearance—struck me as that of a distinguished person; but little did I think that there stood Cecilia’s husband! so little did my maternal instinct guide me.