“You’ve only seen her once, my dear aunt,” said Miss Clarendon. “For my brother’s sake I would give up half her agreeableness for one ounce—for one scruple—of truth.”
“Well, well, take it with some grains of allowance, my dear niece; and, at any rate, do not suffer yourself to be so prejudiced as to conceive she can be in fault in this business.”
“We shall see to-day,” said Miss Clarendon; “I will not be prejudiced; but I remember hearing at Florence that this Colonel D’Aubigny had been an admirer of Lady Cecilia’s. I will get at the truth.”
With this determination, and in pursuance of the resolve to be early, they were at General Clarendon’s full a quarter of an hour before the arrival of any other company; but Lady Cecilia entered so immediately after the general, that Miss Clarendon had no time to speak with her brother alone. Determined, however, as she was, to get at the truth, without preface, or even smoothing her way to her object, she rushed into the middle of things at once. “Have you heard any reports about Miss Stanley, brother?”
“Yes.”
“And you, Lady Cecilia?”
“Yes.”
“What have you heard?”
Lady Cecilia was silent, looked at the general, and left it to him to speak as much or as little as he pleased. She trusted to his laconic mode of answering, which, without departing from truth, defied curiosity. Her trust in him upon the present occasion was, however, a little disturbed by her knowledge of his being at this moment particularly displeased with Helen. But, had she known the depths as well as she knew the surface of his character, her confidence in his caution would have been increased, instead of being diminished by this circumstance: Helen was lost in his esteem, but she was still under his protection; her secrets were not only sacred, but, as far as truth and honour could admit, he would still serve and save her. Impenetrable, therefore, was his look, and brief was his statement to his sister. A rascally bookseller had been about to publish a book, in which were some letters which paragraphs in certain papers had led the public to believe were Miss Stanley’s; the publication had been stopped, the offensive chapter suppressed, and the whole impression destroyed.
“But, brother,” pursued Miss Clarendon, “were the letters Miss Stanley’s, or not? You know I do not ask from idle curiosity, but from regard for Miss Stanley;” and she turned her inquiring eyes full upon Lady Cecilia.