Egerton.—“He is no more a boy. His talents have been wasted—his life a wanderer's. He presents to you a chance of re-settling his mind, of re-arousing his native powers, of a home beside your own. Lady Lansmere, you can not hesitate!”
Lady Lansmere.—“I do, I do! After all that I have hoped, after all that I did to prevent—”
Egerton (interrupting her).—“You owe him now an atonement: that is in your power—it is not in mine.”
The Countess again pressed Audley's hand, and the tears gushed from her eyes.
“It shall be so. I consent—I consent. I will silence, I will crush back this proud heart. Alas! it well-nigh broke his own! I am glad you speak thus. I like to think he owes my consent to you. In that there is atonement for both—both.”
“You are too generous, madam,” said Egerton, evidently moved, though still, as ever, striving to repress emotion. “And now may I see the young lady? This conference pains me; you see even my strong nerves quiver; and at this time I have much to go through—need of all my strength and firmness.”
“I hear, indeed, that the government will probably retire. But it is with honor: it will be soon called back by the voice of the nation.”
“Let me see the future wife of Harley L'Estrange,” said Egerton, without heed of this consolatory exclamation.
The Countess rose and left the room. In a few minutes she returned with Helen Digby.
Helen was wondrously improved from the pale, delicate child, with the soft smile and intelligent eyes, who had sate by the side of Leonard in his garret. She was about the middle height, still slight, but beautifully formed; that exquisite roundness of proportion, which conveys so well the idea of woman, in its undulating, pliant grace—formed to embellish life, and soften away its rude angles—formed to embellish, not to protect. Her face might not have satisfied the critical eye of an artist—it was not without defects in regularity; but its expression was eminently gentle and prepossessing; and there were few who would not have exclaimed, “What a lovely countenance!” The mildness of her brow was touched with melancholy—her childhood had left its traces on her youth. Her step was slow, and her manner shy, subdued, and timid.