Mademoiselle Felicie said ditto to Helen's own maid, and, moreover, supposed her lady might not have slept well. Just then, one little peremptory knock at the door was heard.

"Bon Dieu! C'est Monsieur le General!" exclaimed Felicie.

It was so--Felicie went to the door and returned with the general's compliments to Miss Stanley, and he begged to see her as soon as it might suit her convenience in the library, before she went into the breakfast-room, and after she should have seen Lady Cecilia, who wished to see her immediately.

Helen found Lady Cecilia in bed, looking as if she had been much agitated, two spots of carnation colour high up in her cheeks, a well-known sign in her of great emotion. "Helen!" she cried, starting up the moment Helen came in, "he has opened the packet, and you see me alive. But I do believe I should have died, when it came to the point, but for you--dearest Helen, I should have been, and still but for you I must be, undone--and my mother--oh! if he had gone to her!"

"What has happened, tell me clearly, my dear Cecilia, and quickly, for I must go to General Clarendon; he has desired to see me as soon as I can after seeing you."

"I know, I know," said Cecilia, "but he will allow time, and you had better be some time with me, for he thinks I have all to explain to you this morning--and so I have, a great deal to say to you; sit down--quietly--Oh if you knew how I have been agitated, I am hardly able yet tell anything rightly." She threw herself back on the pillows, and drew a long breath, as if to relieve the oppression of mind and body.

"Now I think I can tell it."

"Then do, my dear Cecilia--all--pray do! and exactly--oh, Cecilia, tell me all."

"Every word, every look, to the utmost, as far as I can recollect, as if you had been present. Give me your hand, Helen, how cool you are--delightful! but how you tremble!"

"Never mind," said Helen; "but how burning hot your hand is!"

"No matter. If ever I am well or happy again in this world, Helen, I shall owe it to you. After I left you I found the general fast asleep, I do not believe he had ever awoke--I lay awake for hours, till past five o'clock in the morning, I was wide awake--feverish. But can you conceive it? just then, when I was most anxious to be awake, when I knew there was but one hour--not so much, till he would awake and read that packet, I felt an irresistible sleepiness come over me; I turned and turned, and tried to keep my eyes open, and pulled and pinched my fingers. But all would not do, and I fell asleep, dreaming that I was awake, and how long I slept I cannot tell you, so deep, so dead asleep I must have been; but the instant I did awake, I started up and drew back the curtain, and I saw--oh, Helen! there was Clarendon dressed--standing with his arms folded--a letter open hanging from his hand. His eyes were fixed upon me, waiting, watching for my first look: he saw me glance at the letter in his hand, and then at the packet on the table near the bed. For an instant neither of us spoke: I could not, nor exclaim even; but surprised, terrified, he must have seen I was. As I leaned forward, holding by the curtains, he pulled one of them suddenly back, threw open the shutters, and the full glare was upon my face. I shut my eyes--I could not help it--and shrank; but, gathering strength from absolute terror of his silence, I spoke: I asked, 'For Heaven's sake! Clarendon, what is the matter? Why do you look so?'

"Oh, that look of his! still fixed on me--the same as I once saw before we were married--once, and but once, when he came from my mother to me about this man. Well! I put my hands before my eyes; he stepped forward, drew them down, and placed the open letter before me, and then asked me, in a terrible sort of suppressed voice, 'Cecilia, whose writing is this?'

"The writing was before my eyes, but I literally could not see it--it was all a sort of maze. He saw I could not read it, and calmly bade me 'Take time--examine--is it a forgery?'

"A forgery!--that had never crossed my mind, and for an instant I was tempted to say it was; but quickly I saw that would not do: there was the miniature, and that could not be a forgery. 'No,' I answered, 'I do not think it is a forgery.'

"'What then?' said he, so hastily that I could hardly hear; and before I could think what to answer, he said, 'I must see Lady Davenant.' He stepped towards the bell; I threw myself upon his arm--'Good Heavens! do not, Clarendon, if you are not out of your senses.' 'I am not out of my senses, Cecilia, I am perfectly calm; answer me, one word only--is this your writing? Oh! my dear Helen, then it was that you saved me.'"

"I!"

"Yes, forgive me, Helen, I answered, 'There is a handwriting so like, that you never can tell it from mine. Ask me no more, Clarendon,' I said.

"I saw a flash of light, as it were, come across his face--it was hope--but still it was not certainty. I saw this: oh! how quick one sees. He pointed to the first words of the letter, held his finger under them, and his hand trembled--think of his hand trembling! 'Read,' he said, and I read. How I brought myself to p.r.o.nounce the words, I cannot imagine. I read what, as I hope for mercy, I had no recollection of ever having written--'My dear, too dear Henry.' 'Colonel D'Aubigny?' said the general. I answered, 'Yes.' He looked astonished at my self-possession--and so was I. For another instant his finger rested, pressing down there under the words, and his eyes on my face, as if he would have read into my soul. 'Ask me no more,' I repeated, scarcely able to speak; and something I said, I believe, about honour and not betraying you. He turned to the signature, and, putting his hand down upon it, asked, 'What name is signed to this letter?' I answered, I have seen--I know--I believe it is 'Emma.'

"'You knew then of this correspondence?' was his next question. I confessed I did. He said that was wrong, 'but quite a different affair' from having been engaged in it myself, or some such word. His countenance cleared; that pale look of the forehead, the fixed purpose of the eye, changed. Oh! I could see--I understood it all with half a glance--saw the natural colour coming back, and tenderness for me returning--yet some doubt lingering still. He stood, and I heard some half-finished sentences. He said that you must have been very young at that time; I said, 'Yes, very young:'--'And the man was a most artful man,' he observed; I said. 'Yes, very artful.' That was true, I am sure.

Clarendon then recollected that you showed some emotion one day when Colonel D'Aubigny was first mentioned--at that time, you know, when we heard of his death. I said nothing. The general went on: 'I could hardly have believed all this of Helen Stanley,' he said. He questioned no farther:--and oh! Helen, what do you think I did next? but it was the only thing left me to put an end to doubts, which, to _me_, must have been fatal--forgive me, Helen!"

"Tell me what you did," said Helen.

"Cannot you guess?"

"You told him positively that I wrote the letters?"

"No, not so bad, I never said that downright falsehood--no, I could not; but I did almost as bad."

"Pray tell me at once, my dear Cecilia."

"Then, in the first place, I stretched out my hand for the whole packet of letters which lay on the table untouched."

"Well?"

"Well, he put them into my hands and said, 'There is no direction on these but to myself, I have not looked at any of them except this, which in ignorance I first opened; I have not read one word of any of the others.'"

"Well," said Helen; "and what did you do?"

"I said I was not going to read any of the letters, that I was only looking for--now, Helen, you know--I told you there was something hard in the parcel, something more than papers, I was sure what it must be--the miniature--the miniature of you, which I painted, you know, that I might have it when you were gone, and which _he_ stole, and pretended before my mother to be admiring as your likeness, but he kept it only because it was my painting. I opened the paper in which it was folded; Clarendon darted upon it--'It is Helen!' and then he said. 'How like!

how beautiful! how unworthy of that man!'

"But, oh, Helen, think of what an escape I had next. There was my name--my initials C. D. at the bottom of the picture, as the painter; and that horrible man, not content with his initials opposite to mine, had on the back written at full length, 'For Henry D'Aubigny.'--Clarendon looked at it, and said between his teeth. 'He is dead.'--'Thank G.o.d!' said I.

"Then he asked me, how I came to paint this picture for that man; I answered--oh how happy then it was for me that I could tell the whole truth about that at least!--I answered that I did not do the picture for Colonel D'Aubigny; that it never was given to him; that he stole it from my portfolio, and that we both did what we could to get it back again from him, but could not. And that you even wanted me to tell my mother, but of that I was afraid; and Clarendon said, 'You were wrong there, my dear Cecilia.'

"I was so touched when I heard him call me his dear Cecilia again, and in his own dear voice, that I burst into tears. That was a great relief to me, and I kept saying over and over again, that I was wrong--very wrong indeed! and then he kneeled down beside me, and I so felt his tenderness, his confiding love for me--for me, unworthy as I am." The tears streamed from Lady Cecilia's eyes as she spoke--"Quite unworthy!"

"No, no, not quite unworthy," said Helen; "my poor dear Cecilia, what you must have felt!"

"Once!" continued Cecilia--"once! Helen, as my head was lying on his shoulder, my face hid, I felt so much love, so much remorse, and knowing I had done nothing really bad, I was tempted to whisper all in his ear.

I felt I should be so much happier for ever--ever--if I could!"

"Oh that you had! my dear Cecilia, I would give anything upon earth for your sake, that you had."

"Helen, I could not--I could not. It was too late, I should have been undone if I had breathed but a word. When he even suspected the truth!

that look--that voice was so terrible. To see it--hear it again! I could not--oh, Helen, it would have been utter ruin--madness. I grant you, my dear Helen, it might have been done at first, before I was married; oh would to heaven it had! but it is useless thinking of that now. Helen, my whole earthly happiness is in your hands, this is all I have to say, may I--may I depend on you?"

"Yes, yes, depend upon me, my dearest Cecilia," said Helen; "now let me go."

Lady Cecilia held her one instant longer, to say that she had asked Clarendon to leave it to her to return the letters, "to save you the embarra.s.sment, my dearest Helen; but he answered he must do this himself, and I did not dare to press the matter; but you need not be alarmed, he will be all gentleness to you, he said, 'it is so different.' Do not be afraid."

"Afraid for myself?" said Helen; "oh no--rest, dear Cecilia, and let me go."

"Go then, go," cried Cecilia; "but for you what would become of my mother!--of me!--you save us all."

Believing this, Helen hastened to accomplish her purpose; resolved to go through with it, whatever it might cost; her scruples vanished, and she felt a sort of triumphant pleasure in the courage of sacrificing herself.

CHAPTER XVI.

General Clarendon was sitting in the music-room, within the library, the door open, so that he could see Helen the moment she came in, and that moment he threw down his book as he rose, and their eyes met: hers fell beneath his penetrating glance; he came forward immediately to meet her, with the utmost gentleness and kindness in his whole appearance and manner, took her hand, and, drawing her arm within his, said, in the most encouraging voice, "Consider me as your brother, Helen; you know you have allowed me so to feel for you, and so, believe me, I do feel."

This kindness quite overcame her, and she burst into tears. He hurried her across the library, into the inner room, seated her, and when he had closed the door, stood beside her, and began, as if he had been to blame, to apologise for himself.

"You must have been surprised at my having opened letters which did not belong to me, but there was no direction, no indication that could stop me. They were simply in a cover directed to me. The purpose of whoever sent them must have been to make me read them; the ultimate purpose was, I doubt not, to ruin Lady Cecilia Clarendon in my opinion."

"Or me," said Helen.

"No, Miss Stanley, no, that at all events cannot be," said the general.