Meanwhile Audley Egerton’s carriage had deposited him at the door of Lord
Lansmere’s house, at Knightsbridge. He asked for the Countess, and was
shown into the drawing-room, which was deserted. Egerton was paler than
usual; and, as the door opened, he wiped the unwonted moisture from his
forehead, and there was a quiver in his firm lip. The Countess, too, on
entering, showed an emotion almost equally unusual to her self-control.
She pressed Audley’s hand in silence, and seating herself by his side,
seemed to collect her thoughts. At length she said: "It is rarely indeed
that we meet, Mr. Egerton, in spite of your intimacy with Lansmere and
Harley. I go so little into your world, and you will not voluntarily come
to me."
"Madam," replied Egerton, "I might evade your kind reproach by stating
that my hours are not at my disposal; but I answer you with plain truth—it
must be painful to both of us to meet."
The Countess colored and sighed, but did not dispute the assertion. Audley
resumed. "And therefore, I presume, that on sending for me, you have
something of moment to communicate."
"It relates to Harley," said the Countess, as if in apology; "and I would
take your advice."
"To Harley! speak on, I beseech you."
"My son has probably told you that he has educated and reared a young
girl, with the intention to make her Lady L’Estrange, and hereafter
Countess of Lansmere."
"Harley has no secrets from me," said Egerton, mournfully.
"This young lady has arrived in England—is here—in this house."
"And Harley too?"
"No, she came over with Lady N her daughters. Harley was to follow
shortly, and I expect him daily. Here is his letter. Observe, he has never
yet communicated his intentions to this young person, now intrusted to my
care—never spoken to her as the lover."
Egerton took the letter and read it rapidly, though with attention.
"True," said he, as he returned the letter: "and before he does so, he
wishes you to see Miss Digby and to judge of her yourself—wishes to know
if you will approve and sanction his choice."
"It is on this that I would consult you—a girl without rank;—the father,
it is true, a gentleman, though almost equivocally one,—but the mother, I
know not what. And Harley for whom I hoped an alliance with the first
houses in England!" The Countess pressed her hands convulsively together.
_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 besides your own. Lady Lansmere,
you cannot 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 wellnigh 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 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 sat 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. Audley gazed on
her with earnestness as she approached him; and then coming forward, took
her hand and kissed it. "I am your guardian’s constant friend," said he;
and he drew her gently to a seat beside him, in the recess of a window.
With a quick glance of his eye towards the Countess, he seemed to imply
the wish to converse with Helen somewhat apart. So the Countess
interpreted the glance; and though she remained in the room, she seated
herself at a distance, and bent over a book.
It was touching to see how the austere man of business lent himself to
draw forth the mind of this quiet, shrinking girl; and if you had
listened, you would have comprehended how he came to possess such social
influence, and how well, some time or other in the course of his life, he
had learned to adapt himself to women. He spoke first of Harley
L’Estrange—spoke with tact and delicacy. Helen at first answered by
monosyllables, and then, by degrees, with grateful and open affection.
Audley’s brow grew shaded. He then spoke of Italy; and though no man had
less of the poet in his nature, yet, with the dexterity of one long versed
in the world, and who has been accustomed to extract evidences from
characters most opposed to his own, he suggested such topics as might
serve to arouse poetry in others. Helen’s replies betrayed a cultivated
taste, and a charming womanly mind; but they betrayed also one accustomed
to take its colorings from another’s—to appreciate, admire, revere the
Lofty and the Beautiful, but humbly and meekly. There was no vivid
enthusiasm, no remark of striking originality, no flash of the
self-kindling, creative faculty. Lastly, Egerton turned to England—to the
critical nature of the times—to the claims which the country possessed
upon all who had the ability to serve and guide its troubled destinies. He
enlarged warmly on Harley’s natural talents, and rejoiced that he had
returned to England, perhaps to commence some great career. Helen looked
surprised, but her face caught no correspondent glow from Audley’s
eloquence. He rose, and an expression of disappointment passed over his
grave, handsome features, and as quickly vanished.
"Adieu! my dear Miss Digby; I fear I have wearied you, especially with my
politics. Adieu, Lady Lansmere; no doubt I shall see Harley as soon as he
returns."
Then he hastened from the room, gained his carriage, and ordered the
coachman to drive to Downing-street. He drew down the blinds, and leant
back. A certain languor became visible in his face, and once or twice he
mechanically put his hand to his heart.
"She is good, amiable, docile—will make an excellent wife, no doubt," said
he, murmuringly. "But does she love Harley as he has dreamed of love? No!
Has she the power and energy to arouse his faculties, and restore to the
world the Harley of old? No! Meant by heaven to be the shadow of another’s
sun—not herself the sun—this child is not the one who can atone for the
Past and illume the Future."