Violante’s first evening at the Lansmeres had passed more happily to her
than the first evening under the same roof had done to Helen. True that
she missed her father much, Jemima somewhat; but she so identified her
father’s cause with Harley that she had a sort of vague feeling that
it was to promote that cause that she was on this visit to Harley’s
parents. And the countess, it must be owned, was more emphatically
cordial to her than she had ever yet been to Captain Digby’s orphan. But
perhaps the real difference in the heart of either girl was this, that
Helen felt awe of Lady Lansmere, and Violante felt only love for Lord
L’Estrange’s mother. Violante, too, was one of those persons whom a
reserved and formal person, like the countess, “can get on with,” as the
phrase goes. Not so poor little Helen,--so shy herself, and so hard to
coax into more than gentle monosyllables. And Lady Lansmere’s favourite
talk was always of Harley. Helen had listened to such talk with respect
and interest. Violante listened to it with inquisitive eagerness, with
blushing delight. The mother’s heart noticed the distinction between the
two, and no wonder that that heart moved more to Violante than to Helen.
Lord Lansmere, too, like most gentlemen of his age, clumped all young
ladies together as a harmless, amiable, but singularly stupid class of
the genus-Petticoat, meant to look pretty, play the piano, and talk
to each other about frocks and sweethearts. Therefore this animated,
dazzling creature, with her infinite variety of look and play of mind,
took him by surprise, charmed him into attention, and warmed him
into gallantry. Helen sat in her quiet corner, at her work, sometimes
listening with almost mournful, though certainly unenvious, admiration
at Violante’s vivid, yet ever unconscious, eloquence of word and
thought, sometimes plunged deep into her own secret meditations. And all
the while the work went on the same, under the small, noiseless fingers.
This was one of Helen’s habits that irritated the nerves of Lady
Lansmere. She despised young ladies who were fond of work. She did not
comprehend how often it is the resource of the sweet womanly mind, not
from want of thought, but from the silence and the depth of it. Violante
was surprised, and perhaps disappointed, that Harley had left the house
before dinner, and did not return all the evening. But Lady Lansmere, in
making excuse for his absence, on the plea of engagements, found so good
an opportunity to talk of his ways in general,--of his rare promise in
boyhood, of her regret at the inaction of his maturity, of her hope
to see him yet do justice to his natural powers,--that Violante almost
ceased to miss him.
And when Lady Lansmere conducted her to her room, and, kissing her cheek
tenderly, said, “But you are just the person Harley admires,--just the
person to rouse him from melancholy dreams, of which his wild humours
are now but the vain disguise”--Violante crossed her arms on her bosom,
and her bright eyes, deepened into tenderness, seemed to ask, “He
melancholy--and why?”
On leaving Violante’s room, Lady Lansmere paused before the door of
Helen’s; and, after musing a little while, entered softly.
Helen had dismissed her maid; and, at the moment Lady Lansmere entered,
she was kneeling at the foot of the bed, her hands clasped before her
face.
Her form, thus seen, looked so youthful and child-like, the attitude
itself was so holy and so touching, that the proud and cold expression
on Lady Lansmere’s face changed. She shaded the light involuntarily, and
seated herself in silence that she might not disturb the act of prayer.
When Helen rose, she was startled to see the countess seated by the
fire, and hastily drew her hand across her eyes. She had been weeping.
Lady Lansmere did not, however, turn to observe those traces of tears,
which Helen feared were too visible. The countess was too absorbed in
her own thoughts; and as Helen timidly approached, she said--still with
her eyes on the clear low fire--“I beg your pardon, Miss Digby, for
my intrusion; but my son has left it to me to prepare Lord Lansmere to
learn the offer you have done Harley the honour to accept. I have not
yet spoken to my Lord; it may be days before I find a fitting occasion
to do so; meanwhile I feel assured that your sense of propriety will
make you agree, with me that it is due to Lord L’Estrange’s father, that
strangers should not learn arrangements of such moment in his family
before his own consent be obtained.”
Here the countess came to a full pause; and poor Helen, finding herself
called upon for some reply to this chilling speech, stammered out,
scarce audibly,
“Certainly, madam, I never dreamed of--”
“That is right, my dear,” interrupted Lady Lansmere, rising suddenly,
and as if greatly relieved. “I could not doubt your superiority to
ordinary girls of your age, with whom these matters are never secret for
a moment. Therefore, of course, you will not mention, at present, what
has passed between you and Harley, to any of the friends with whom you
may correspond.”
“I have no correspondents, no friends, Lady Lansmere,” said Helen,
deprecatingly, and trying hard not to cry.
“I am very glad to hear it, my dear; young ladies never should have.
Friends, especially friends who correspond, are the worst enemies they
can have. Good-night, Miss Digby. I need not add, by the way, that
though we are bound to show all kindness to this young Italian lady,
still she is wholly unconnected with our family; and you will be as
prudent with her as you would have been with your correspondents, had
you had the misfortune to have any.”
Lady Lansmere said the last words with a smile, and left an ungenial
kiss (the stepmother’s kiss) on Helen’s bended brow. She then left the
room, and Helen sat on the seat vacated by the stately, unloving form,
and again covered her face with her hands, and again wept. But when she
rose at last, and the light fell upon her face, that soft face was sad
indeed, but serene,--serene, as with some inward sense of duty, sad, as
with the resignation which accepts patience instead of hope.