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 on 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 coloured and sighed, but did not dispute the assertion.

Audley resumed: “And therefore, I presume that, in 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———and 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 entrusted 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 resettling 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 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.”

“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 honour: 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 had 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 colourings 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 leaned 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.”