Helen had now come to tears. Then the keen sense of injustice turned to indignation; and the tears wiped away, and pride prevailing, colouring she exclaimed, “That she knew what she ought to do, she knew what she would do--she would not stay where the master of the house did not wish for her. Orphan though she was, she could not accept of protection or obligation from any human being who neither liked or esteemed her. She would shorten her visit at Clarendon Park--make it as short as his heart could desire,--she would never be the cause of any disagreement--poor, dear, kind Cecilia! She would write directly to Mrs. Collingwood.” At the close of these last incoherent sentences, Helen was awe-struck by the absolute composed immovability and silence of Lady Davenant. Helen stood rebuked before her. “Instead of writing to Mrs. Collingwood, had not you better go at once?” said her ladyship, speaking in a voice so calm, and in a tone so slightly ironical, that it might have passed for earnest on any but an acutely feeling ear--“Shall I ring, and order your carriage?” putting her hand on the bell as she spoke, and resting it there, she continued--“It would be so spirited to be off instantly; so wise, so polite, so considerate towards _dear_ Cecilia--so dignified towards the general, and so kind towards me, who am going to a far country, Helen, and may perhaps not see you ever again.” “Forgive me!” cried Helen; “I never could go while you were here.” “I did not know what you might think proper when you seemed to have lost your senses.” “I have recovered them,” said Helen; “I will do whatever you please--whatever you think best.” “It must not be what I please, my dear child, nor what I think best, but what you judge for yourself to be best; else what will become of you when I am in Russia? It must be some higher and more stable principle of action that must govern you. It must not be the mere wish to please this or that friend;--the defect of your character, Helen, remember I tell you, is this--inordinate desire to be loved, this impatience of not being loved--that which but a moment ago made you ready to abandon two of the best friends you have upon earth, because you imagine, or you suspect, or you fear, that a third person, almost a stranger, does not like before he has had time to know you.” “I was very foolish,” said Helen; “but now I will be wise, I will do whatever is--right. Surely you would not have me live here if I were convinced that the master of the house did not wish it?”