“No,” cried Helen, “these letters are not mine.” “Not all,” said the general: “this first one I know to be yours, because I saw it in your handwriting; but I am certain all cannot be yours: now will you show me which are and which are not.” “I will take them to my own room, and consider and examine.” “Why not look at them here, Miss Stanley?” She wanted to see Cecilia, she knew she could never answer the question without consulting her, but that she could not say; still she had no other resource, so, conquering her trembling, she rose and said, “I would rather go to----” “Not to Cecilia,” said he; “to that I object: what can Cecilia do for you? what can she advise, but what I advise, that the plain truth should be told?” “If I could! O if I could!” cried Helen. “What can you mean? Pardon me, Miss Stanley, but surely you can tell the plain fact; you can recollect what you have written--at least you can know what you have not written. You have not yet even looked beyond a few of the letters--pray be composed--be yourself. This business it was that brought me to town. I was warned by that young lady, that poetess of Mr. Churchill’s, whom you made your friend by some kindness at Clarendon Park--I was warned that there was a book to come out, these Memoirs of Colonel D’Aubigny, which would contain letters said to be yours, a publication that would be highly injurious to you. I need not enter into details of the measures I consequently took; but I ascertained that Sir Thomas D’Aubigny, the elder brother of the colonel, knows nothing more of the matter than that he gave a manuscript of his brother’s, which he had never read, to be published: the rest is a miserable intrigue between booksellers and literary manufacturers, I know not whom; I have not been able to get to the bottom of it; sufficient for my present purpose I know, and must tell you. You have enemies who evidently desire to destroy your reputation, of course to break your marriage. For this purpose the slanderous press has been set at work, the gossiping part of the public has had its vile curiosity excited, the publication of this book is expected in a few days: this is the only copy yet completed, I believe, and this I could not get from the bookseller till this morning; I am now going to have every other copy destroyed directly.” “Oh my dear, dear friend, how can I thank you?” Her tears gushed forth. “Thank me not by words, Helen, but by actions; no tears, summon your soul--be yourself.” “O if I could but retrieve one false step!”--she suddenly checked herself. He stood aghast for an instant, then recovering himself as he looked upon her and marked the nature of her emotion, he said: “There can be no false step that you could ever have taken that cannot be retrieved. There can have been nothing that is irretrievable, except falsehood.” “Falsehood! No,” cried she, “I will not say what is false--therefore I will not say anything.”