“Then since you cannot speak,” continued the general, “will you trust me with the letters themselves? Have you brought them to town with you?” “The original letters?” “Yes, those in the packet which I gave to you at Clarendon Park.” “They are burned.” “All?--one, this first letter I saw you tear; did you burn all the rest?” “They are burned,” repeated she, colouring all over. She could not say “I burned them.” He thought it a poor evasion. “They are burned,” continued he, “that is, you burned them: unfortunate. I must then recur to my first appeal. Take this pencil, and mark, I pray you, the passages that are your’s. I may be called on to prove the forgery of these passages: if you do not show me, and truly, which are yours, and which are not, how can I answer for you, Helen?” “One hour,” said Helen,--“only leave me for one hour, and it shall be done.” “Why this cowardly delay?” “I ask only one hour--only leave me for one hour.” “I obey, Miss Stanley, since it must be so. I am gone.” He went, and Helen felt how sunk she was in his opinion,--sunk for ever, she feared! but she could not think distinctly, her mind was stunned; she felt that she must wait for somebody, but did not at first recollect clearly that it was for Cecilia. She leaned back on the sofa, and sank into a sort of dreamy state. How long she remained thus unconscious she knew not; but she was roused at last by the sound, as she fancied, of a carriage stopping at the door: she started up, but it was gone, or it had not been. She perceived that the breakfast things had been removed, and, turning her eyes upon the clock, she was surprised to see how late it was. She snatched up the pages which she hated to touch, and ran up-stairs to Cecilia’s room,--door bolted;--she gave a hasty tap--no answer; another louder, no answer. She ran into the dressing-room for Felicie, who came with a face of mystery, and the smile triumphant of one who knows what is not to be known. But the smile vanished on seeing Miss Stanley’s face. “Bon Dieu! Miss Stanley--how pale! mais qu’est ce que c’est? Mon Dieu, qu’est ce que c’est donc?” “Is Lady Cecilia’s door bolted within side?” said Helen. “No, only lock by me,” said Mademoiselle Felicie. “Miladi charge me not to tell you she was not dere. And I had de presentiment you might go up to look for her in her room. Her head is got better quite. She is all up and dress; she is gone out in the carriage, and will soon be back no doubt. I know not to where she go, but in my opinion to my Lady Katrine. If you please, you not mention I say dat, as miladi charge me not to speak of dis to you. _Apparemment quelque petit mystère_.”