Absent or present, the guardian influence of a superior friend is one
of the greatest blessings on earth, and after Lady Davenant’s departure
Helen was so full of all she had said to her, and of all that she would
approve or disapprove, that every action, almost every thought, was
under the influence of her friend’s mind. Continually she questioned her
motives as well as examined her actions, and she could not but condemn
some of her conduct, or if not her conduct, her manner, towards Horace
Churchill; she had been flattered by his admiration, and had permitted
his attentions more than she ought, when her own mind was perfectly made
up as to his character. Ever since the affair of the poetess, she had
been convinced that she could never make the happiness or redeem the
character of one so mean.
According to the ladies’ code, a woman is never to understand that a
gentleman’s attentions mean anything more than common civility; she is
supposed never to see his mind, however he may make it visible, till
he declares it in words. But, as Helen could not help understanding his
manner, she thought it was but fair to make him understand her by her
manner. She was certain that if he were once completely convinced, not
only that he had not made any impression, but that he never could make
any impression, on her heart, his pursuit would cease. His vanity,
mortified, might revenge itself upon her, perhaps; but this was a danger
which she thought she ought to brave; and now she resolved to be quite
sincere, as she said to herself, at whatever hazard (probably meaning
at the hazard of displeasing Cecilia) she would make her own sentiments
clear, and put an end to Mr. Churchill’s ambiguous conduct: and this
should be done on the very first opportunity.
An opportunity soon occurred--Horace had a beautiful little topaz ring
with which Lady Katrine Hawksby fell into raptures; such a charming
device!--Cupid and Momus making the world their plaything.
It was evident that Lady Katrine expected that the seal should be
presented to her. Besides being extravagantly fond of baubles,
she desired to have this homage from Horace. To her surprise and
mortification, however, he was only quite flattered by her approving of
his taste:--it was his favourite seal, and so “he kept the topaz, and
the rogue was bit.”
Lady Katrine was the more mortified by this failure, because it was
witnessed by many of the company, among whom, when she looked round,
she detected smiles of provoking intelligence. Soon afterwards the
dressing-bell rang and she quitted the room; one after another every one
dropped off, except Helen, who was finishing a letter, and Horace,
who stood on the hearth playing with his seal. When she came to
sealing-time, he approached and besought her to honour him by the
acceptance of this little seal. “If he could obliterate Momus--if he
could leave only Cupid, it would be more appropriate. But it was a
device invented for him by a French friend, and he hoped she would
pardon his folly, and think only of his love!”
This was said so that it might pass either for mere jest or for earnest;
his look expressed very sentimental love, and Helen seized the moment to
explain herself decidedly.
It was a surprise--a great surprise to Mr. Churchill, a severe
disappointment, not only to his vanity but to his heart, for he had one.
It was some comfort, however, that he had not quite committed himself,
and he recovered--even in the moment of disappointment he recovered
himself time enough dexterously to turn the tables upon Helen.
He thanked her for her candour--for her great care of his happiness,
in anticipating a danger which might have been so fatal to him; but he
really was not aware that he had said anything which required so serious
an answer.
Afterwards he amused himself with Lady Katrine at Miss Stanley’s
expense, representing himself as in the most pitiable case of Rejected
Addresses--rejected before he had offered. He had only been guilty of
Folly, and he was brought in guilty of Love.
Poor Helen had to endure not only this persiflage, which was soon made
to reach her ear, but also the reproaches of Lady Cecilia, who said,
“I should have warned you, Helen, not to irritate that man’s relentless
vanity; now you see the consequences.”
“But, after all, what harm can he do me?” thought Helen. “It is very
disagreeable to be laughed at, but still my conscience is satisfied, and
that is a happiness that will last; all the rest will soon be over. I am
sure I did the thing awkwardly, but I am glad it is done.”
Mr. Churchill soon afterwards received an invitation--a command to join
a royal party now at some watering-place; an illustrious person could
not live another day without Horace _le désiré_. He showed the note,
and acted despair at being compelled to go, and then he departed. To the
splendid party he went, and drowned all recollections of whatever love
he had felt in the fresh intoxication of vanity--a diurnal stimulus
which, however degrading, and he did feel it degrading, was now become
necessary to his existence.
His departure from Clarendon Park was openly regretted by Lady Cecilia,
while Lady Katrine secretly mourned over the downfall of her projects,
and Beauclerc attempted not to disguise his satisfaction.
He was all life and love, and would then certainly have declared his
passion, but for an extraordinary change which now appeared in Helen’s
manner towards him. It seemed unaccountable; it could not be absolute
caprice, she did not even treat him as a friend, and she evidently
avoided explanation. He thought, and thought, and came as near the truth
without touching it as possible. He concluded that she had understood
his joy at Churchill’s departure; that she now clearly perceived his
attachment; and was determined against him. Not having the slightest
idea that she considered him as a married man, he could not even
guess the nature of her feelings. And all the time Helen did not
well understand herself; she began to be extremely alarmed at her own
feelings--to dread that there was something not quite right. This
dread, which had come and gone by fits,--this doubt as to her own
sentiments,--was first excited by the death of her dove--Beauclerc’s
gift. The poor dove was found one morning drowned in the marble vase in
which it went to drink. Helen was very sorry--that was surely natural;
but she was wonderfully concerned. Lady Katrine scoffingly said;
and before everybody, before Beauclerc, worse than all, her ladyship
represented to the best of her ability the attitude in which she had
found Helen mourning over her misfortune, the dove in her hand pressed
close to her bosom--“And in tears--absolutely.” She would swear to the
tears.
Helen blushed, tried to laugh, and acknowledged it was very foolish.
Well, that passed off as only foolish, and she did not at first feel
that it was a thing much to be ashamed of in any other way. But she was
sorry that Beauclere was by when Lady Katrine mimicked her; most sorry
that he should think her foolish. But then did he? His looks expressed
tenderness. He was very tender-hearted. Really manly men always are so;
and so she observed to Lady Cecilia. Lady Katrine heard the observation,
and smiled--her odious smile--implying more than words could say. Helen
was not quite clear, however, what it meant to say.
Some days afterwards Lady Katrine took up a book, in which Helen’s name
was written in Beauclerc’s hand. “_Gage d’amitié?_” said her ladyship;
and she walked up and down the room, humming the air of an old French
song; interrupting herself now and then to ask her sister if she could
recollect the words. “The _refrain_, if I remember right, is something
like this--
Sous le nom d’amitié--sous le nom d’amitié,
La moitié du monde trompe l’autre moitié,
Sous le nom, sous le nom, sous le nom d’amitié.
And it ends with
Sous le nom d’amitié, Damon, je vous adore,
Sous le nom, sous le nom d’amitié.
“Miss Stanley, do you know that song?” concluded her malicious ladyship.
No--Miss Stanley had never heard it before; but the marked emphasis with
which Lady Katrine sung and looked, made Helen clear that she meant to
apply the words tauntingly to her and Beauclerc,--but which of them her
ladyship suspected was cheating, or cheated--“_sous le nom d’amitié_,”
she did not know. All was confusion in her mind. After a moment’s cooler
reflection, however, she was certain it could not be Beauclerc who was
to blame--it must be herself, and she now very much wished that every
body, and Lady Katrine in particular, should know that Mr. Beauclerc was
engaged--almost married; if this were but known, it would put an end to
all such imputations.
The first time she could speak to Cecilia on the subject, she begged to
know how soon Mr. Beauclerc’s engagement would be declared. Lady
Cecilia slightly answered she could not tell--and when Helen pressed the
question she asked,--
“Why are you so anxious, Helen?”
Helen honestly told her, and Lady Cecilia only laughed at her for
minding what Lady Katrine said,--“When you know yourself, Helen, how it
is, what can it signify what mistakes others may make?”
But Helen grew more and more uneasy, for she was not clear that she did
know how it was, with herself at least. Her conscience faltered, and she
was not sure whether she was alarmed with or without reason. She began
to compare feelings that she had read of, and feelings that she had seen
in others, and feelings that were new to herself, and in this maze and
mist nothing was distinct--much was magnified--all alarming.
One day Beauclerc was within view of the windows on horseback, on a very
spirited horse, which he managed admirably; but a shot fired suddenly in
an adjoining preserve so startled the horse that it----oh! what it
did Helen did not see, she was so terrified: and why was she so much
terrified? She excused herself by saying it was natural to be frightened
for any human creature. But, on the other hand, Tom Isdall was a human
creature, and she had seen him last week actually thrown from his horse,
and had not felt much concern. But then he was not a friend; and he
fell into a soft ditch: and there was something ridiculous in it which
prevented people from caring about it. With such nice casuistry she went
on pretty well; and besides, she was so innocent--so ignorant, that it
was easy for her to be deceived. She went on, telling herself that she
loved Beauclerc as a brother--as she loved the general. But when she
came to comparisons, she could not but perceive a difference. Her
heart never bounded on the general’s appearance, let him appear ever so
suddenly, as it did one day when Beauclerc returned unexpectedly from
Old Forest. Her whole existence seemed so altered by his approach, his
presence, or his absence. Why was this? Was there any thing wrong in
it? She had nobody whose judgment she could consult--nobody to whom
she could venture to describe her feelings, or lay open her doubts and
scruples. Lady Cecilia would only laugh; and she could not quite trust
either her judgment or her sincerity, though she knew her affection.
Besides, after what Cecilia had said of her being safe; after all she
had told her of Beauclerc’s engagement, how astonished and shocked
Cecilia would be!
Then Helen resolved that she would keep a strict watch over herself, and
repress all emotion, and be severe with her own mind to the utmost: and
it was upon this resolution that she had changed her manner, without
knowing how much, towards Beauclerc; she was certain he meant nothing
but friendship. It was her fault if she felt too much pleasure in his
company; the same things were, as she wisely argued, right or wrong
according to the intention with which they were said, done, looked,
or felt. Rigidly she inflicted on herself the penance of avoiding his
delightful society, and to make sure that she did not try to attract,
she repelled him with all her power--thought she never could make
herself cold, and stiff, and disagreeable enough to satisfy her
conscience.
Then she grew frightened at Beauclerc’s looks of astonishment--feared
he would ask explanation--avoided him more and more. Then, on the
other hand, she feared he might guess and interpret _wrong_, or rather
_right_, this change; and back she changed, tried in vain to keep the
just medium--she had lost the power of measuring--altogether she was
very unhappy, and so was Beauclerc; he found her incomprehensible, and
thought her capricious. His own mind was fluttered with love, so that
he could not see or judge distinctly, else he might have seen the truth;
and sometimes, though free from conceit, he did hope it might be all
love. But why then so determined to discourage him? he had advanced
sufficiently to mark his intentions, she could not doubt his sincerity.
He would see farther before he ventured farther. He thought a man was
a fool who proposed before he had tolerable reason to believe he should
not be refused.
Lord Beltravers and his sisters were now expected at Old Forest
immediately, and Beauclerc went thither early every morning, to press
forward the preparations for the arrival of the family, and he seldom
returned till dinner-time; and every evening Lady Castlefort contrived
to take possession of him. It appeared to be indeed as much against his
will as it could be between a well-bred man and a high-bred belle; but
to do her bidding, seemed if not a moral, at least a polite necessity.
She had been spoiled, she owned, by foreign attentions, not French, for
that is all gone now at Paris, but Italian manners, which she so much
preferred. She did not know how she could live out of Italy, and she
must convince Lord Castlefort that the climate was necessary for her
health. Meanwhile she adopted, she acted, what she conceived to be
foreign manners, and with an exaggeration common with those who have
very little sense and a vast desire to be fashionable with a certain
set. Those who knew her best (all but her sister Katrine, who shook her
head,) were convinced that there was really no harm in Lady Castlefort,
“only vanity and folly.” How frequently folly leads farther than fools
ever, or wise people often foresee, we need not here stop to record. On
the present occasion, all at Clarendon Park, even those most inclined to
scandal, persons who, by the by, may be always known by their invariable
preface of, “I hate all scandal,” agreed that “no one _so far_ could
behave better than Granville Beauclerc--so far,”--“as yet.” But all the
elderly who had any experience of this world, all the young who had any
intuitive prescience in these matters, could not but fear that things
could not long go on as they were now going. It was sadly to be feared
that so young a man, and so very handsome a man, and such an admirer of
beauty, and grace, and music, and of such an enthusiastic temper, must
be in danger of being drawn on farther than he was aware, and before he
knew what he was about.
The general heard and saw all that went on without seeming to take heed,
only once he asked Cecilia how long she thought her cousins would stay.
She did not know, but she said “she saw he wished them to be what they
were not--cousins once removed--and quite agreed with him.” He smiled,
for a man is always well pleased to find his wife agree with him in
disliking her cousins.
One night--one fine moonlight night--Lady Castlefort, standing at
the conservatory door with Beauclerc, after talking an inconceivable
quantity of nonsense about her passion for the moon, and her notions
about the stars, and congenial souls born under the same planet,
proposed to him a moonlight walk.
The general was at the time playing at chess with Helen, and had
the best of the game, but at that moment he made a false move, was
check-mated, rose hastily, threw the men together on the board, and
forgot to regret his shameful defeat, or to compliment Helen upon her
victory. Lady Castlefort, having just discovered that the fatality
nonsense about the stars would not quite do for Beauclerc, had been the
next instant seized with a sudden passion for astronomy; she must see
those charming rings of Saturn, which she had heard so much of, which
the general was showing Miss Stanley the other night; she must beg him
to lend his telescope; she came up with her sweetest smile to trouble
the general for his glass. Lord Castlefort, following, objected
strenuously to her going out at night; she had been complaining of a bad
cold when he wanted her to walk in the daytime, she would only make it
worse by going out in the night air. If she wanted to see Saturn and his
rings, the general, he was sure, would fix a telescope at the window for
her.
But that would not do, she must have a moonlight walk; she threw open
the conservatory door, beckoned to Mr. Beauclerc, and how it ended Helen
did not stay to see. She thought that she ought not even to think on the
subject, and she went away as fast as she could. It was late, and she
went to bed wishing to be up early, to go on with a drawing she was to
finish for Mrs. Collingwood--a view by the river side, that view which
had struck her fancy as so beautiful the day she went first to Old
Forest. Early the next morning--and a delightful morning it was--she was
up and out, and reached the spot from which her sketch was taken. She
was surprised to find her little camp-stool, which she had looked for in
vain in the hall, in its usual place, set here ready for her, and on it
a pencil nicely cut.
Beauclerc must have done this. But he was not in general an early riser.
However, she concluded that he had gone over thus early to Old Forest,
to see his friend Lord Beltravers, who was to have arrived the day
before, with his sisters. She saw a boat rowing down the river, and she
had no doubt he was gone. But just as she had settled to her drawing,
she heard the joyful bark of Beauclerc’s dog Nelson, who came bounding
towards her, and the next moment his master appeared, coming down the
path from the wood. With quick steps he came till he was nearly close to
her, then slackened his pace.
“Good morning!” said Helen; she tried to speak with composure, but her
heart beat--she could not help feeling surprise at seeing him--but it
was only surprise.
“I thought you were gone to Old Forest?” said she.
“Not yet,” said he.
His voice sounded different from usual, and she saw in him some
suppressed agitation. She endeavoured to keep her own manner
unembarrassed--she thanked him for the nicely-cut pencil, and the
exactly well-placed seat. He advanced a step or two nearer, stooped, and
looked close at her drawing, but he did not seem to see or know what he
was looking at.
At this moment Nelson, who had been too long unnoticed, put up one paw
on Miss Stanley’s arm, unseen by his master, and encouraged by such
gentle reproof as Helen gave, his audacious paw was on the top of her
drawing-book the next moment, and the next was upon the drawing--and the
paw was wet with dew.--“Nelson!” exclaimed his master in an angry tone.
“O do not scold him,” cried Helen, “do not punish him; the drawing is
not spoiled--only wet, and it will be as well as ever when it is dry.”
Beauclerc ejaculated something about the temper of an angel while she
patted Nelson’s penitent head.
“As the drawing must be left to dry,” said Beauclerc, “perhaps Miss
Stanley would do me the favour to walk as far as the landing-place,
where the boat is to meet me--to take me--if--if I MUST go to Old
Forest!” and he sighed.
She took his offered arm and walked on--surprised--confused;--wondering
what he meant by that sigh and that look--and that strong emphasis on
_must_. “If I _must_ go to Old Forest.” Was not it a pleasure?--was it
not his own choice?--what could he mean?--What could be the matter?
A vague agitating idea rose in her mind, but she put it from her, and
they walked on for some minutes, both silent. They entered the wood,
and feeling the silence awkward, and afraid that he should perceive her
embarrassment, and that he should suspect her suspicion, she exerted
herself to speak--to say something, no matter what.
“It is a charming morning!”
After a pause of absence of mind, he answered,
“Charming!--very!”
Then stopping short, he fixed his eyes upon Helen with an expression
that she was afraid to understand. It could hardly bear any
interpretation but one--and yet that was impossible--ought to be
impossible--from a man in Beauclerc’s circumstances--engaged--almost a
married man, as she had been told to consider him. She did not know at
this moment what to think--still she thought she must mistake him,
and she should be excessively ashamed of such a mistake, and now more
strongly felt the dread that he should see and misinterpret or interpret
too rightly her emotion; she walked on quicker, and her breath grew
short, and her colour heightened. He saw her agitation--a delightful
hope arose in his mind. It was plain she was not indifferent--he looked
at her, but dared not look long enough--feared that he was mistaken. But
the embarrassment seemed to change its character even as he looked, and
now it was more like displeasure--decidedly, she appeared displeased.
And so she was; for she thought now that he must either be trifling
with her, or, if serious, must be acting most dishonourably;--her good
opinion of him must be destroyed for ever, if, as now it seemed, he
wished to make an impression upon her heart--yet still she tried not to
think, not to see it. She was sorry, she was very wrong to let such an
idea into her mind--and still her agitation increased.
Quick as she turned from him these thoughts passed in her mind,
alternately angry and ashamed, and at last, forcing herself to be
composed, telling herself she ought to see farther and at least to be
certain before she condemned him--condemned so kind, so honourable a
friend, while the fault might be all her own; she now, in a softened
tone, as if begging pardon for the pain she had given, and the injustice
she had done him, said some words, insignificant in themselves, but from
the voice of kindness charming to Beauclerc’s ear and soul.
“Are not we walking very fast?” said she, breathless. He slackened
his pace instantly, and with a delighted look, while she, in a hurried
voice, added, “But do not let me delay you. There is the boat. You must
be in haste--impatient!”
“In haste! impatient! to leave you, Helen!” She blushed deeper than he
had ever seen her blush before. Beauclerc in general knew--
“Which blush was anger’s, which was love’s!”
--But now he was so much moved he could not decide at the first glance:
at the second, there was no doubt; it was anger--not love. Her arm was
withdrawn from his. He was afraid he had gone too far. He had called her
Helen! He begged pardon, half humbly, half proudly. “I beg pardon; Miss
Stanley, I should have said. I see I have offended. I fear I have been
presumptuous, but Lady Davenant taught me to trust to Miss Stanley’s
sincerity, and I was encouraged by her expressions of confidence and
friendship.”
“Friendship! Oh, yes! Mr. Beauclerc,” said Helen, in a hurried voice,
eagerly seizing on and repeating the word friendship; “yes, I have
always considered you as a friend. I am sure I shall always find you a
sincere, good friend.”
“Friend!” he repeated in a disappointed tone--all his hopes sunk. She
took his arm again, and he was displeased even with that. She was not
the being of real sensibility he had fancied--she was not capable
of real love. So vacillated his heart and his imagination, and so
quarrelled he alternately every instant with her and with himself.
He could not understand her, or decide what he should next do or say
himself; and there was the boat nearing the land, and they were going
on, on, towards it in silence. He sighed.
It was a sigh that could not but be heard and noticed; it was not meant
to be noticed, and yet it was. What could she think of it? She could
not believe that Beauclerc meant to act treacherously. This time she was
determined not to take anything for granted, not to be so foolish as she
had been with Mr. Churchill.
“Is not that your boat that I see, rowing close?”
“Yes, I believe--certainly. Yes,” said he.
But now the vacillation of Beauclerc’s mind suddenly ceased. Desperate,
he stopped her, as she would have turned down that path to the
landing-place where the boat was mooring. He stood full across the path.
“Miss Stanley, one word--by one word, one look decide. You must decide
for me whether I stay--or go--for ever!”
“I!--Mr. Beauclerc!--”
The look of astonishment--more than astonishment, almost of
indignation--silenced him completely, and he stood dismayed. She pressed
onwards, and he no longer stopped her path. For an instant he submitted
in despair. “Then I must not think of it. I must go--must I, Miss
Stanley? Will not you listen to me, Helen? Advise me; let me open my
heart to you as a friend.”
She stopped under the shady tree beneath which they were passing,
and, leaning against it, she repeated, “As a friend--but, no, no, Mr.
Beauclerc--no; I am not the friend you should consult--consult the
general, your guardian.”
“I have consulted him, and he approves.”
“You have! That is well, that is well at all events,” cried she; “if he
approves, then all is right.”
There was a ray of satisfaction on her countenance. He looked as if
considering what she exactly meant. He hoped again, and was again
resolved to hazard the decisive words. “If you knew all!” and he pressed
her arm closer to him--“if I might tell you all----?”
Helen withdrew her arm decidedly. “I know all,” said she; “all I ought
to know, Mr. Beauclerc.”
“You know all!” cried he, astonished at her manner.
“You know the circumstances in which I am placed?”
He alluded to the position in which he stood with Lady Castlefort; she
thought he meant with respect to Lady Blanche, and she answered--“Yes: I
know all!” and her eye turned towards the boat.
“I understand you,” said he; “you think I ought to go?”
“Certainly,” said she. It never entered into her mind to doubt the truth
of what Lady Cecilia had told her, and she had at first been so much
embarrassed by the fear of betraying what she felt she ought not to
feel, and she was now so shocked by what she thought his dishonourable
conduct, that she repeated almost in a tone of severity--“Certainly, Mr.
Beauclerc, you ought to go.”
The words, “since you are engaged,”--“you know you are engaged,” she was
on the point of adding, but Lady Cecilia’s injunctions not to tell him
that she had betrayed his secret stopped her.
He looked at her for an instant, and then abruptly, and in great
agitation, said; “May I ask, Miss Stanley, if your affections are
engaged?”
“Is that a question, Mr. Beauclerc, which you have a right to ask me?”
“I have no right--no right, I acknowledge--I am answered.”
He turned away from her, and ran down the bank towards the boat, but
returned instantly, and exclaimed, “If you say to me, go! I am gone for
ever!”
“Go!” Helen firmly pronounced. “You never can be more than a friend to
me! Oh never be less!--go!”
“I am gone,” said he, “you shall never see me more.”
He went, and a few seconds afterwards she heard the splashing of his
oars. He was gone! Oh! how she wished that they had parted sooner--a few
minutes sooner, even before he had so looked--so spoken!
“Oh! that we had parted while I might have still perfectly esteemed him;
but now--!”