Sir Benjamin and Lady Bearcroft departed at six o’clock the next
morning, and all the rest of the political and diplomatic corps _left_
immediately after breakfast.
Lady Davenant looked relieved, the general satisfied, and Lady Cecilia
consoled herself with the hope that, if she had done no good, she had
not done any harm. This was a bad slide, perhaps, in the magic lantern,
but would leave no trace behind. She began now to be very impatient for
Beauclerc’s appearance; always sanguine, and as rapid in her conclusions
as she was precipitate in her actions, she felt no doubt, no anxiety,
as to the future; for, though she refrained from questioning Helen as
to her sentiments for Beauclerc, she was pretty well satisfied on
that subject. Helen was particularly grateful to Lady Cecilia for
this forbearance, being almost ashamed to own, even to herself, how
exceedingly happy she felt; and now that it was no longer wrong in her
to love, or dishonourable in him to wish to be loved, she was surprised
to find how completely the idea of Beauclerc was connected with and
interwoven through all her thoughts, pursuits, and sentiments. He had
certainly been constantly in her company for several months, a whole
summer, but she could scarcely believe that during this time he could
have become so necessary to her happiness. While, with still increasing
agitation, she looked forward to his arrival, she felt as if Lady
Davenant’s presence was a sort of protection, a something to rely on, in
the new circumstances in which she was to be placed. Lord Davenant had
returned to town, but Lady Davenant remained. The Russian embassy seemed
still in abeyance.
One morning as Helen was sitting in Lady Davenant’s room alone with her,
she said suddenly: “At your age, Helen, I had as little taste for what
are called politics as you have, yet you see what I am come to, and by
the same road you may, you will, arrive at the same point.”
“I! oh, I hope not!” cried Helen, almost before she felt the whole
inference that might be drawn from this exclamation.
“You hope not?” repeated her ladyship calmly. “Let us consider this
matter rationally, and put our hopes, and our fears, and our prejudices
out of the question, if possible. Let me observe to you, that the
position of women in society is somewhat different from what it was a
hundred years ago, or as it was sixty, or I will say thirty years
since. Women are now so highly cultivated, and political subjects are
at present of so much importance, of such high interest, to all human
creatures who live together in society, you can hardly expect, Helen,
that you, as a rational being, can go through the world as it now is,
without forming any opinion on points of public importance. You cannot,
I conceive, satisfy yourself with the common namby-pamby little missy
phrase, ‘ladies have nothing to do with politics.’”
Helen blushed, for she was conscious that, wrong or right, namby-pamby,
little missy, or not, she had hitherto satisfied herself very
comfortably with some such thought.
“Depend upon it, Helen,” resumed Lady Davenant, “that when you are
married, your love for a man of superior abilities, and of superior
character, must elevate your mind to sympathy with all his pursuits,
with all the subjects which claim his attention.”
Helen felt that she must become strongly interested in every subject in
which the man she loved was interested; but still she observed that
she had not abilities or information, like Lady Davenant’s, that could
justify her in attempting to follow her example. Besides, Helen was
sure that, even if she had, it would not suit her taste; and besides, in
truth, she did not think it well suited to a woman--she stopped when she
came to that last thought. But what kindness and respect suppressed
was clearly understood by her penetrating friend. Fixing her eyes upon
Helen, she said with a smile, the candour and nobleness of her character
rising above all little irritation of temper.
“I agree with you, my dear Helen, in all you do _not_ say, and were I to
begin life over again, my conduct should in some respects be different.
Of the public dangers and private personal inconveniences that may
result from women becoming politicians, or, as you better express our
meaning interfering, with public affairs, no one can be more aware than
I am. _Interfering_, observe I say, for I would mark and keep the line
between influence and interference. Female influence must, will,
and ought to exist on political subjects as on all others; but this
influence should always be domestic, not public--the customs of society
have so ruled it. Of the thorns in the path of ambitious men all
moralists talk, but there are little, scarcely visible, thorns of a
peculiar sort that beset the path of an ambitious woman, the venomous
prickles of the _domestic bramble_, a plant not perhaps mentioned in
Withering’s Botany, or the Hortus Kewensis, but it is too well known to
many, and to me it has been sorely known.”
At this instant General Clarendon came in with some letters, which
had been forwarded to him express. One, for Lady Davenant, he had been
desired to put into her hands himself: he retired, and Lady Davenant
opened the letter. By the first glance at her countenance, Helen saw
that there was something in it which had surprised and given her great
concern. Helen withdrew her eyes, and waited till she should speak. But
Lady Davenant was quite silent, and Helen, looking at her again, saw
her put her hand to her heart, as if from some sudden sense of violent
bodily pain, and she sank on the sofa, fell back, and became as pale
as death and motionless. Excessively frightened, Helen threw open the
window, rang the bell for Lady Davenant’s own woman, and sent the
page for Lady Cecilia. In a few moments Lady Cecilia and Elliott came.
Neither was as much alarmed as Helen had expected they would be. They
had seen Lady Davenant, under similar attacks--they knew what remedies
to apply. Elliott was a remarkably composed, steady person. She now went
on doing all that was necessary without speaking a word. The paroxysm
lasted longer than usual, as Lady Cecilia observed; and, though she
continued her assurances to Helen that “It was all nervous--only
nerves,” she began evidently to be herself alarmed. At length symptoms
of returning animation appeared, and then Cecilia retired, beckoning to
Helen to follow her into the next room. “We had better leave mamma
to Elliott, she will be happier if she thinks we know nothing of the
matter.” Then, recollecting that Helen had been in the room when this
attack came on, she added--“But no, you must go back, for mamma will
remember that you were present--take as little notice, however, as
possible of what has happened.”
Cecilia said that her mother, when they were abroad, had been subject to
such seizures at intervals, “and in former times, before I was born, I
believe,” said Lady Cecilia, “she had some kind of extraordinary
disease in the heart; but she has a particular aversion to being thought
nervous. Every physician who has ever pronounced her nervous has always
displeased her, and has been dismissed. She was once quite vexed with
me for barely suggesting the idea. There,” cried Cecilia, “I hear her
voice, go to her.”
Helen followed Lady Cecilia’s suggestion, and took as little notice as
possible of what had happened. Elliott disappeared as she entered--the
page was waiting at the door, but to Helen’s satisfaction Lady Davenant
did not admit him. “Not yet; tell him I will ring when I want him,”
said she. The door closed: and Lady Davenant, turning to Helen, said,
“Whether I live or die is a point of some consequence to the friends who
love me; but there is another question, Helen, of far more importance to
me, and, I trust, to them. That question is, whether I continue to live
as I have lived, honoured and respected, or live and die dishonoured and
despised,”--her eye glanced towards the letter she had been reading.
“My poor child,” continued Lady Davenant, looking at Helen’s agitated
countenance,--“My poor child, I will not keep you in suspense.” She then
told Helen that she was suspected of having revealed a secret of state
that had been confided to her husband, and which it was supposed, and
truly supposed, that Lord Davenant had told to her. Beyond its political
importance, the disclosure involved a charge of baseness, in her
having betrayed confidence, having suffered a copy of a letter from an
illustrious personage to be handed about and read by several people.
“Lord Davenant as yet knows nothing of this, the effect upon him is what
I most dread. I cannot show you this,” continued she, opening again the
letter she had just received, “because it concerns others as well
as myself. I am, at all events, under obligations that can never be
forgotten to the person who gave me this timely notice, which could no
otherwise have reached me, and the person to whom I am thus obliged is
one, Helen, whom neither you nor I like, and whom Cecilia particularly
dislikes--Miss Clarendon! Her manner of doing me this service is
characteristic: she begins,
“‘Miss Clarendon is aware that Lady Davenant has no liking for her, but
that shall not prevent Miss Clarendon from doing what she thinks an act
of justice towards a noble character falsely attacked.’”--Lady Davenant
read no more.
“Had not you better wait till you are stronger, my dear Lady Davenant!”
said Helen, seeing her prepare to write.
“It was once said, gloriously well,” replied Lady Davenant, “that the
duties of life are more than life itself--so I think.”
While she wrote, Helen thought of what she had just heard, and she
ventured to interrupt Lady Davenant to ask if she had formed any idea of
the means by which the secret could have been betrayed--or the copy of
the letter obtained.
Yes, she had a suspicion of one person, the diplomatist to whom Mr.
Harley had shown such a mortal antipathy. She recollected that the last
morning the _Congress_ had sat in Lord Davenant’s cabinet, she had left
her writing-desk there, and this letter was in it; she thought that she
had locked the desk when she had left the room, it certainly was fast
when she returned, but it had a spring Bramah lock, and its being shut
down would have fastened it. She had no proof one way or other, her
suspicion rested where was her instinctive dislike. It was remarkable,
however, that she at once did justice to another person whom she did
not like, Mr. Mapletofft, Lord Davenant’s secretary. “His manners do not
please me,” she said, “but I have perfect confidence in his integrity.”
Helen felt and admired this generous candour, but her suspicions were
not of the diplomatist alone: she thought of one who might perhaps have
been employed by him--Carlos the page. And many circumstances, which
she recollected and put together, now strengthened this suspicion. She
wondered it had not occurred to Lady Davenant; she thought it must,
but that she did not choose to mention it. Helen had often heard
Lady Davenant’s particular friends complain that it was extremely
disagreeable to them to have this boy constantly in the room, whatever
might be the conversation. There was the page, either before or behind a
screen, always within hearing.
Lady Davenant said that, as Carlos was a Portuguese, and had never been
in England till she had brought him over, a few months before, he could
not understand English well enough to comprehend what was going on. This
was doubted, especially by Helen, who had watched his countenance, and
had represented her doubts and her reasons for them to Lady Davenant,
but she was not convinced. It was one of the few points on which
she could justly be reproached with adhering to her fancy instead of
listening to reason. The more Carlos was attacked, the more she adhered
to him. In fact, it was not so much because he was a favourite, as
because he was a _protegé_; he was completely dependent upon her
protection: she had brought him to England, had saved him from his
mother, a profligate camp-follower, had freed him from the most
miserable condition possible, and had raised him to easy, happy,
confidential life. To the generous the having conferred an obligation
is in itself a tie hard to sever. All noble-minded people believe in
fidelity, and never doubt of gratitude; they throw their own souls
into those they oblige, and think and feel for them, as they, in
their situation, would think and feel. Lady Davenant considered it an
injustice to doubt the attachment of this boy, and a cruelty she
deemed it to suspect him causelessly of being the most base of human
creatures--he, a young defenceless orphan. Helen had more than once
offended, by attempting to stop Lady Davenant from speaking imprudently
before Carlos; she was afraid, even at this moment, to irritate her by
giving utterance to her doubts; she determined, therefore, to keep them
to herself till she had some positive grounds for her suspicions. She
resolved to watch the boy very carefully. Presently, having finished her
letters, Lady Davenant rang for him. Helen’s eyes were upon Carlos the
moment he entered, and her thoughts did not escape observation.
“You are wrong, Helen,” said Lady Davenant, as she lighted the taper to
seal her letters.
“If I am not right,” said Helen, keeping her eyes upon the boy’s
changing countenance, “I am too suspicious--but observe, am I not right,
at this instant, in thinking that his countenance is _bad?_”
Lady Davenant could not but see that countenance change in an
extraordinary manner, in spite of his efforts to keep it steady.
“You cause that of which you complain,” said she, going on sealing
her letters deliberately. “In courts of public justice, and in private
equity,” the word _equity_ she pronounced with an austere emphasis, “how
often is the change of countenance misinterpreted. The sensibility of
innocence, that cannot bear to be suspected, is often mistaken for the
confusion worse confounded of guilt.”
Helen observed, that, as Lady Davenant spoke, and spoke in his favour,
the boy’s countenance cleared up; that vacillating expression of fear,
and consciousness of having something within him unwhipt of justice,
completely disappeared, and his whole air was now bold and open--towards
Helen, almost an air of defiance.
“What do you think is the cause of this change in his countenance--you
observe it, do you not?” asked Helen.
“Yes, and the cause is as plain as the change. He sees I do not suspect
him, though you do; and seeing, Helen, that he has at least one friend
in the world, who will do him justice, the orphan boy takes courage.”
“I wish I could be as good as you are, my dearest Lady Davenant,” said
Helen; “but I cannot help still feeling, and saying,--I doubt. Now
observe him, while I speak; I will turn my eyes away, that my terrible
looks may not confound him. You say he knows that you do not suspect
him, and that I do. How does he know it?”
“How!” said Lady Davenant. “By the universal language of the eyes.”
“Not only by that universal language, I think,” said Helen; “but I
suspect he understands every word we say.”
Helen, without ever looking up from a bunch of seals which she was
rubbing bright, slowly and very distinctly added,
“I think that he can speak, read, and write English.”
A change in the countenance of Carlos appeared, notwithstanding all his
efforts to hold his features in the same position; instead of placid
composure there was now grim rigidity.
“Give me the great seal with the coat of arms on it,” said Lady
Davenant, dropping the wax on her letter, and watching the boy’s eye as
she spoke, without herself looking towards the seal she had described.
He never stirred, and Helen began to fear she was unjust and suspicious.
But again her doubts, at least of his disposition, occurred: as she was
passing through Lady Davenant’s dressing-room with her, when they were
going down to dinner, the page following them, Helen caught his figure
in a mirror, and saw that he was making a horrible grimace at her behind
her back, his dark countenance expressing extreme hatred and revenge.
Helen touched Lady Davenant’s arm, but, before her eye could be directed
to the glass, Carlos, perceiving that he was observed, pretended to be
suddenly seized with the cramp in his foot, which obliged him to make
these frightful contortions. Helen was shocked by his artfulness, but
it succeeded with Lady Davenant: it was in vain to say more about it
to her, so Helen let it pass. When she mentioned it afterwards to
Lady Cecilia, she said--“I am sorry, for your sake, Helen, that this
happened; depend upon it, that revengeful little Portuguese gnome
will work you mischief some time or other.” Helen did not think of
herself--indeed she could not imagine any means by which he could
possibly work her woe; but the face was so horrible, that it came again
and again before her eyes, and she was more and more determined to watch
Carlos constantly.
This was one of the public days at Clarendon Park, on which there was
a good deal of company; many of the neighbouring gentry were to be at
dinner. When Lady Davenant appeared, no inquiries concerning her health
were made by her daughter or by the general--no allusion to her having
been unwell. She seemed quite recovered, and Helen observed that she
particularly exerted herself, and that her manner was more gracious
than usual to commonplace people--more present to everything that
was passing. She retired however early, and took Helen with her. The
depression of her spirits, or rather the weight upon her mind, appeared
again as soon as they were alone together. She took her writing-desk,
and looked over some letters which she said ought to be burned. She
could not sleep in peace, she said--she ought not to sleep, till this
was done. Several of these, as she looked over them, seemed to give her
pain, and excited her indignation or contempt as she from time to
time exclaimed--“Meanness!--corruption!--ingratitude too!--all favours
forgotten! To see--to feel this--is the common fate of all who have
lived the life I have lived; of this I am not so inconsistent as to
complain. But it is hard that my own character--the integrity of a whole
life--should avail me nothing! And yet,” added she, after a moment’s
pause of reflection, “to how few can my character be really known! Women
cannot, like men, make their characters known by public actions. I have
no right to complain; but if Lord Davenant’s honour is to be--” She
paused; her thoughts seeming too painful for utterance. She completed
the arrangement of the papers, and, as she pressed down the lid of her
writing-box, and heard the closing sound of the lock, she said,--“Now
I may sleep in peace.” She put out the lamp, and went to her bed-room,
carrying with her two or three books which she intended to read after
she should be in bed; for, though she talked of sleeping, it was plain
she thought she should not. Helen prevailed upon her to let her remain
with her, and read to her.
She opened first a volume of Shakspeare, in which was Lady Davenant’s
mark. “Yes,” said she, “read that speech of Wolsey’s; read that whole
scene, the finest picture of ambition ever drawn.” And, after she had
heard the scene, she observed that there is no proof more certain of
the truth of poetic description, than its recurring to us at the time we
strongly feel. “Those who tell us,” continued she, “that it is unnatural
to recollect poetry or eloquence at times of powerful emotion, are much
mistaken; they have not strong feelings or strong imaginations. I can
affirm from my own experience, that it is perfectly natural.” Lady
Davenant rapidly mentioned some instances of this sort which she
recollected, but seeing the anxiety of Helen’s look, she added, “You are
afraid that I am feverish; you wish me to rest; then, go on reading to
me.”
Helen read on, till Lady Davenant declared she would not let her sit
up any longer. “Only, before you go, my dear child, look here at what I
have been looking at while you have been reading.” She made Helen place
herself so as to see exactly in the same direction and light in which
she was looking, and she pointed out to her, in the lining of the bed,
a place where, from the falling of the folds and the crinkles in the
material, a figure with the head, head-dress, and perfect profile of an
old woman with a turned-up chin, appeared. At first Helen could not see
it; but at last she caught it, and was struck with it. “The same sort
of curious effect of chance resemblance and coincidence which painters,
Leonardo da Vinci in particular, have observed in the moss and stains on
old stones,” observed Lady Davenant. “But it struck me to-night, Helen,
perhaps because I am a little feverish--it struck me in a new point of
view--moral, not picturesque. If such be the effects of chance, or of
coincidence, how cautious we should be in deciding from appearances, or
pronouncing from circumstantial evidence upon the guilt of evil design
in any human creature.”
“You mean this to apply to me about Carlos?” said Helen.
“I do. But not only of him and you was I thinking, but of myself and
those who judge of me falsely from coincidences, attributing to me
designs which I never had, and actions of which I am incapable.” She
suddenly raised herself in her bed, and was going to say more, but the
pendule striking at that instant two o’clock, she stopped abruptly,
kissed Helen, and sent her away.
Helen gathered together and carried away with her all the books, that
Lady Davenant might not be tempted to look at them more. As she had
several piled on one arm, and had a taper in her hand, she was somewhat
encumbered, and, though she managed to open the bed-room door, and to
shut it again without letting any of the books fall, and crossed the
little ante-room between the bed-chamber and dressing-room safely, yet,
as she was opening the dressing-room door, and taking too much or too
little care of some part of her pyramid of books, down came the
whole pile with a noise which, in the stillness of the night, sounded
tremendous. She was afraid it would disturb Lady Davenant, and was going
back to tell her what it was, when she was startled by hearing, as
she thought, the moving of a chair or table in the dressing-room: she
stopped short to listen--all was silent; she thought she had mistaken
the direction in which the noise came.
She softly opened the dressing-room door, and looked in--all was
silent--no chair, or stool, or table overturned, every thing was in its
place exactly as they had left it, but there was a strong smell of a
half extinguished lamp: she thought it had been put out when they had
left the room, she now supposed it had not been sufficiently
lowered, she turned the screw, and took care now to see it completely
extinguished; then went back for the books, and as people sometimes
will, when most tired and most late, be most orderly, she would not go
to bed without putting every volume in its place in the book-case. After
reaching to put one book upon the highest shelf, as she was getting down
she laid her hand on the top of Lady Davenant’s writing-box, and, as she
leaned on it, was surprised to hear the click of its lock closing. The
sound was so peculiar she could not be mistaken; besides, she thought
she had felt the lid give way under her pressure. There was no key left
in the lock--she perfectly recollected the very sound of that click when
Lady Davenant shut the lid down before leaving the room this night. She
stood looking at the lock, and considering how this could be, and as
she remained perfectly still, she heard, or thought she heard some
one breathing near her. Holding in her own breath, she listened and
cautiously looked round without stirring from the place where she
stood--one of the window curtains moved, so at least she thought--yes,
certainly there was some living thing behind it. It might be Lady
Davenant’s great dog; but looking again at the bottom of the curtain she
saw a human foot. The page, Carlos! was her instant suspicion, and his
vengeful face came before her, and a vision of a stiletto! or she did
not well know what. She trembled all over; yet she had presence of mind
enough to recollect that she should not seem to take notice. And, while
she moved about the books on the table, she gave another look, and saw
that the foot was not withdrawn. She knew she was safe still, it had not
been perceived that she had seen it; now what was she to do? “Go up to
that curtain and draw it back and face the boy”--but she did not dare;
yet he was only a boy--But it might be a man and not the page. Better
go and call somebody--tell Lady Davenant. She MUST go through the
antechamber, and pass close to that curtain to open the door. All this
was the thought of one moment, and she went on holding up the light to
the book-shelves as if in quest of some book, and kept coasting along to
gain the door; she was afraid when she was to pass the window-curtain,
either of touching it, or of stumbling over that foot. But she got past
without touching or stumbling, opened the door, whisked through--that
was done too quickly, but she could not help it,--she shut, bolted the
door, and ran across the ante-chamber to Lady Davenant’s bed-room. She
entered softly, aware of the danger to her of sudden alarm. But Lady
Davenant was not asleep, was not alarmed, but was _effective_ in a
moment. First she asked:--“Did you lock the door after you?” “Yes,
bolted it,”--“That is well.” Neither of them said. “Who do you think
it is?” But each knew what the other thought. They returned through the
ante-chamber to the dressing-room. But when they opened the door, all
was quiet--no one behind the curtain, no one in the room--they searched
under the sofas, everywhere; there was no closet or hiding-place in
which any one could be concealed. The window fastenings were unstirred.
But the door into the gallery was unlocked, and the simple thing
appeared--that Helen, in her confusion, had thought only of fastening
the door into the ante-chamber, which also opened on the gallery, but
had totally forgotten to lock that from the dressing-room into the
gallery, by which whoever had been in the room had escaped without any
difficulty. Lady Davenant rather inclined to believe that no one had
been there, and that it was all Helen’s imagination. But Helen persisted
that she had seen what she had seen, and heard what she had heard. They
went into the gallery--all silence, no creature visible, and the doors
at the ends of the gallery locked outside.
After a fruitless search they retired, Lady Davenant to her own room,
and Helen to hers, full of shame and regret that she had not had the
courage to open the curtain at the right moment. Nothing could stir her
belief, however, in the evidence of her senses; the boy must have been
there, and must be still concealed somewhere in the gallery, or in some
of the rooms opening into it. Some of these were unoccupied, but they
were all locked up, as Lady Davenant had told her when she had proposed
searching them; one or two they tried and found fastened. She stood
at her own door, after having put down the candle on her table, still
giving a lingering look-out, when, through the darkness in the gallery
at the further end, she saw a ray of light on the floor, which seemed to
come from under the door of a room unoccupied--Mr. Mapletofft’s room;
he had gone to town with Lord Davenant. Helen went on tiptoe very softly
along the gallery, almost to this door, when it suddenly opened, and the
page stood before her, the lamp in his hand shining full on his face and
on hers. Both started--then both were motionless for one second--but he,
recovering instantly, shot back again into the room, flung to the door,
and locked it.
“Seen him!” cried Lady Davenant, when Helen flew to her room and told
her; “seen him! do you say?” and then ringing her bell, she bade Helen
run and knock at the general’s door, while she went herself to Mr.
Mapletofft’s room, commanding Carlos to open the door immediately. But
he would not open it, nor make any answer; the servants came, and the
general ordered one to go round to the windows of the room lest the boy
should escape that way. It was too late, he had escaped; when the door
was forced, one of the windows was found open; Carlos was not in the
room; he must have swung himself down from the height by means of a tree
which was near the window. The lamp was still burning, and papers half
burnt smouldering on the table. There were sufficient remains to tell
what they had been. Lady Davenant saw, in the handwriting of Carlos,
copies of letters taken from her desk. One half unburnt cover of the
packet he had been making up, showed by its direction to whom it was
to have been sent, and there were a few lines in the boy’s own writing
within--side-addressed to his employer, which revealed the whole. His
employer was, as Lady Davenant had suspected--the diplomatist!
A duplicate Bramah key was found under the table, and she recollected
that she had some months ago missed this duplicate key of her desk, and
supposed she had dropped it from her watch-ring while out walking; she
recollected, further, that Carlos had with great zeal assisted her in
the search for it all through the shrubbery walks. The proofs of this
boy’s artifice and long-premeditated treachery, accumulating upon Lady
Davenant, shocked her so much that she could not think of anything else.
“Is it possible? is it in human nature?” she exclaimed. “Such falsehood,
such art, such ingratitude!” As she fixed her eyes upon the writing,
scarcely yet dry, she repeated. “It _is_ his writing--I see it, yet
can scarcely believe it! I, who taught him to write myself--guided that
little hand to make the first letters that he ever formed! And this is
in human nature! I could not have conceived it--it is dreadful to be so
convinced, it lowers one’s confidence in one’s fellow-creatures. That is
the worst of all!” She sighed deeply, and then, turning to Helen, said,
“But let us think no more of it to-night, we can do no more, they are in
pursuit of him; I hope I may never, never, see him more.”