Helen slept no more this night. When alone in the stillness of the long
hours, she went over and over again all that had passed, what Cecilia
had said, what she had at first thought and afterwards felt, all the
persuasions by which she had been wrought upon, and, on the contrary,
all the reasons by which she ought to be decided; backward and forward
her mind vibrated, and its painful vacillation could not be stilled.
“What am I going to do? To tell a falsehood! That cannot be right; but
in the circumstances--yet this is Cecilia’s own way of palliating the
fault that her mother so fears in her--that her mother trusted to me to
guard her against; and now, already, even before Lady Davenant has left
us, I am going to assist Cecilia in deceiving her husband, and on that
very dangerous point--Colonel D’Aubigny.” Lady Davenant’s foreboding
having already been so far accomplished struck Helen fearfully, and her
warning voice in the dead silence of that night sounded, and her look
was upon her, so strongly, that she for an instant hid her head to get
rid of her image. “But what _can_ I do? her own life is at stake! No
less a motive could move me, but this ought--must--shall decide me. Yet,
if Lady Davenant were to know it!--and I, in the last hours I have to
pass with her--the last I ever may have with her, shall I deceive
her? But it is not deceit, only prudence--necessary prudence; what a
physician would order, what even humanity requires. I am satisfied it
is quite right, quite, and I will go to sleep that I may be strong,
and calm, and do it all well in the morning. After all, I have been too
cowardly; frightening myself about nothing; too scrupulous--for what is
it I have promised? only to receive the letters as if they were mine.
Not to _say_ that they are mine; he will not ask me, Cecilia thinks he
will not ask me. But how can she tell? if he should, what _can_ I do? I
must then answer that they are mine. Indeed it is the same thing, for I
should lead him to believe it as much by my receiving them in silence;
it will be telling or acting an absolute falsehood, and can that ever be
right?” Back it came to the same point, and in vain her cheek settled
on the pillow and she thought she could sleep. Then with closed eyes she
considered how the general would look, and speak, or not speak. “What
will he think of me when he sees the picture--the letters? for he must
open the packet. But he will not read them, no, he is too honourable.
I do not know what is in them. There can be nothing, however, but
nonsense, Cecilia says; yet even so, love-letters he must know they are,
and a clandestine correspondence. I heard him once express such contempt
for any clandestine affair. He, who is so nice, so strict, about women’s
conduct, how I shall sink in his esteem! Well, be it so, that concerns
only myself; and it is for his own sake too, to save his happiness; and
Cecilia, my dear Cecilia, oh I can bear it, and it will be a pride to me
to bear it, for I am grateful; my gratitude shall not be only in words;
now, when I am put to the trial, I can do something for my friends. Yes,
and I will, let the consequences be what they may.” Yet Beauclerc! that
thought was at the bottom of her heart; the fear, the almost certainty,
that some way or other--every way in which she could think of it,
it would lead to difficulty with Beauclerc. But this fear was mere
selfishness, she thought, and to counteract it came all her generous,
all her grateful, all her long-cherished, romantic love of sacrifice--a
belief that she was capable of self-devotion for the friends she loved;
and upon the strength of this idea she fixed at last. Quieted, she
soothed herself to repose, and, worn out with reasoning or trying to
reason in vain, she at last, in spite of the morning light dawning upon
her through the unclosed shutters, in a soft sort of enthusiastic vision
fading away, fell asleep.
She slept long; when she awoke it was with that indescribable feeling
that something painful had happened--that something dreadful was to be
this day. She recollected, first, that Lady Davenant was to go. Then
came all that had passed with Cecilia. It was late, she saw that her
maid had been in the room, but had refrained from awakening her; she
rose, and dressed as fast as she could. She was to go to Lady Davenant,
when her bell rang twice. How to appear before one who knew her
countenance so well, without showing that any thing had happened, was
her first difficulty. She looked in her glass to see whether there was
any alteration in her face; none that she could see, but she was no
judge. “How foolish to think so much about it all!” She dressed, and
between times inquired from her maid if she had heard of any change in
Lady Davenant’s intentions of going. Had any counter-orders about the
carriage been given? None; it was ordered to be at the door by twelve
o’clock. “That was well,” Helen said to herself. It would all soon be
over. Lady Davenant would be safe, then she could bear all the rest;
next she hoped, that any perturbation or extraordinary emotion in
herself would not be observed in the hurry of departure, or would be
thought natural at parting with Lady Davenant. “So then, I come at every
turn to some little deceit,” thought she, “and I must, I must!” and she
sighed.
“It is a sad thing for you, ma’am, Lady Davenant’s going away,” said her
maid.
Helen sighed again. “Very sad indeed.” Suddenly a thought darted into
her mind, that the whole danger might be avoided. A hope came that the
general might not open the packet before Lady Davenant’s departure,
in which case Cecilia could not expect that she should abide by her
promise, as it was only conditional. It had been made really on her
mother’s account; Cecilia had said that if once her mother was safe out
of the house, she could then, and she would the very next day tell the
whole to her husband. Helen sprang from under the hands of her maid as
she was putting up her hair behind, and ran to Cecilia’s dressing-room,
but she was not there. It was now her usual time for coming, and Helen
left open the door between them, that she might go to her before Felicie
should be rung for. She waited impatiently, but no Cecilia came. The
time, to her impatience, seemed dreadfully long. But her maid observed,
that as her ladyship had not been well yesterday, it was no wonder she
was later this morning than usual.
“Very true, but there is somebody coming along the gallery now, see if
that is Lady Cecilia.”
“No, ma’am, Mademoiselle Felicie.”
Mademoiselle Felicie said ditto to Helen’s own maid, and, moreover,
supposed her lady might not have slept well. Just then, one little
peremptory knock at the door was heard.
“Bon Dieu! C’est Monsieur le Général!” exclaimed Felicie.
It was so--Felicie went to the door and returned with the general’s
compliments to Miss Stanley, and he begged to see her as soon as it
might suit her convenience in the library, before she went into the
breakfast-room, and after she should have seen Lady Cecilia, who wished
to see her immediately.
Helen found Lady Cecilia in bed, looking as if she had been much
agitated, two spots of carnation colour high up in her cheeks, a
well-known sign in her of great emotion. “Helen!” she cried, starting
up the moment Helen came in, “he has opened the packet, and you see me
alive. But I do believe I should have died, when it came to the point,
but for you--dearest Helen, I should have been, and still but for you I
must be, undone--and my mother--oh! if he had gone to her!”
“What has happened, tell me clearly, my dear Cecilia, and quickly, for I
must go to General Clarendon; he has desired to see me as soon as I can
after seeing you.”
“I know, I know,” said Cecilia, “but he will allow time, and you had
better be some time with me, for he thinks I have all to explain to
you this morning--and so I have, a great deal to say to you; sit
down--quietly--Oh if you knew how I have been agitated, I am hardly able
yet tell anything rightly.” She threw herself back on the pillows, and
drew a long breath, as if to relieve the oppression of mind and body.
“Now I think I can tell it.”
“Then do, my dear Cecilia--all--pray do! and exactly--oh, Cecilia, tell
me all.”
“Every word, every look, to the utmost, as far as I can recollect, as
if you had been present. Give me your hand, Helen, how cool you
are--delightful! but how you tremble!”
“Never mind,” said Helen; “but how burning hot your hand is!”
“No matter. If ever I am well or happy again in this world, Helen, I
shall owe it to you. After I left you I found the general fast asleep, I
do not believe he had ever awoke--I lay awake for hours, till past five
o’clock in the morning, I was wide awake--feverish. But can you conceive
it? just then, when I was most anxious to be awake, when I knew there
was but one hour--not so much, till he would awake and read that packet,
I felt an irresistible sleepiness come over me; I turned and turned, and
tried to keep my eyes open, and pulled and pinched my fingers. But all
would not do, and I fell asleep, dreaming that I was awake, and how long
I slept I cannot tell you, so deep, so dead asleep I must have been; but
the instant I did awake, I started up and drew back the curtain, and
I saw--oh, Helen! there was Clarendon dressed--standing with his arms
folded--a letter open hanging from his hand. His eyes were fixed upon
me, waiting, watching for my first look: he saw me glance at the letter
in his hand, and then at the packet on the table near the bed. For
an instant neither of us spoke: I could not, nor exclaim even; but
surprised, terrified, he must have seen I was. As I leaned forward,
holding by the curtains, he pulled one of them suddenly back, threw open
the shutters, and the full glare was upon my face. I shut my eyes--I
could not help it--and shrank; but, gathering strength from absolute
terror of his silence, I spoke: I asked, ‘For Heaven’s sake! Clarendon,
what is the matter? Why do you look so?’
“Oh, that look of his! still fixed on me--the same as I once saw before
we were married--once, and but once, when he came from my mother to me
about this man. Well! I put my hands before my eyes; he stepped forward,
drew them down, and placed the open letter before me, and then asked
me, in a terrible sort of suppressed voice, ‘Cecilia, whose writing is
this?’
“The writing was before my eyes, but I literally could not see it--it
was all a sort of maze. He saw I could not read it, and calmly bade me
‘Take time--examine--is it a forgery?’
“A forgery!--that had never crossed my mind, and for an instant I was
tempted to say it was; but quickly I saw that would not do: there was
the miniature, and that could not be a forgery. ‘No,’ I answered, ‘I do
not think it is a forgery.’
“‘What then?’ said he, so hastily that I could hardly hear; and before
I could think what to answer, he said, ‘I must see Lady Davenant.’ He
stepped towards the bell; I threw myself upon his arm--‘Good Heavens! do
not, Clarendon, if you are not out of your senses.’ ‘I am not out of my
senses, Cecilia, I am perfectly calm; answer me, one word only--is this
your writing? Oh! my dear Helen, then it was that you saved me.’”
“I!”
“Yes, forgive me, Helen, I answered, ‘There is a handwriting so like,
that you never can tell it from mine. Ask me no more, Clarendon,’ I
said.
“I saw a flash of light, as it were, come across his face--it was
hope--but still it was not certainty. I saw this: oh! how quick one
sees. He pointed to the first words of the letter, held his finger under
them, and his hand trembled--think of his hand trembling! ‘Read,’ he
said, and I read. How I brought myself to pronounce the words, I cannot
imagine. I read what, as I hope for mercy, I had no recollection of ever
having written--‘My dear, too dear Henry.’ ‘Colonel D’Aubigny?’ said
the general. I answered, ‘Yes.’ He looked astonished at my
self-possession--and so was I. For another instant his finger rested,
pressing down there under the words, and his eyes on my face, as if he
would have read into my soul. ‘Ask me no more,’ I repeated, scarcely
able to speak; and something I said, I believe, about honour and not
betraying you. He turned to the signature, and, putting his hand down
upon it, asked, ‘What name is signed to this letter?’ I answered, I have
seen--I know--I believe it is ‘Emma.’
“‘You knew then of this correspondence?’ was his next question. I
confessed I did. He said that was wrong, ‘but quite a different
affair’ from having been engaged in it myself, or some such word. His
countenance cleared; that pale look of the forehead, the fixed purpose
of the eye, changed. Oh! I could see--I understood it all with half
a glance--saw the natural colour coming back, and tenderness for me
returning--yet some doubt lingering still. He stood, and I heard some
half-finished sentences. He said that you must have been very young at
that time; I said, ‘Yes, very young:’--‘And the man was a most artful
man,’ he observed; I said. ‘Yes, very artful.’ That was true, I am sure.
Clarendon then recollected that you showed some emotion one day when
Colonel D’Aubigny was first mentioned--at that time, you know, when we
heard of his death. I said nothing. The general went on: ‘I could hardly
have believed all this of Helen Stanley,’ he said. He questioned no
farther:--and oh! Helen, what do you think I did next? but it was the
only thing left me to put an end to doubts, which, to _me_, must have
been fatal--forgive me, Helen!”
“Tell me what you did,” said Helen.
“Cannot you guess?”
“You told him positively that I wrote the letters?”
“No, not so bad, I never said that downright falsehood--no, I could not;
but I did almost as bad.”
“Pray tell me at once, my dear Cecilia.”
“Then, in the first place, I stretched out my hand for the whole packet
of letters which lay on the table untouched.”
“Well?”
“Well, he put them into my hands and said, ‘There is no direction on
these but to myself, I have not looked at any of them except this, which
in ignorance I first opened; I have not read one word of any of the
others.’”
“Well,” said Helen; “and what did you do?”
“I said I was not going to read any of the letters, that I was only
looking for--now, Helen, you know--I told you there was something hard
in the parcel, something more than papers, I was sure what it must
be--the miniature--the miniature of you, which I painted, you know, that
I might have it when you were gone, and which _he_ stole, and pretended
before my mother to be admiring as your likeness, but he kept it only
because it was my painting. I opened the paper in which it was folded;
Clarendon darted upon it--‘It is Helen!’ and then he said. ‘How like!
how beautiful! how unworthy of that man!’
“But, oh, Helen, think of what an escape I had next. There was my
name--my initials C. D. at the bottom of the picture, as the painter;
and that horrible man, not content with his initials opposite to
mine, had on the back written at full length, ‘For Henry
D’Aubigny.’--Clarendon looked at it, and said between his teeth. ‘He is
dead.’--‘Thank God!’ said I.
“Then he asked me, how I came to paint this picture for that man; I
answered--oh how happy then it was for me that I could tell the whole
truth about that at least!--I answered that I did not do the picture for
Colonel D’Aubigny; that it never was given to him; that he stole it from
my portfolio, and that we both did what we could to get it back again
from him, but could not. And that you even wanted me to tell my mother,
but of that I was afraid; and Clarendon said, ‘You were wrong there, my
dear Cecilia.’
“I was so touched when I heard him call me his dear Cecilia again, and
in his own dear voice, that I burst into tears. That was a great relief
to me, and I kept saying over and over again, that I was wrong--very
wrong indeed! and then he kneeled down beside me, and I so felt his
tenderness, his confiding love for me--for me, unworthy as I am.” The
tears streamed from Lady Cecilia’s eyes as she spoke--“Quite unworthy!”
“No, no, not quite unworthy,” said Helen; “my poor dear Cecilia, what
you must have felt!”
“Once!” continued Cecilia--“once! Helen, as my head was lying on his
shoulder, my face hid, I felt so much love, so much remorse, and knowing
I had done nothing really bad, I was tempted to whisper all in his ear.
I felt I should be so much happier for ever--ever--if I could!”
“Oh that you had! my dear Cecilia, I would give anything upon earth for
your sake, that you had.”
“Helen, I could not--I could not. It was too late, I should have been
undone if I had breathed but a word. When he even suspected the truth!
that look--that voice was so terrible. To see it--hear it again! I could
not--oh, Helen, it would have been utter ruin--madness. I grant you, my
dear Helen, it might have been done at first, before I was married; oh
would to heaven it had! but it is useless thinking of that now. Helen,
my whole earthly happiness is in your hands, this is all I have to say,
may I--may I depend on you?”
“Yes, yes, depend upon me, my dearest Cecilia,” said Helen; “now let me
go.”
Lady Cecilia held her one instant longer, to say that she had asked
Clarendon to leave it to her to return the letters, “to save you
the embarrassment, my dearest Helen; but he answered he must do this
himself, and I did not dare to press the matter; but you need not
be alarmed, he will be all gentleness to you, he said, ‘it is so
different.’ Do not be afraid.”
“Afraid for myself?” said Helen; “oh no--rest, dear Cecilia, and let me
go.”
“Go then, go,” cried Cecilia; “but for you what would become of my
mother!--of me!--you save us all.”
Believing this, Helen hastened to accomplish her purpose; resolved to go
through with it, whatever it might cost; her scruples vanished, and
she felt a sort of triumphant pleasure in the courage of sacrificing
herself.