the assured lady, and she gave her card “Comtesse de St. Cymon.”
Then half-turning to the beauty, who now became visible--“Allow me to
_mention_--Lady Blanche Forrester.”
At that name Helen did not start, but she felt as if she had received an
electric shock. How she went through the necessary forms of civility
she knew not; but even in the agony of passion the little habits of life
hold their sway. The customary motions were made, and words pronounced;
yet when Helen looked at that beautiful Lady Blanche, and saw how
beautiful! there came a spasm at her heart.
The comtesse, in answer to her look towards a chair, did not “choose to
sit down--could not stay--would not intrude on Miss Stanley.” So they
stood, Helen supporting herself as best she could, and preserving,
apparently, perfect composure, seeming to listen to what farther Madame
de St. Cymon was saying; but only the sounds reached her ear, and a
general notion that she spoke of the box in her hand. She gave Helen
some message to Lady Cecilia, explanatory of her waiting or not waiting
upon her ladyship, to all which Helen answered with proper signs of
civility; and while the comtesse was going on, she longed to look again
at Lady Blanche, but dared not. She saw a half curtsey and a receding
motion; and she knew they were going, and she curtsied mechanically. She
felt inexpressible relief when Madame de St. Cymon turned her back and
moved towards the door. Then Helen looked again at Lady Blanche, and saw
again her surpassing beauty and perfect tranquillity. The tranquillity
gave her courage, it passed instantaneously into herself, through her
whole existence. The comtesse stopped in her way out, to look at a china
table. “Ha! beautiful! Sêvre!--enamel--by Jaquetot, is it not?”
Helen was able to go forward, and answer to all the questions asked. Not
one word from the Lady Blanche; but she wished to hear the sound of
her voice. She tried--she spoke to her; but to whatever Helen said,
no answer came, but the sweetest of smiles. The comtesse, with easy
assurance and impertinent ill-breeding, looked at all that lay in her
way, and took up and opened the miniature pictures that were on the
table. “Lady Cecilia Clarendon--charming!--Blanche, you never saw her
yet. Quite charming, is it not?”
Not a word from Lady Blanche, but a smile, a Guido smile. Another
miniature taken up by the curious comtesse. “Ah! very like indeed! not
flattered though. Do you know it, Blanche--eh?”
It was Beauclerc. Lady Blanche then murmured some few words
indistinctly, in a very sweet voice, but showed no indication of
feeling, except, as Helen gave one glance, she thought she saw a slight
colour, like the inside of a shell, delicately beautiful; but it might
be only the reflection from the crimson silk curtain near which she
stood: it was gone, and the picture put down; and in a lively tone from
the comtesse “_Au revoir_,” and exit, a graceful bend from the silent
beauty, and the vision vanished.
Helen stood for some moments fixed to the spot where they left her. She
questioned her inmost thoughts. “Why was I struck so much, so strangely,
with that beauty--so painfully? It cannot be envy; I never was envious
of any one, though so many I have seen so much handsomer than myself.
Jealousy? surely not; for there is no reason for it--no possibility of
danger. Yet now, alas! when he has so much cause to doubt me! perhaps he
might change. He seemed so displeased last night, and he has never been
here all the morning!” She recollected the look and accent of Madame de
St. Cymon, as she said the words “_au revoir_.” Helen did not like the
words, or the look. She did not like anything about Madame de St. Cymon:
“Something so assured, so impertinent! And all that unintelligible
message about those cameos!--a mere excuse for making this unseasonable
pushing visit--just pushing for the acquaintance. The general will never
permit it, though--that is one comfort. But why do I say comfort?” Back
went the circle of her thoughts to the same point.--“What can I do?--the
general will return, he will find I have not obeyed him. But what can be
done till Cecilia returns? If she were but here, I could mark--we could
settle. O Cecilia! where are you? But,” thought she, “I had better look
at the whole. I will, have courage to read these horrible letters.” To
prevent all hazard of further interruption, she now went into an inner
room, bolted the doors, and sat down to her dreaded task. And there we
leave her.
CHAPTER V.
That Fortune is not nice in her morality, that she frequently favours
those who do not adhere to truth more than those who do, we have early
had occasion to observe. But whether Fortune may not be in this, as in
all the rest, treacherous and capricious; whether she may not by her
first smiles and favours lure her victims on to their cost, to their
utter undoing at last, remains to be seen.
It is time to inquire what has become of Lady Cecilia Clarendon. Before
we follow her on her very early morning visit to her cousin’s, we must
take leave to pause one moment to remark, not in the way of moralising
by any means, but simply as a matter of history, that the first little
fib in which Lady Cecilia, as a customary licence of speech, indulged
herself the moment she awoke this morning, though it seemed to answer
its purpose exactly at the time, occasioned her ladyship a good deal of
superfluous toil and trouble during the course of the day. In reply
to the first question her husband had asked, or in evasion of that
question, she had answered, “My dear love, don’t ask me any questions,
for I have such a horrid headache, that I really can hardly speak.”
Now a headache, such as she had at that moment, certainly never silenced
any woman. Slighter could not be--scarce enough to swear by. There
seemed no great temptation to prevarication either, for the general’s
question was not of a formidable nature, not what the lawyers call a
leading question, rather one that led to nothing. It was only, “Had you
a pleasant party at Lady Castlefort’s last night, my dear Cecilia?”
But with that prescience with which some nicely foresee how the truth,
seemingly most innocent, may do harm, her ladyship foreboded that, if
she answered straight forward--“no”--that might lead to--why? how? or
wherefore?--and this might bring out the history of the strange rude
manner in which _la belle fiancée_ had been received. That need not
necessarily have followed, but, even if it had, it would have done
her no harm,--rather would have served at once her purpose in the best
manner possible, as time will show. Her husband, unsuspicious man, asked
no more questions, and only gave her the very advice she wished him to
give, that she should not get up to breakfast--that she should rest as
long as she could. Farther, as if to forward her schemes, even without
knowing them, he left the house early, and her headache conveniently
going off, she was dressed with all despatch--carriage at the door
as soon as husband out of sight, and away she went, as we have seen,
without Helen’s hearing, seeing, or suspecting her so well contrived and
executed project.
She was now in good spirits. The infection of fear which she had caught,
perhaps from the too sensitive Helen, last night, she had thrown off
this morning. It was a sunny day, and the bright sunshine dispelled,
as ever with her, any black notions of the night, all melancholy ideas
whatsoever. She had all the constitutional hopefulness of good animal
spirits. But though no fears remained, curiosity was as strong as ever.
She was exceedingly eager to know what had been the cause of all these
strange appearances. She guessed it must be some pitiful jealousy of
Lady Katrine’s--some poor spite against Helen. Anything that should
really give Beauclerc uneasiness, she now sincerely believed to be out
of the question. Nonsense--only Helen and Beauclerc’s love of tormenting
themselves--quite nonsense! And nonsense! three times ejaculated, quite
settled the matter, and assured her in the belief that there could be
nothing serious to be apprehended. In five minutes she should be at the
bottom of all things, and in half an hour return triumphant to Helen,
and make her laugh at her cowardly self. The carriage rolled on, Lady
Cecilia’s spirits rising as she moved rapidly onwards, so that by the
time she arrived at Lady Castlefort’s she was not only in good but in
high spirits. To her askings, “Not at home” never echoed. Even at hours
undue, such as the present, she, privileged, penetrated. Accordingly,
unquestioned, unquestioning, the alert step was let down, opened wide
was the hall-door, and lightly tripped she up the steps; but the
first look into the hall told her that company was in the house
already--yes--a breakfast--all were in the breakfast-room, except Lady
Castlefort, not yet come down--above, the footman believed, in her
boudoir. To the boudoir Cecilia went, but Lady Castlefort was not
there, and Cecilia was surprised to hear the sound of music in the
drawing-room, Lady Castlefort’s voice singing. While she waited in the
next room for the song to be finished, Cecilia turned over the books
on the table, richly gilt and beautifully bound, except one in a brown
paper parcel, which seemed unsuited to the table, yet excited more
attention than all the others, because it was directed _“Private--for
Lady Katherine Hawksby--to be returned before two o’clock.”_ What could
it be? thought Lady Cecilia. But her attention was now attracted by
the song which Lady Castlefort seemed to be practising; the words
were distinctly pronounced, uncommonly distinctly, so as to be plainly
heard--
“Had we never loved so kindly,
Hail we never loved so blindly,
Never met, or never parted.
We had ne’er been broken-hearted.”
As Cecilia listened, she cast her eyes upon a card which lay on the
table--“Lord Beltravers,” and a new light flashed upon her, a light
favourable to her present purpose; for since the object was altered with
Lady Castlefort, since it was not Beauclerc any longer, there would
be no further ill-will towards Helen. Lady Castlefort was not of the
violent vindictive sort, with her there was no long-lasting _dépit
amoureux_. She was not that fury, a woman scorned, but that blessed
spirit, a woman believing herself always admired. “Soft, silly,
sooth--not one of the hard, wicked, is Louisa,” thought Cecilia. And as
Lady Castlefort, slowly opening the door, entered, timid, as if she
knew some particular person was in the room, Cecilia could not help
suspecting that Louisa had intended her song for other ears than those
of her dear cousin, and that the superb negligence of her dress was
not unstudied; but that well-prepared, well-according sentimental air,
changed instantly on seeing--not the person expected, and with a start,
she exclaimed, “Cecilia Clarendon!”
“Louisa Castlefort!” cried Lady Cecilia, answering that involuntary
start of confusion with a well-acted start of admiration. “Louisa
Castlefort, _si belle, si belle_, so beautifully dressed!”
“Beautifully dressed--nothing extraordinary!” said Lady Castlefort,
advancing with a half embarrassed, half _nonchalant_ air,--“One must
make something of a _toilette de matin_, you know, when one has people
to breakfast.”
“So elegant, so negligent!” continued Lady Cecilia.
“There is the point,” said Lady Castlefort. “I cannot bear any thing
that is studied in costume, for dress is really a matter of so little
consequence! I never bestow a thought upon it. Angelique rules my
toilette as she pleases.”
“Angelique has the taste of an angel fresh from Paris,” cried Lady
Cecilia.
“And now tell me, Cecilia,” pursued Lady Castlefort, quite in good
humour, “tell me, my dear, to what do I owe this pleasure? what makes
you so _matinale?_ It must be something very extraordinary.”
“Not at all, only a little matter of curiosity.”
Then, from Lady Castlefort, who had hitherto, as if in absence of mind,
stood, there was a slight “Won’t you sit?” motion.
“No, no, I can’t sit, can’t stay,” said Lady Cecilia.
A look quickly visible, and quickly suppressed, showed Lady Castlefort’s
sense of relief; then came immediately greater pressing to sit down,
“Pray do not be in such a hurry.
“But I am keeping you; have you breakfasted?”
“Taken coffee in my own room,” said Lady Castlefort “But you have people
to breakfast; must not you go down?”
“No, no, I shall not go down for this is Katrine’s affair, as I will
explain to you.”
Lady Cecilia was quite content, without any explanation; and sitting
down, she drew her chair close to Lady Castlefort, and said, “Now, my
dear, my little matter of curiosity.”
“Stay, my dear, first I must tell you about Katrine--now
confidentially--very.”
Lady Cecilia ought to have been aware that when once her dear cousin
Louisa’s little heart opened, and she became confidential, very, it was
always of her own domestic grievances she began to talk, and that, once
the sluice opened, out poured from the deep reservoir the long-collected
minute drops of months and years.
“You have no idea what a life I lead with Katrine--now she is grown
blue.”
“Is she?” said Lady Cecilia, quite indifferent.
“Deep blue! shocking: and this is a blue breakfast, and all the people
at it are true bores, and a blue bore is, as Horace Churchill says, one
of the most mischievous creatures breathing; and he tells me the only
way of hindering them from doing mischief is by _ringing_ them; but
first you must get rings. Now, in this case, for Katrine not a ring to
be had for love or money. So there is no hope for me.”
“No hope for me,” thought Lady Cecilia, throwing herself back in her
chair, submissive, but not resigned.
“If it had but pleased Heaven,” continued Lady Castlefort, “in its
mercy, to have sent Katrine a husband of any kind, what a blessing it
would have been! If she could but have been married to any body--now any
body--”
“Any body is infinitely obliged to you,” said Cecilia, “but since that
is out of the question, let us say no more about it--no use.”
“No use! that is the very thing of which I complain; the very thing
which must ever--ever make me miserable.”
“Well, well, my dear,” cried Lady Cecilia, no longer capable of
patience; “do not be miserable any more just now; never mind Katrine
just now.”
“Never mind her! Easy for you to say, Cecilia, who do not live with
Katrine Hawksby, and do not know what it is to have such a plague of a
sister, watching one,--watching every turn, every look one gives--worse
than a jealous husband. Can I say more?”
“No,” cried Cecilia; “therefore say no more about it. I understand it
all perfectly, and I pity you from the bottom of my heart, so now, my
dear Louisa----”
“I tell you, my dear Cecilia,” pursued Lady Castlefort, continuing her
own thoughts, “I tell you, Katrine is envious of me. Envy has been
her fault from a child. Envy of poor me! Envy, in the first place, of
whatever good looks it pleased Providence to give me.” A glance at the
glass.--“And now Katrine envies me for being Lady Castlefort, Heaven
knows! now, Cecilia, and you know, she need not envy me so when she
looks at Lord Castlefort; that is, what she sometimes says herself,
which you know is very wrong of her to say to me--unnecessary too, when
she knows I had no more hand in my marriage----”
“Than heart!” Cecilia could not forbear saying.
“Than heart!” readily responded Lady Castlefort; “never was a truer word
said. Never was there a more complete sacrifice than my mother made of
me; you know, Cecilia, a poor, young, innocent, helpless sacrifice, if
ever there was one upon earth.”
“To a coronet,” said Lady Cecilia.
“Absolutely dragged to the altar,” continued Lady Castlefort.
“In Mechlin lace, that was some comfort,” said Cecilia laughing, and she
laughed on in hope of cutting short this sad chapter of sacrifices. But
Lady Castlefort did not understand raillery upon this too tender point.
“I don’t know what you mean by Mechlin lace,” cried she pettishly. “Is
this your friendship for me, Cecilia?”
Cecilia, justly in fear of losing the reward of all her large lay-out
of flattery, fell to protesting the tenderest sympathy. “But only now it
was all over, why make her heart bleed about what could not be helped?”
“Cannot be helped! Oh! there is the very thing I must ever, ever mourn.”
The embroidered cambric handkerchief was taken out of the bag; no tears,
indeed, came, but there were sobs, and Cecilia not knowing how far it
might go, apprehending that her ladyship meditated hysterics, seized a
smelling-bottle, threw out the stopper, and presented it close under
the nostrils. The good “_Sels poignans d’Angleterre,_” of which
Felicie always acknowledged the unrivalled potency, did their business
effectually. Back went the head, with an exclamation of “That’s enough!
Oh, oh! too much! too much, Cecilia!”
“Are you better, my dear?” inquired Cecilia; “but indeed you must not
give way to low spirits; indeed, you must not: so now to change the
conversation, Louisa----”
“Not so fast, Lady Cecilia; not yet;” and now Louisa went on with a
medical maundering. “As to low spirits, my dear Cecilia, I must say I
agree with Sir Sib Pennyfeather, who tells me it is not mere common
low spirits, but really all mind, too much mind; mind preying upon
my nerves. Oh! I knew it myself. At first he thought it was rather
constitutional; poor dear Sir Sib! he is very clever, Sir Sib; and I
convinced him he was wrong; and so we agreed that it was all upon my
mind--all; all----”
At that instant a green parrot, who had been half asleep in the corner,
awoke on Lady Castlefort’s pronouncing, in an elevated tone, “All, all!”
and conceiving himself in some way called upon, answered, “Poll! Poll!
bit o’sugar Poll!” No small difficulty had Lady Cecilia at that moment
in keeping her risible muscles in order; but she did, for Helen’s sake,
and she was rewarded, for after Lady Castlefort had, all unconscious of
ridicule, fed Poll from her amber bonbonniere, and sighed out once more
“Mind! too much mind!” she turned to Cecilia, and said, “But, my dear,
you wanted something; you had something to ask me.”
At once, and as fast as she could speak, Lady Cecilia poured out her
business about Helen Stanley. She told of the ill-bred manner in which
Helen had been received last night; inquired why the words _promessi
sposi_ and _belle fiancée_ were so oddly repeated, as if they had been
watchwords, and asked what was meant by all those strange whisperings in
the sanctum sanctorum.
“Katrine’s set,” observed Lady Castlefort coolly. “Just like them; just
like her!”
“I should not care about it in the least,” said Lady Cecilia, “if it
were only Katrine’s ill-nature, or their ill-breeding. Ill-breeding
always recoils on the ill-bred, and does nobody else any harm. But
I should be glad to be quite clear that there is nothing more at the
bottom.”
Lady Castlefort made no reply, but took up a bunch of seals, and looked
at each of them one after another. Lady Cecilia more afraid now than she
had yet been that there was something at the bottom, still bravely went
on, “What is it? If you know, tell me at once.”
“Nay, ask Katrine,” said Lady Castlefort.
“No, I ask you, I would rather ask you, for you are good-natured,
Louisa--so tell me.”
“But I dare say it is only slander,” said the good-natured Louisa.
“Slander!” repeated Lady Cecilia, “slander did you say?”
“Yes; what is there to surprise you so much in that word? did you never
hear of such a thing? I am sure I hear too much of it; Katrine lives
and breathes and fattens upon it; as Churchill says, she eats slander,
drinks slander, sleeps upon slander.”
“But tell me, what of Helen? that is all I want to hear,” cried Lady
Cecilia: “Slander! of Helen Stanley! what is it that Katrine says about
poor Helen? what spite, what vengeance, can she have against her, tell
me, tell me.”
“If you would ask one question at a time, I might be able to answer
you,” said Lady Castlefort. “Do not hurry me so; you fidget my nerves.
First as to the spite, you know yourself that Katrine, from the
beginning, never could endure Helen Stanley; for my part, I always
rather liked her than otherwise, and shall defend her to the last.”
“Defend her!”
“But Katrine was always jealous of her, and lately worse than ever, for
getting into her place, as she says, with you; that made her hate her
all the more.”
“Let her hate on, that will never make me love Helen the less.”
“So I told her; and besides, Miss Stanley is going to be married.”
“To be sure;--well?”
“And Katrine naturally hates every body that is going to be married. If
you were to see the state she is in always reading the announcements
of Marriages in High Life! Churchill, I do believe, had Miss Stanley’s
intended match put into every paper continually, on purpose for the
pleasure of plaguing Katrine; and if you could have seen her long face,
when she saw it announced in the Court Gazette--good authority, you
know--really it was pitiable.”
“I don’t care, I don’t care about that--Oh pray go on to the facts about
Helen.”
“Well, but the fact is as I tell you; you wanted to know what sufficient
cause for vengeance, and am not I telling you? If you would not get
into such a state of excitement!--as Sir Sib says excitements should be
avoided. La! my dear,” continued Lady Castlefort, looking up at her with
unfeigned astonishment, “what agitation! why, if it were a matter that
concerned yourself----”
“It concerns my friend, and that is the same thing.”
“So one says; but--you look really, such a colour.”
“No matter what colour I look,” cried Cecilia; “go on.”
“Do you never read the papers?” said Lady Castlefort.
“Sometimes,” said Lady Cecilia; “but I have not looked at a paper these
three days; was there any thing particular? tell me.”
“My dear! tell you! as if I could remember by heart all the scandalous
paragraphs I read.” She looked round the room, and not seeing the
papers, said, “I do not know what has become of those papers; but you
can find them when you go home.”
She mentioned the names of two papers, noted for being personal,
scandalous, and scurrilous.
“Are those the papers you mean?” cried Lady Cecilia; “the general never
lets them into the house.”
“That is a pity--that’s hard upon you, for then you never are, as you
see, _au courant du jour_, and all your friends might be abused to death
without your knowing it, if some kind person did not tell you.”
“Do tell me, then, the substance; I don’t want the words.”
“But the words are all. Somehow it is nothing without the words.”
In her now excited state of communicativeness, Lady Castlefort rose and
looked all about the room for the papers, saying, “They were here, they
were there, all yesterday; Katrine had them showing them to Lady Masham
in the morning, and to all her blue set afterwards--Lord knows what she
has done with them. So tiresome looking for things! how I hate it.”
She rang the bell and inquired from the footman if he knew what
had become of the papers. Of course he did not know, could not
imagine--servants never know, nor can imagine what have become of
newspapers--but he would inquire. While he went to inquire, Lady
Castlefort sank down again into her _bergère_, and again fell into
admiration of Cecilia’s state of impatience.
“How curious you are! Now I am never really curious about any thing
that does not come home to myself; I have so little interest about other
people.”
This was said in all the simplicity of selfishness, not from candour,
but from mere absence of shame, and utter ignorance of what others
think--what others feel, which always characterises, and often betrays
the selfish, even where the head is best capable of supplying the
deficiencies of the heart. But Louisa Castlefort had no head to hide her
want of heart; while Cecilia, who had both head and heart, looked down
upon her cousin with surprise, pity, and contempt, quick succeeding each
other, in a sort of parenthesis of feeling, as she moved her eyes for
a moment from the door on which they had been fixed, and to which
they recurred, while she stood waiting for the appearance of those
newspapers. The footman entered with them. “In Mr. Landrum’s room they
were, my lady.”
Lady Cecilia did not hear a word that was said, nor did she see that the
servant laid a note on the table. It was well that Louisa had that note
to read, and to answer, while Cecilia looked at the paragraphs in these
papers; else her start must have been seen, her exclamation must have
been heard: it must have been marked, that the whole character of her
emotion changed from generous sympathy with her friend, to agony of fear
for herself. The instant she cast her eyes on that much-read paper, she
saw the name of Colonel D’Aubigny; all the rest swam before her eyes.
Lady Castlefort, without looking up from her writing, asked--What day
of the month? Cecilia could not answer, but recalled to herself by the
sound of the voice, she now tried to read--she scarcely read the words,
but some way took the sense into her mind at a glance.
CHAPTER VI.
The first of these paragraphs caught the eye by its title in capital
letters.
“LA BELLE FIANCÉE.
“Though quite unknown in the London world, this young lady cannot fail
to excite some curiosity among our fashionables as the successful rival
of one whom the greatest painter of the age has pronounced to be _the
fairest of the fair_--the Lady B. F. This new _Helen_ is, we understand,
of a respectable family, niece to a late dean, distinguished for piety
much and virtù more. It was reported that the niece was a great heiress,
but after the proposal had been made, it was discovered that Virtù had
made away with every shilling of her fortune. This made no difference in
the eyes of her inamorato, who is as rich as he is generous, and who
saw with the eyes of a youth ‘Of Age to-morrow.’ His guardian, a wary
general, demurred--but _nursery tactics_ prevailed. The young lady,
though she had never been out, bore the victory from him of many
campaigns. The day for the marriage was fixed as announced by us--But
we are concerned to state that a _postponement_ of this marriage for
_mysterious reasons_ has taken place. Delicacy forbids us to say more at
present.”
Delicacy, however, did not prevent their saying in the next paper in a
paragraph headed, “MYSTERY SOLVED,” “We understand that in the course
of a few days will appear the ‘Memoirs of the late Colonel D----y; or,
_Reminiscences of a Rouè_, well known in the Fashionable World.’ This
little volume bids fair to engross the attention of the higher circles,
as it contains, besides innumerable curious, personal, and secret
anecdotes, the original love letters of a certain _belle fiancée_, now
residing with a noble family in Grosvenor Square.”
Lady Cecilia saw at once the whole dreadful danger--her own letters to
Colonel D’Aubigny they must he! How could they have got them? They would
be seen by her husband--published to the whole world--if the general
found out they were hers, he would cast her off for ever. If they were
believed to be Helen’s--Helen was undone, sacrificed to her folly, her
cowardice. “Oh! if I had but told Clarendon, he would have stopped this
dreadful, dreadful publication.” And what falsehoods it might
contain, she did not even dare to think. All was remorse, terror,
confusion--fixed to the spot like one stupified, she stood. Lady
Castlefort did not see it--she had been completely engrossed with what
she had been writing, she was now looking for her most sentimental seal,
and not till she had pressed that seal down and examined the impression,
did she look up or notice Cecilia--Then struck indeed with a sense of
something unusual--“My dear,” said she, “you have no idea how odd you
look--so strange, Cecilia--quite _èbahie!_” Giving two pulls to the bell
as she spoke, and her eyes on the door, impatient for the servant, she
added--“After all, Cecilia, Helen Stanley is no relation even--only a
friend. Take this note--” to the footman who answered the bell; and the
moment he left the room, continuing, in the same tone, to Lady Cecilia,
she said--“You will have to give her up at last--that’s all; so you had
better make your mind up to it.”
When Lady Cecilia tried to speak, she felt her tongue cleave to the roof
of her mouth; and when she did articulate, it was in a sort of
hoarse sound. “Is the book published?” She held the paper before Lady
Castlefort’s eyes, and pointed to the name she could not utter.
“D’Aubigny’s book--is it published, do you mean?” said Lady Castlefort.
“Absolutely published, I cannot say, but it is all in print, I know. I
do not understand about publishing. There’s something about presentation
copies: I know Katrine was wild to have one before any body else, so she
is to have the first copy, I know, and, I believe, is to have it this
very morning for the people at this breakfast: it is to be the _bonne
bouche_ of the business.”
“What has Katrine to do with it?--Oh, tell me, quick!”
“Dear me, Cecilia, what a fuss you are in!--you make me quite nervous to
look at you. You had better go down to the breakfast-room, and you will
hear all about it from the fountain-head.”
“Has Katrine the book or not?” cried Lady Cecilia.
“Bless me! I will inquire, my dear, if you will not look so dreadful.”
She rang and coolly asked--“Did that man, that bookseller, Stone, send
any parcel or book this morning, do you know, for Lady Katrine?”
“Yes, my lady; Landrum had a parcel for Lady Katrine--it is on the
table, I believe.”
“Very well.” The man left the room. Lady Cecilia darted on the brown
paper parcel she had seen directed to Lady Katrine, and seized it before
the amazed Louisa could prevent her. “Stop, stop!” cried she, springing
forward, “stop, Cecilia; Katrine will never forgive me!”
But Lady Cecilia seizing a penknife, cut the first knot. “Oh, Cecilia,
I am undone if Katrine comes in! Make haste, make haste! I can only
let you have a peep or two. We must do it up again as well as ever,”
continued Lady Castlefort, while Lady Cecilia, fast as possible, went
on cut, cut, cutting the packthread to bits, and she tore off the brown
paper cover, then one of silver paper, that protected the silk binding.
Lady Castlefort took up the outer cover and read, “To be returned before
two o’clock.”--“What can that mean? Then it is only lent; not her own.
Katrine will not understand this--will be outrageously disappointed.
I’m sure I don’t care. But here is a note from Stone, however, which
may explain it.” She opened and read--“Stone’s respects--existing
circumstances make it necessary her ladyship’s copy should be returned.
Will be called for at two o’clock.”
“Cecilia, Cecilia, make haste! But Katrine does not know yet--Still she
may come up.” Lady Castlefort rang and inquired,--
“Have they done breakfast?”
“Breakfast is over, my lady,” said the servant who answered the bell,
“but Landrum thinks the gentlemen and ladies will not be up immediately,
on account of one of the ladies being _performing_ a poem.”
“Very well, very good,” added her ladyship, as the man left the room.
“Then, Cecilia, you will have time enough, for when once they begin
performing, as Sylvester calls it, there is no end of it.”
“Oh Heavens!” cried Cecilia, as she turned over the pages, “Oh Heavens!
what is here? Such absolute falsehood! Shocking, shocking!” she
exclaimed, as she looked on, terrified at what she saw: “Absolutely
false--a forgery.”
“Whereabouts are you?” said Lady Castlefort, approaching to read along
with her.
“Oh, do not read it,” cried Cecilia, and she hastily closed the book.
“What signifies shutting the book, my dear,” said Louisa, “as if you
could shut people’s eyes? I know what it is; I have read it.”
“Read it!”
“Read it! I really can read, though it seems to astonish you.”
“But it is not published?”
“One can read in manuscript.”
“And did you see the manuscript?”
“I had a glimpse. Yes--I know more than Katrine thinks I know.”
“O tell me, Louisa; tell me all,” cried Cecilia.
“I will, but you must never tell that I told it to you.”
“Speak, speak,” cried Cecilia.
“It is a long story,” said Lady Castlefort.
“Make it short then. O tell me quick, Louisa.’”
“There is a literary _dessous des cartes_,” said Lady Castlefort, a
little vain of knowing a literary _dessous des cartes_; “Churchill
being at the head of every thing of that sort, you know, the bookseller
brought him the manuscript which Sir Thomas D’Aubigny had offered him,
and wanted to know whether it would do or not. Mr. Churchill’s answer
was, that it would never do without more pepper and salt, meaning
gossip and scandal, and all that. But you are reading on, Cecilia, not
listening to me.”
“I am listening, indeed.”
“Then never tell how I came to know every thing. Katrine’s maid has a
lover, who is, as she phrases it, one of the gentlemen connected with
the press. Now, my Angelique, who cannot endure Katrine’s maid, tells me
that this man is only a _wonder-maker_, a half-crown paragraph writer.
So, through Angelique, and indeed from another person--” she stopped;
and then went on--“through Angelique it all came up to me.”
“All what?” cried Cecilia; “go on, go on to the facts.”
“I will, if you will not hurry me so. The letters were not in Miss
Stanley’s handwriting.”
“No! I am sure of that,” said Cecilia.
“Copies were all that they pretended to be; so they may be forgeries
after all, you see.”
“But how did Katrine or Mr. Churchill come by the copies?”
“I have a notion, but of this I am not quite sure--I have a notion, from
something I was told by--in short I suspect that Carlos, Lady Davenant’s
page, somehow got at them, and gave them, or had them given to the man
who was to publish the book. Lady Katrine and Churchill laid their heads
together; here, in this very _sanctum sanctorum_. They thought I knew
nothing, but I knew every thing. I do not believe Horace had anything to
do with it, except saying that the love-letters would be just the thing
for the public if they were bad enough. I remember, too, that it was
he who added the second title, ‘Reminiscences of a Rouè,’ and said
something about alliteration’s artful aid. And now,” concluded Lady
Castlefort, “it is coming to the grand catastrophe, as Katrine calls it.
She has already told the story, and to-day she was to give all her set
what she calls ocular demonstration. Cecilia, now, quick, finish;
they will be here this instant. Give me the book; let me do it up this
minute.”
“No, no; let me put it up,” cried Lady Cecilia, keeping possession of
the book and the brown paper. “I am a famous hand at doing up a parcel,
as famous as any Bond Street shopman: your hands are not made for such
work.”
Any body but Lady Castlefort would have discerned that Lady Cecilia had
some further design, and she was herself afraid it would be perceived;
but taking courage from seeing what a fool she had to deal with, Lady
Cecilia went on more boldly: “Louisa, I must have more packthread; this
is all cut to bits.”
“I will ring and ask for some.”
“No, no; do not ring for the footman; he might observe that we had
opened the parcel. Cannot you get a string without ringing? Look in that
basket.”
“None there, I know,” said Lady Castlefort without stirring.
“In your own room then; Angelique has some.”
“How do you know?”
“I know! never mind how. Go, and she will give you packthread. I must
have it before Katrine comes up. So go, Louisa, go.”
“Go,” in the imperative mood, operated, and she went; she did not know
why.
That instant Lady Cecilia drew the book out of the half-folded paper,
and quick, quick, tore out page after page--every page of those letters
that concerned herself or Helen, and into the fire thrust them, and as
they blazed held them down bravely--had the boldness to wait till all
was black: all the while she trembled, but stood it, and they were
burnt, and the book in its brown paper cover was left on the table, and
she down stairs, before Lady Castlefort’s dressing-room door opened, and
she crossed the hall without meeting a soul except the man in waiting
there. The breakfast-room was at the back of the house looking into the
gardens, and her carriage at the front-door had never been seen by Lady
Katrine, or any of her blue set. She cleared out of the house into her
carriage--and off--“To the Park,” said she.--She was off but just in
time. The whole tribe came out of the breakfast room before she had
turned the corner of the street. She threw herself back in the carriage
and took breath, congratulating herself upon this hairbreadth ‘scape.
For this hour, this minute, she had escaped!--she was reprieved!
And now what was next to be done? This was but a momentary reprieve.
Another copy would be had--no, not till to-morrow though. The sound
of the words that had been read from the bookseller’s note by Lady
Castlefort, though scarcely noticed at the time, recurred to her
now; and there was hope something might to-day be done to prevent the
publication. It might still be kept for ever from her husband’s and from
Beauclerc’s knowledge. One stratagem had succeeded--others might.
She took a drive round the Park to compose the excessive flurry of her
spirits. Letting down all the glasses, she had the fresh air blowing
upon her, and ere she was half round, she was able to think of what yet
remained to do. Money! Oh! any money she could command she would give
to prevent this publication. She was not known to the bookseller--no
matter. Money is money from whatever hand. She would trust the matter
to no one but herself, and she would go immediately--not a moment to be
lost.--“To Stone’s, the bookseller’s.”
Arrived. “Do not give my name; only say, a lady wants to speak to Mr.
Stone.”
The people at Mr. Stone’s did not know the livery or the carriage, but
such a carriage and such a lady commanded the deference of the shopman.
“Please to walk in, madam,” and by the time she had walked in, the man
changed madam into your ladyship--“Mr. Stone will be with your ladyship
in a moment--only in the warehouse. If your ladyship will please to walk
up into the back drawing-room--there’s a fire.” The maid followed to
blow it; and while the bellows wheezed and the fire did not burn, Lady
Cecilia looked out of the window in eager expectation of seeing Mr.
Stone returning from the warehouse with all due celerity. No Mr. Stone,
however, appeared; but there was a good fire in the middle of the
court-yard, as she observed to the maid who was plying the wheezing
bellows; and who answered that they had had a great fire there this hour
past “burning of papers.” And at that moment a man came out with his
arms full of a huge pile--sheets of a book, Lady Cecilia saw--it was
thrown on the fire. Then came out and stood before the fire--could she
he mistaken?--impossible--it was like a dream--the general!
Cecilia’s first thought was to run away before she should be seen; but
the next moment that thought was abandoned, for the time to execute it
was now past. The messenger sent across the yard had announced that a
lady in the back drawing-room wanted Mr. Stone. Eyes had looked up--the
general had seen and recognised her, and all she could now do was, to
recognise him in return, which she did as eagerly and gracefully as
possible. The general came up to her directly, not a little astonished
that she, whom he fancied at home in her bed, incapacitated by a
headache that had prevented her from speaking to him, should be here,
so far out of her usual haunts, and, as it seemed, out of her
element--“What can bring you here, my dear Cecilia?”
“The same purpose which, if I rightly spell, brought you here, my dear
general,” and her eye intelligently glanced at the burning papers in
the yard. “Do you know then, Cecilia, what those papers are? How did you
know?”
Lady Cecilia told her history, keeping as strictly to facts as the
nature of the case admitted. Her headache, of course, she had found much
better for the sleep she had taken. She had set off, she told him, as
soon as she was able, for Lady Castlefort’s, to inquire into the meaning
of the strange whispers of the preceding night. Then she told of the
scandalous paragraphs she had seen; how she had looked over the book;
and how successfully she had torn out and destroyed the whole chapter;
and then how, hoping to be able to prevent the publication, she had
driven directly to Mr. Stone’s.
Her husband, with confiding, admiring eyes, looked at her and listened
to her, and thought all she said so natural, so kind, that he could not
but love her the more for her zeal of friendship, though he blamed her
for interfering, in defiance of his caution, “Had you consulted me, or
listened to me, my dear Cecilia, this morning, I could have saved you
all this trouble; I should have told you that I would settle with Stone,
and stop the publication, as I have done.”
“But that copy which had been sent to Lady Katrine, surely I did some
good there by burning those pages; for if once it had got among her set,
it would have spread like wildfire, you know, Clarendon.”
He acknowledged this, and said, smiling--“Be satisfied with yourself, my
love; I acknowledge that you made there a capital _coup de main_.”
Just then in came Mr. Stone with an account in his hand, which the
general stepped forward to receive, and, after one glance at the amount,
he took up a pen, wrote, and signed his name to a cheque on his banker.
Mr. Stone received it, bowed obsequiously, and assured the general that
every copy of the offensive chapter had been withdrawn from the book and
burnt--“that copy excepted which you have yourself, general, and that
which was sent to Lady Katrine Hawksby, which we expect in every minute,
and it shall be sent to Grosvenor Square immediately. I will bring it
myself, to prevent all danger.”
The general, who knew there was no danger there, smiled at Cecilia,
and told the bookseller that he need take no further trouble about Lady
Katrine’s copy; the man bowed, and looking again at the amount of the
cheque, retired well satisfied.
“You come home with me, my dear Clarendon, do not you?” said Lady
Cecilia.
They drove off. On their way, the general said--“It is always difficult
to decide whether to contradict or to let such publications take their
course: but in the present case, to stop the scandal instantly and
completely was the only thing to be done. There are cases of honour,
when women are concerned, where law is too slow: it must not be remedy,
it must be prevention. If the finger of scorn dares to point, it must
be--cut off.” After a pause of grave thought, he added--“Upon the manner
in which Helen now acts will depend her happiness--her character--her
whole future life.”
Lady Cecilia summoned all her power to prevent her from betraying
herself: the danger was great, for she could not command her fears so
completely as to hide the look of alarm with which she listened to the
general; but in his eyes her agitation appeared no more than was natural
for her to feel about her friend.
“My love,” continued he, “if Helen is worthy of your affection, she
will show it now. Her only resource is in perfect truth: tell her so,
Cecilia--impress it upon her mind. Would to Heaven I had been able to
convince her of this at first! Speak to her strongly, Cecilia; as
you love her, impress upon her that my esteem, Beauclerc’s love, the
happiness of her life, depend upon her truth!” As he repeated these
words, the carriage stopped at their own door.
CHAPTER VII
We left Helen in the back drawing-room, the door bolted, and beginning
to read her dreaded task. The paragraphs in the newspapers, we
have seen, were sufficiently painful, but when she came to the book
itself--to the letters--she was in consternation, greater even than what
she had felt in the general’s presence under the immediate urgency of
his eye and voice. Her conviction was that in each of these letters,
there were some passages, some expressions, which certainly were
Cecilia’s, but mixed with others, which as certainly were not hers. The
internal evidence appeared to her irresistibly strong: and even in those
passages which she knew to be Cecilia’s writing, it too plainly appeared
that, however playfully, however delicately expressed, there was more
of real attachment for Colonel D’Aubigny than Cecilia had ever allowed
Helen to believe; and she felt that Cecilia must shrink from General
Clarendon’s seeing these as her letters, after she had herself assured
him that he was her first love. The falsehood was here so indubitable,
so proved, that Helen herself trembled at the thought of Cecilia’s
acknowledging the plain facts to her husband. The time for it was past.
Now that they were in print, published perhaps, how must he feel! If
even candid confession were made to him, and made for the best motives,
it would to him appear only forced by necessity--forced, as he would say
to himself, because her friend would not submit to be sacrificed.
Such were Helen’s thoughts on reading the two or three first letters,
but, as she went on, her alarm increased to horror. She saw things
which she felt certain Cecilia could never have written; yet truth and
falsehood were so mixed up in every paragraph, circumstances which
she herself had witnessed so misrepresented, that it was all to her
inextricable confusion. The passages which were to be marked could not
now depend upon her opinion, her belief; they must rest upon Cecilia s
integrity--and could she depend upon it? The impatience which she had
felt for Lady Cecilia’s return now faded away, and merged in the more
painful thought that, when she did come, the suspense would not end--the
doubts would never be satisfied.
She lay down upon the sofa and tried to rest, kept herself perfectly
still, and resolved to think no more; and, as far as the power of the
mind over itself can stay the ever-rising thoughts, she controlled hers,
and waited with a sort of forced, desperate composure for the event.
Suddenly she heard that knock, that ring, which she knew announced Lady
Cecilia’s return. But not Cecilia alone; she heard the general also
coming upstairs, but Cecilia first, who did not stop for more than an
instant at the drawing-room door:--she looked in, as Helen guessed, and
seeing that no one was there, ran very quickly up the next flight of
stairs. Next came the general:--on hearing his step, Helen’s anxiety
became so intense, that she could not, at the moment he came near, catch
the sound or distinguish which way he went. Strained beyond its power,
the faculty of hearing seemed suddenly to fail--all was confusion, an
indistinct buzz of sounds. The next moment, however, recovering, she
plainly heard his step in the front drawing-room, and she knew that he
twice walked up and down the whole length of the room, as if in
deep thought. Each time as he approached the folding doors she
was breathless. At last he stopped, his hand was on the lock--she
recollected that the door was bolted, and as he turned the handle she,
in a powerless voice, called to tell him, but not hearing her, he tried
again, and as the door shook she again tried to speak, but could not.
Still she heard, though she could not articulate. She heard him say,
“Miss Stanley, are you there? Can I see you?”
But the words--the voice seemed to come from afar--sounded dull and
strange. She tried to rise from her seat--found a difficulty--made an
effort--stood up--she summoned resolution--struggled--hurried across
the room--drew back the bolt--threw open the door--and that was all she
could do. In that effort strength and consciousness failed--she fell
forward and fainted at the general’s feet. He raised her up, and laid
her on the sofa in the inner room. He rang for her maid, and went
up-stairs to prevent Cecilia’s being alarmed. He took the matter coolly:
he had seen many fainting young ladies, he did not like them--his own
Cecilia excepted--in his mind always excepted from every unfavourable
suspicion regarding the sex. Helen, on the contrary, was at present
subject to them all, and, under the cloud of distrust, he saw in a bad
light every thing that occurred; the same appearances which, in his
wife, he would have attributed to the sensibility of true feeling, he
interpreted in Helen as the consciousness of falsehood, the proof of
cowardly duplicity. He went back at once to his original prejudice
against her, when, as he first thought, she had been forced upon him in
preference to his own sister. He had been afterwards convinced that she
had been perfectly free from all double dealing; yet now he slid back
again, as people of his character often do, to their first opinion. “I
thought so at first, and I find, as I usually do, that my first thought
was right.”
What had been but an adverse feeling was now considered as a prescient
judgment. And he did not go upstairs the quicker for these thoughts, but
calmly and coolly, when he reached Lady Cecilia’s dressing-room, knocked
at the door, and, with all the precautions necessary to prevent her from
being alarmed, told her what had happened. “You had better not go down,
my dear Cecilia, I beg you will not. Miss Stanley has her own maid, all
the assistance that can be wanted. My dear, it is not fit for you. I
desire you will not go down.”
But Lady Cecilia would not listen, could not be detained; she escaped
from her husband, and ran down to Helen. Excessively alarmed she was,
and well she might be, knowing herself to be the cause, and not certain
in any way how it might end. She found Helen a little recovered, but
still pale as white marble; and when Lady Cecilia took her hand, it was
still quite cold. She came to herself but very slowly. For some minutes
she did not recover perfect consciousness, or clear recollection. She
saw figures of persons moving about her, she felt them as if too near,
and wished them away; wanted air, but could not say what she wished. She
would have moved, but her limbs would not obey her will. At last, when
she had with effort half raised her head, it sunk back again before she
could distinguish all the persons in the room. The shock of cold water
on her forehead revived her; then coming clearly to power of perception,
she saw Cecilia bending over her. But still she could not speak, and
yet she understood distinctly, saw the affectionate anxiety, too, in her
little maid Rose’s countenance; she felt that she loved Rose, and
that she could not endure Felicie, who had now come in, and was making
exclamations, and advising various remedies, all of which, when offered,
Helen declined. It was not merely that Felicie’s talking, and tone of
voice, and superabundant action, were too much for her; but that Helen
had at this moment a sort of intuitive perception of insincerity, and of
exaggeration. In that dreamy state, hovering between life and death, in
which people are on coming out of a swoon, it seems as if there was need
for a firm hold of reality; the senses and the understanding join in the
struggle, and become most acute in their perception of what is natural
or what is unnatural, true or false, in the expressions and feelings
of the by-standers. Lady Cecilia understood her look, and dismissed
Felicie, with all her smelling-bottles. Rose, though not ordered away,
judiciously retired as soon as she saw that her services were of no
further use, and that there was something upon her young lady’s mind,
for which, hartshorn and sal volatile could be of no avail.
Cecilia would have kissed her forehead, but Helen made a slight
withdrawing motion, and turned away her face: the next instant, however,
she looked up, and taking Cecilia’s hand, pressed it kindly, and said,
“You are more to be pitied than I am; sit down, sit down beside me, my
poor Cecilia; how you tremble! and yet you do not know what is coming
upon you.”
“Yes, yes, I do--I do,” cried Lady Cecilia, and she eagerly told Helen
all that had passed, ending with the assurance that the publication had
been completely stopped by her dear Clarendon; that the whole chapter
containing the letters had been destroyed, that not a single copy had
got abroad. “The only one in existence is this,” said she, taking it
up as she spoke, and she made a movement as if going to tear out the
leaves, but Helen checked her hand, “That must not be, the general
desired----”
And almost breathless, yet distinctly, she repeated what the general had
said, that he might be called upon to prove which parts were forged,
and which true, and that she had promised to mark the passages. “So now,
Cecilia, here is a pencil, and mark what is and what is not yours.”
Lady Cecilia instantly took the pencil, and in great agitation obeyed.
“Oh, my dear Helen, some of these the general could not think yours.
Very wicked these people have been!--so the general said; he was sure,
he knew, all could not be yours.”
“Finish! my dear Cecilia,” interrupted Helen; “finish what you have to
do, and in this last trial, give me this one proof of your sincerity. Be
careful in what you are now doing, mark truly--oh, Cecilia! every word
you recollect--as your conscience tells you. Will you, Cecilia? this is
all I ask, as I am to answer for it--will you?”
Most fervently she protested she would. She had no difficulty in
recollecting, in distinguishing her own; and at first she marked truly,
and was glad to separate what was at worst only foolish girlish nonsense
from things which had been interpolated to make out the romance; things
which never could have come from her mind.
There is some comfort in having our own faults overshadowed, outdone by
the greater faults of others. And here it was flagrant wickedness in
the editor, and only weakness and imprudence in the writer of the real
letters. Lady Cecilia continually solaced her conscience by pointing
out to Helen, as she went on, the folly, literally the folly, of the
deception she had practised on her husband; and her exclamations against
herself were so vehement that Helen would not add to her pain by a
single reproach, since she had decided that the time was past for urging
her confession to the general. She now only said, “Look to the future,
Cecilia, the past we cannot recall. This will be a lesson you can never
forget.”
“Oh, never, never can I forget it. You have saved me, Helen.”
Tears and protestations followed these words, and at the moment they
were all sincere; and yet, can it be believed? even in this last trial,
when it came to this last proof, Lady Cecilia was not perfectly true.
She purposely avoided putting her mark of acknowledgment to any of those
expressions which most clearly proved her love for Colonel D’Aubigny;
for she still said to herself that the time might come, though at
present it could not be, when she might make a confession to her
husband,--in his joy at the birth of a son, she thought she might
venture; she still looked forward to doing justice to her friend at some
future period, and to make this easier--to make this possible--as she
said to herself, she must now leave out certain expressions, which
might, if acknowledged, remain for ever fixed in Clarendon’s mind, and
for which she could never be forgiven.
Helen, when she looked over the pages, observed among the unmarked
passages some of those expressions which she had thought were Cecilia’s,
but she concluded she was mistaken: she could not believe that her
friend could at such a moment deceive her, and she was even ashamed of
having doubted her sincerity; and her words, look, and manner, now gave
assurance of perfect unquestioning confidence.
This delicacy in Helen struck Lady Cecilia to the quick. Ever apt to be
more touched by her refined feelings than by any strong appeal to her
reason or her principles, she was now shocked by the contrast between
her own paltering meanness and her friend’s confiding generosity. As
this thought crossed her mind, she stretched out her hand again for
the book, took up the pencil, and was going to mark the truth; but, the
impulse past, cowardice prevailed, and cowardice whispered, “Helen is
looking at me, Helen sees at this moment what I am doing, and, after
having marked them as not mine, how can I now acknowledge them?--it is
too late--it is impossible.”
“I have done as you desired,” continued she, “Helen, to the best of my
ability. I have marked all this, but what can it signify now my dear,
except--?”
Helen interrupted her. “Take the book to the general this moment, will
you, and tell him that all the passages are marked as he desired; stay,
I had better write.”
She wrote upon a slip of paper a message to the same effect, having
well considered the words by which she might, without further step in
deception, save her friend, and take upon herself the whole blame--the
whole hazardous responsibility.
When Cecilia gave the marked book to General Clarendon, he said, as he
took it, “I am glad she has done this, though it is unnecessary now, as
I was going to tell her if she had not fainted: unnecessary, because I
have now in my possession the actual copies of the original letters; I
found them here on my return. That good little poetess found them for me
at the printer’s--but she could not discover--I have not yet been able
to trace where they came from, or by whom they were copied.”
“O let me see them,” cried Lady Cecilia.
“Not yet, my love,” said he; “you would know nothing more by seeing
them; they are in a feigned hand evidently.”
“But,” interrupted Cecilia, “you cannot want the book now, when you have
the letters themselves;” and she attempted to draw it from his hand,
for she instantly perceived the danger of the discrepancies between
her marks and the letters being detected. She made a stronger effort to
withdraw the book but he held it fast. “Leave it with me now, my dear; I
want it; it will settle my opinion as to Helen’s truth.”
Slowly, and absolutely sickened with apprehension, Lady Cecilia
withdrew. When she returned to Helen, and found how pale she was and
how exhausted she seemed, she entreated her to lie down again and try to
rest.
“Yes, I believe I had better rest before I see Granville,” said Helen:
“where can he have been all day?”
“With some friend of his, I suppose,” said Cecilia, and she insisted on
Helen’s saying no more, and keeping herself perfectly quiet. She farther
suggested that she had better not appear at dinner.
“It will be only a family party, some of the general’s relations.
Miss Clarendon is to be here, and she is one, you know, trying to the
spirits; and she is not likely to be in her most _suave_ humour this
evening, as she has been under a course of the tooth-ache, and has been
all day at the dentist’s.”
Helen readily consented to remain in her own room, though she had not
so great a dread of Miss Clarendon as Lady Cecilia seemed to feel. Lady
Cecilia was indeed in the greatest terror lest Miss Clarendon should
have heard some of these reports about Helen and Beauclerc, and would in
her blunt way ask directly what they meant, and go on with some of her
point-blank questions, which Cecilia feared might be found unanswerable.
However, as Miss Clarendon had only just come to town from Wales, and
come only about her teeth, she hoped that no reports could have reached
her; and Cecilia trusted much to her own address and presence of mind in
moments of danger, in turning the conversation the way it should go.
But things were now come to a point where none of the little skilful
interruptions or lucky hits, by which she had so frequently profited,
could avail her farther than to delay what must be. Passion and
character pursue their course unalterably, unimpeded by small external
circumstances; interrupted they may be in their progress, but as the
stream opposed bears against the obstacle, sweeps it away, or foams and
passes by.
Before Lady Cecilia’s toilette was finished her husband was in her
dressing-room; came in without knocking,--a circumstance so unusual with
him, that Mademoiselle Felicie’s eyes opened to their utmost orbit, and,
without waiting for word or look, she vanished, leaving the bracelet
half clasped on her lady’s arm.
“Cecilia!” said the general.
He spoke in so stern a tone that she trembled from head to foot;
her last falsehood about the letters--all her falsehoods, all her
concealments, were, she thought, discovered; unable to support herself,
she sank into his arms. He seated her, and went on in a cool, inexorable
tone, “Cecilia, I am determined not to sanction by any token of my
public approbation this marriage, which I no longer in my private
conscience desire or approve; I will not be the person to give Miss
Stanley to my ward.”
Lady Cecilia almost screamed: her selfish fears forgotten, she felt only
terror for her friend. She exclaimed, “Clarendon, will you break off the
marriage? Oh! Helen, what will become of her! Clarendon, what can you
mean?”
“I mean that I have compared the passages that Helen marked in the book,
with those copies of the letters which were given to the bookseller
before the interpolations were made--the letters as Miss Stanley wrote
them. The passages in the letters and the passages marked in the book do
not agree.”
“Oh, but she might have forgotten, it might be accident,” cried Cecilia,
overwhelmed with confusion.
“No, Cecilia,” pursued the General, in a tone which made her heart die
within her--“no, Cecilia, it is not accident, it is design. I perceive
that every strong expression, every word, in short, which could show her
attachment to that man, has been purposely marked as not her own, and
the letters themselves prove that they were her own. The truth is not in
her.”
In an agitation, which prevented all power of thought, Cecilia
exclaimed, “She mistook--she mistook; I could not, I am sure, recollect;
she asked me if I remembered any.”
“She consulted you, then?”
“She asked my advice,--told me that----”
“I particularly requested her,” interrupted the general, “not to ask
your advice; I desired her not to speak to you on the subject--not to
consult you. Deceit--double-dealing in every thing she does, I find.”
“No, no, it is my fault; every thing I say and do is wrong,” cried
Lady Cecilia. “I recollect now--it was just after her fainting, when I
brought the book, and when she took it to mark she really was not able.
It was not that she consulted me, but I forced my counsel upon her. I
looked over the letters, and said what I thought--if anybody is wrong,
it is I, Clarendon. Oh, do not visit my sins upon Helen so cruelly!--do
not make me the cause of her ruin, innocent creature! I assure you, if
you do this, I never could forgive myself.”
The general looked at her in silence: she did not dare to meet his eyes,
desperately anxious as she was to judge by his countenance what was
passing within. He clasped for her that bracelet which her trembling
hands were in vain attempting to close.
“Poor thing, how its heart beats!” said her husband, pressing her to
him as he sat down beside her. Cecilia thought she might venture
to speak.--“You know, my dear Clarendon, I never oppose--interfere
with--any determination of yours when once it is fixed--”
“This is fixed,” interrupted the general.
“But after all you have done for her this very day, for which I am sure
she--I am sure I thank you from my soul, would you now undo it all?”
“She is saved from public shame,” said the general; “from private
contempt I cannot save her: who can save those who have not truth? But
my determination is fixed; it is useless to waste words on the subject.
Esther is come; I must go to her. And now, Cecilia, I conjure you, when
you see Beauclerc--I have not seen him all day--I do not know where he
has been--I conjure you---I command you not to interfere between him and
Helen.”
“But you would not have me give her up! I should be the basest of human
beings.”
“I do not know what you mean, Cecilia; you have done for her all that an
honourable friend could do.”
“I am not an honourable friend,” was Cecilia’s bitter consciousness,
as she pressed her hand upon her heart, which throbbed violently with
contending fears.
“You have done all that an honourable friend could do; more must not be
done,” continued the general. “And now recollect, Cecilia, that you are
my wife as well as Miss Stanley’s friend;” and, as he said these words,
he left the room.
CHAPTER VIII.
That knowing French minister, Louvois, whose power is said to have been
maintained by his surpassing skill in collecting and spreading secret
and swift intelligence, had in his pay various classes of unsuspected
agents, dancing-masters, fencing-masters, language-masters, milliners,
hairdressers and barbers--dentists, he would have added, had he lived
to our times; and not all Paris could have furnished him with a person
better suited to his purpose than the most fashionable London dentist of
the day, St. Leger Swift. Never did Frenchman exceed him in volubility
of utterance, or in gesture significant, supplying all that words might
fear or fail to tell; never was he surpassed by prattling barber or
privileged hunchback in ancient or modern story, Arabian or Persian; but
he was not a malicious, only a coxcomb scandal-monger, triumphing in his
_sçavoir dire_. St. Leger Swift was known to everybody--knew everybody
in London that was to be or was not to be known, every creature dead or
alive that ever had been, or was about to be celebrated, fashionable, or
rich, or clever, or notorious, _roué_ or murderer, about to be married
or about to be hanged--for that last class of persons enjoys in our days
a strange kind of heroic celebrity, of which Voltaire might well have
been jealous. St, Leger was, of course, hand and glove with all the
royal family; every illustrious personage--every most illustrious
personage--had in turn sat in his chair; he had had all their heads, in
their turns, in his hands, and he had capital anecdotes and sayings of
each, with which he charmed away the sense of pain in loyal subjects.
But with scandal for the fair was he specially provided. Never did man
or woman skim the surface tittle-tattle of society, or dive better,
breathless, into family mysteries; none, with more careless air, could
at the same time talk and listen--extract your news and give you his _on
dit_, or tell the secret which you first reveal. There was in him and
about him such an air of reckless, cordial coxcombry, it warmed the
coldest, threw the most cautious off their guard, brought out family
secrets as if he had been one of your family--your secret purpose as
though he had been a secular father confessor; as safe every thing told
to St. Leger Swift, he would swear to you, as if known only to yourself:
he would swear, and you would believe, unless peculiarly constituted, as
was the lady who, this morning, took her seat in his chair--
Miss Clarendon. She was accompanied by her aunt, Mrs. Pennant.
“Ha! old lady and young lady, fresh from the country. Both, I see,
persons of family--of condition,” said St. Leger to himself. On that
point his practised eye could not mistake, even at first glance; and
accordingly it was really doing himself a pleasure, and these ladies,
as he conceived it, a pleasure, a service, and an honour, to put them,
immediately on their arrival in town, _au courant du jour_. Whether
to pull or not to pull a tooth that had offended, was the professional
question before him.
Miss Clarendon threw back her head, and opened her mouth.
“Fine teeth, fine! Nothing to complain of here surely,” said St. Leger.
“As fine a show of ivory as ever I beheld. ‘Pon my reputation, I know
many a fine lady who would give--all but her eyes for such a set.”
“I must have this tooth out,” said Miss Clarendon, pointing to the
offender.
“I see; certainly, ma’am, as you say.”
“I hope, sir, you don’t think it necessary,” said her tender-hearted
aunt: “if it could be any way avoided----”
“By all means, madam, as you say. We must do nothing without
consideration.”
“I have considered, my dear aunt,” said Miss Clarendon. “I have not
slept these three nights.
“But you do not consider that you caught cold getting up one night for
me; and it may be only an accidental cold, my dear Esther. I should be
so sorry if you were to lose a tooth. Don’t be in a hurry; once gone,
you cannot get it back again.”
“Never was a truer, wiser word spoken, madam,” said St. Leger, swiftly
whisking himself round, and as if looking for some essential implement.
“May be a mere twinge, accidental cold, rheumatism; or may be----My
dear madam” (to the aunt), “I will trouble you; let me pass. I beg
pardon--one word with you,” and with his back to the patient in the
chair, while he rummaged among ivory-handled instruments on the table,
he went on in a low voice to the aunt--“Is she nervous? is she nervous,
eh, eh, eh?”
Mrs. Pennant looked, but did not hear, for she was a little deaf.
“Yes, yes, yes; I see how it is. A word to the wise,” replied he, with
a nod of intelligence. “Every lady’s nervous now-a-days, more or less.
Where the deuce did I put this thing? Yes, yes--nerves;--all the same
to me; know how to manage. Make it a principle--professional, to begin
always by talking away nerves. You shall see, you shall see, my dearest
madam; you shall soon see--you shall hear, you shall hear how I’ll
talk this young lady--your niece--out of her nerves fairly. Beg pardon,
Miss----, one instant. I am searching for--where have I put it?”
“I beg your pardon, sir: I am a little deaf,” said Mrs. Pennant.
“Deaf--hey? Ha! a little deaf. So everybody is now-a-days; even the
most illustrious personages, more or less. Death and deafness common
to all--_mors omnibus_. I have it. Now, my dear young lady, let us
have another look and touch at these beautiful teeth. Your head will do
very--vastly well, my dear ma’am--Miss----um, um, um!” hoping the name
would be supplied. But that Miss Clarendon did not tell.
So raising his voice to the aunt as he went on looking, or seeming to
look, at the niece’s tooth, he continued rapidly--“From Wales you are,
ma’am? a beautiful country Wales, ma’am. Very near being born there
myself, like, ha, ha, ha! that Prince of Wales--first Prince--Caernarvon
Castle--you know the historical anecdote. Never saw finer teeth, upon
my reputation. Are you ladies, may I ask, for I’ve friends in both
divisions--are you North or South Wales, eh, eh?”
“South, sir. Llansillen.”
“Ay, South. The most picturesque certainly. Llansillen, Llansillen; know
it; know everybody ten miles round. Respectable people--all--very; most
respectable people come up from Wales continually. Some of our best
blood from Wales, as a great personage observed lately to me,--Thick,
thick! not thicker blood than the Welsh. His late Majesty, _à-propos_,
was pleased to say to me once--”
“But,” interrupted Miss Clarendon, “what do you say to my tooth?”
“Sound as a roach, my dear ma’am; I will insure it for a thousand
pounds.”
“But that, the tooth you touch, is not the tooth I mean: pray look at
this, sir?”
“Excuse me, my dear madam, a little in my light,” said he to the aunt.
“May I beg the favour of your name?”
“Pennant! ah! ah! ah!” with his hands in uplifted admiration--“I thought
so--Pennant. I said so to myself, for I know so many Pennants--great
family resemblance--Great naturalist of that name--any relation? Oh
yes--No--I thought so from the first. Yes--and can assure you, to my
private certain knowledge, that man stood high on the pinnacle of favour
with a certain royal personage,--for, often sitting in this very chair--
“Keep your mouth open--a little longer--little wider, my good Miss
Pennant. Here’s a little something for me to do, nothing of any
consequence--only touch and go--nothing to be taken away, no, no, must
not lose one of these fine teeth. That most illustrious personage said
one day to me, sitting in this very chair--‘Swift,’ said he, ‘St. Leger
Swift,’ familiarly, condescendingly, colloquially--‘St. Leger Swift, my
good fellow,’ said he--
“But positively, my dear Miss--um, um, if you have not patience--you
must sit still--pardon me, professionally I must be peremptory.
Impossible I could hurt--can’t conceive--did not touch--only making a
perquisition--inquisition--say what you please, but you are nervous,
ma’am; I am only taking a general survey.
“A-propos--general survey--General--a friend of mine, General Clarendon
is just come to town. My ears must have played me false, but I thought
my man said something like Clarendon when he showed you up.”
No answer from Miss Clarendon, who held her mouth open wide, as desired,
resolved not to satisfy his curiosity, but to let him blunder on. “Be
that as it may, General Clarendon’s come to town--fine teeth he has
too--and a fine kettle of fish--not very elegant, but expressive
still--he and his ward have made, of that marriage announced. Fine young
man, though, that Beauclerc--finest young man, almost, I ever saw!”
But here Mr. St. Leger Swift, starting suddenly, withdrawing his hand
from Miss Clarendon’s mouth, exclaimed,--
“My finger, ma’am! but never mind, never mind, all in the day’s work.
Casualty--contingencies--no consequence. But as I was saying, Mr.
Granville Beauclerc----”
Then poured out, on the encouragement of one look of curiosity from Mrs.
Pennant, all the _on dits_ of Lady Katrine Hawksby, and all her chorus,
and all the best authorities; and St. Leger Swift was ready to pledge
himself to the truth of every word. He positively knew that the marriage
was off, and thought, as everybody did, that the young gentleman was
well off too; for besides the young lady’s great fortune turning out
not a _sous_--and here he supplied the half-told tale by a drawn-up ugly
face and shrugging gesture.
“Shocking! shocking! all came to an _éclat--esclandre_; a scene quite,
last night, I am told, at my friend Lady Castlefort’s. Sad--sad--so
young a lady! But to give you a general idea, love letters to come out
in the Memoirs of that fashionable Roué--friend of mine too--fine fellow
as ever breathed--only a little--you understand; Colonel D’Aubigny--Poor
D’Atibigny, heigho!--only if the book comes out--Miss Stanley--”
Mrs. Pennant looked at her niece in benevolent anxiety; Miss Clarendon
was firmly silent; but St. Leger, catching from the expression of
both ladies’ countenances, that they were interested in the contrary
direction to what he had anticipated, turned to the right about, and
observed,--
“This may be all scandal, one of the innumerable daily false reports
that are always flying about town; scandal all, I have no doubt--Your
head a little to the right, if you please--And the publication will be
stopped, of course, and the young lady’s friends--you are interested for
her, I see; so am I--always am for the young and fair, that’s my foible;
and indeed, confidentially I can inform you--If you could keep your head
still, my dear madam.”
But Miss Clarendon could bear it no longer; starting from under his
hand, she exclaimed, “No more, thank you--no more at present, sir: we
can call another day--no more:” and added as she hastily left the room,
“Better bear the toothache,” and ran down stairs. Mrs. Pennant slipped
into the dentist’s hand, as he pulled the bell, a double fee; for though
she did not quite think he deserved it much, yet she felt it necessary
to make amends for her niece’s way of running off, which might not be
thought quite civil.
“Thank you, ma’am--thank ye, ma’am--not the least occasion--don’t say
a word about it--Young lady’s nervous, said so from the first. Nerves!
nerves! all--open the door there--Nerves all,” were the last words, at
the top of the stairs, St. Leger Swift was heard to say.
And the first words of kind Mrs. Pennant, as soon as she was in the
carriage and had drawn up the glass, were, “Do you know, Esther, my
dear, I am quite sorry for this poor Miss Stanley. Though I don’t know
her, yet, as you described her to me, she was such a pretty, young,
interesting creature! I am quite sorry.”
“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Miss Clarendon.
“But even to have such things said must be so distressing to her and to
her lover, your friend Mr. Beauclerc--so very distressing!”
“I hope they are not such fools as to be distressed about such stuff.
All this insufferable talking man’s invention, I dare say.”
“Why do people tell such things?” said Mrs. Pennant. “But, my dear
Esther, even supposing it to be all false, it is shocking to have such
things spoken of. I pity the poor young lady and her lover. Do you not
think, my dear, we shall be able to inquire into the truth of the matter
from your brother this evening? He must know, he ought to know about it:
whether the report be true or false, he should hear of it. He can best
judge what should be done, if any thing should be done, my dear.”
Miss Clarendon quite agreed with all this; indeed she almost always
agreed with this aunt of hers, who, perhaps from the peculiar gentleness
of her manner, joined to a simplicity and sincerity of character she
could never doubt, had an ascendency over her, which no one, at first
view, could have imagined. They had many country commissions to execute
this morning, which naturally took up a good deal of aunt Pennant’s
attention. But between each return from shop to carriage, in the
intervals between one commission off her hands and another on her
mind, she returned regularly to “that poor Miss Stanley, and those
love-letters!” and she sighed. Dear kind-hearted old lady! she
had always a heart, as well as a hand, open as day to melting
charity--charity in the most enlarged sense of the word: charity in
judging as well as charity in giving. She was all indulgence for human
nature, for youth and love especially.
“We must take care, my dear Esther,” said she, “to be at General
Clarendon’s early, as you will like to have some little time with him to
yourself before any one else arrives--shall you not, my dear?”
“Certainly,” replied Miss Clarendon; “I shall learn the truth from my
brother in five minutes, if Lady Cecilia does not come between us.”
“Nay, my dear Esther, I cannot think so ill of Lady Cecilia; I cannot
believe--”
“No, my dear aunt, I know you cannot think ill of any body. Stay till
you know Lady Cecilia Clarendon as I do. If there is any thing wrong
in this business, you will find that some falsehood of hers is at the
bottom of it.”
“Oh, my dear, do not say so before you know; perhaps, as you thought
at first, we shall find that it is all only a mistake of that giddy
dentist’s; for your brother’s sake try to think as well as you can of
his wife; she is a charming agreeable creature, I am sure.”
“You’ve only seen her once, my dear aunt,” said Miss Clarendon. “For my
brother’s sake I would give up half her agreeableness for one ounce--for
one scruple--of truth.”
“Well, well, take it with some grains of allowance, my dear niece; and,
at any rate, do not suffer yourself to be so prejudiced as to conceive
she can be in fault in this business.”
“We shall see to-day,” said Miss Clarendon; “I will not be prejudiced;
but I remember hearing at Florence that this Colonel D’Aubigny had been
an admirer of Lady Cecilia’s. I will get at the truth.”
With this determination, and in pursuance of the resolve to be early,
they were at General Clarendon’s full a quarter of an hour before the
arrival of any other company; but Lady Cecilia entered so immediately
after the general, that Miss Clarendon had no time to speak with her
brother alone. Determined, however, as she was, to get at the truth,
without preface, or even smoothing her way to her object, she rushed
into the middle of things at once. “Have you heard any reports about
Miss Stanley, brother?”
“Yes.”
“And you, Lady Cecilia?”
“Yes.”
“What have you heard?”
Lady Cecilia was silent, looked at the general, and left it to him to
speak as much or as little as he pleased. She trusted to his laconic
mode of answering, which, without departing from truth, defied
curiosity. Her trust in him upon the present occasion was, however,
a little disturbed by her knowledge of his being at this moment
particularly displeased with Helen. But, had she known the depths as
well as she knew the surface of his character, her confidence in his
caution would have been increased, instead of being diminished by this
circumstance: Helen was lost in his esteem, but she was still under his
protection; her secrets were not only sacred, but, as far as truth and
honour could admit, he would still serve and save her. Impenetrable,
therefore, was his look, and brief was his statement to his sister. A
rascally bookseller had been about to publish a book, in which were some
letters which paragraphs in certain papers had led the public to believe
were Miss Stanley’s; the publication had been stopped, the offensive
chapter suppressed, and the whole impression destroyed.
“But, brother,” pursued Miss Clarendon, “were the letters Miss
Stanley’s, or not? You know I do not ask from idle curiosity, but from
regard for Miss Stanley;” and she turned her inquiring eyes full upon
Lady Cecilia.
“I believe, my dear Esther,” said Lady Cecilia, “I believe we had better
say no more; you had better inquire no further.”
“That must be a bad case which can bear no inquiry,” said Miss
Clarendon; “which cannot admit any further question, even from one most
disposed to think well of the person concerned--a desperately bad case.”
“Bad! no, Esther. It would be cruel of you so to conclude: and falsely
it would be--might be; indeed, Esther! my dear Esther!----” Her
husband’s eyes were upon Lady Cecilia, and she did not dare to justify
Helen decidedly; her imploring look and tone, and her confusion, touched
the kind aunt, but did not stop the impenetrable niece.
“Falsely, do you say? Do you say, Lady Cecilia, that it would be to
conclude falsely? Perhaps not falsely though, upon the data given to me.
The data may be false.”
“Data! I do not know what you mean exactly, Esther,” said Lady Cecilia,
in utter confusion.
“I mean exactly what I say,” pursued Miss Clarendon; “that if I
reason wrong, and come to a false conclusion, or what you call a cruel
conclusion, it is not my fault, but the fault of those who do not
plainly tell me the facts.”
She looked from Lady Cecilia to her brother, and from her brother to
Lady Cecilia. On her brother no effect was produced: calm, unalterable,
looked he; as though his face had been turned to stone. Lady Cecilia
struggled in vain to be composed. “I wish I could tell you, Esther,”
said she; “but facts cannot always--all facts--even the most
innocent--that is, even with the best intentions--cannot always be all
told, even in the defence of one’s best friend.”
“If this be the best defence you can make for your best friend, I
am glad you will never have to defend me, and I am sorry for Helen
Stanley.”
“Oh, my dear Esther!” said her aunt, with a remonstrating look; for,
though she had not distinctly heard all that was said, she saw that
things were going wrong, and that Esther was making them worse. “Indeed,
Esther, my dear, we had better let this matter rest.”
“Let this matter rest!” repeated Miss Clarendon; “that is not what you
would say, my dear aunt, if you were to hear any evil report of me. If
any suspicion fell like a blast on my character you would never say ‘let
it rest.’”
Fire lighted in her brother’s eyes, and the stone face was all animated,
and he looked sudden sympathy, and he cried, “You are right, sister, in
principle, but wrong in--fact.”
“Set me right where only I am wrong then,” cried she.
He turned to stone again, and her aunt in a low voice, said, “Not now.”
“Now or never,” said the sturdy champion; “it is for Miss Stanley’s
character. You are interested for her, are not you, aunt?”
“Certainly, I am indeed; but we do not know all the circumstances--we
cannot--”
“But we must. You do not know, brother, how public these reports are.
Mr. St. Leger Swift, the dentist, has been chattering to us all morning
about them. So, to go to the bottom of the business at once, will you,
Lady Cecilia, answer me one straight-forward question?”
Straight-forward question! what is coming? thought Lady Cecilia: her
face flushed, and taking up a hand-screen, she turned away, as if from
the scorching fire; but it was not a scorching fire, as everybody, or
at least as Miss Clarendon, could see. The face turned away from Miss
Clarendon was full in view of aunt Pennant, who was on her other side;
and she, seeing the distressed state of the countenance, pitied, and
gently laying her hand upon Lady Cecilia’s arm, said, in her soft low
voice, “This must be a very painful subject to you, Lady Cecilia. I am
sorry for you.”
“Thank you,” said Lady Cecilia, pressing her hand with quick gratitude
for her sympathy. “It is indeed to me a painful subject, for Helen has
been my friend from childhood, and I have so much reason for loving
her!”
Many contending emotions struggled in Cecilia’s countenance, and she
could say no more: but what she had said, what she had looked, had been
quite enough to interest tenderly in her favour that kind heart to which
it was addressed; and Cecilia’s feeling was true at the instant; she
forgot all but Helen; the screen was laid down; tears stood in her
eyes--those beautiful eyes! “If I could but tell you the whole--oh if I
could! without destroying----”
Miss Clarendon at this moment placed herself close opposite to Cecilia,
and, speaking so low that neither her brother nor her aunt could hear
her, said, “Without destroying yourself, or your friend--which?”
Lady Cecilia could not speak.
“You need not--I am answered,” said Miss Clarendon; and returning to her
place, she remained silent for some minutes.
The general rang, and inquired if Mr. Beauclerc had come in.
“No.”
The general made no observation and then began some indifferent
conversation with Mrs. Pennant, in which Lady Cecilia forced herself to
join; she dreaded even Miss Clarendon’s silence--that grim repose,--and
well she might.
“D’Aubigny’s Memoirs, I think, was the title of the book, aunt, that the
dentist talked of? That is the book you burnt, is not it, brother?--a
chapter in that book?”
“Yes,” said the general.
And again Miss Clarendon was silent; for though she well recollected
what she had heard at Florence, and however strong were her suspicions,
she might well pause; for she loved her brother before every thing
but truth and justice,--she loved her brother too much to disturb
his confidence. “I have no proof,” thought she; “I might destroy his
happiness by another word, and I may be wrong.”
“But shall not we see Miss Stanley?” said Mrs. Pennant.
Lady Cecilia was forced to explain that Helen was not very well, would
not appear till after dinner--nothing very much the matter--a little
faintish.
“Fainted,” said the general.
“Yes, quite worn out--she was at Lady Castlefort’s last night--such a
crowd!” She went on to describe its city horrors.
“But where is Mr. Beauclerc all this time?” said Miss Clarendon: “has he
fainted too? or is he faintish?”
“Not likely,” said Lady Cecilia; “faint heart never won fair lady. He is
not of the faintish sort.”
At this moment a thundering knock at the door announced the rest of
the company, and never was company more welcome. But Beauclerc did not
appear. Before dinner was served, however, a note came from him to the
general. Lady Cecilia stretched out her hand for it, and read,
“MY DEAR FRIENDS,--I am obliged to dine out of town. I shall not return
to-night, but you will see me at breakfast-time to-morrow. Yours ever,
GRANVILLE BEAUCLERC.”
Cockburn now entered with a beautiful bouquet of hot-house flowers,
which, he said, Mr. Beauclerc’s man had brought with the note, and which
were, he said, for Miss Stanley. Lady Cecilia’s countenance grew radiant
with joy, and she exclaimed, “Give them to me,--I must have the pleasure
of taking them to her myself.”
And she flew off with them. Aunt Pennant smiled on her as she passed,
and, turning to her niece as Lady Cecilia left the room, said, “What a
bright creature! so warm, so affectionate!” Miss Clarendon was indeed
struck with the indisputably natural sincere satisfaction and affection
in Cecilia’s countenance; and, herself of such a different nature, could
not comprehend the possibility of such contradiction in any character:
she could not imagine the existence of such variable, transitory
feelings--she could not believe any human being capable of sacrificing
her friend to save herself, while she still so loved her victim, could
still feel such generous sympathy for her. She determined at least
to suspend her judgment; she granted Lady Cecilia a reprieve from her
terrific questions and her as terrific looks. Cecilia recovered her
presence of mind, and dinner went off delightfully, to her at least,
with the sense of escape in recovered self-possession, and “spirits
light, to every joy in tune.”
From the good-breeding of the company there was no danger that the topic
she dreaded should be touched upon. Whatever reports might have
gone forth, whatever any one present might have heard, nothing would
assuredly be said of her friend Miss Stanley, to her, or before her,
unless she or the general introduced the subject; and she was still more
secure of his discretion than of her own. The conversation kept safe on
London-dinner generalities and frivolities. Yet often things that were
undesignedly said touched upon the _taboo’d_ matter; and those who knew
when, where, and how it touched, looked at or from one another, and
almost equally dangerous was either way of looking. Such perfect
neutrality of expression is not given to all men in these emergencies as
to General Clarendon.
The dessert over, out of the dinner-room and in the drawing-room, the
ladies alone together, things were not so pleasant to Lady Cecilia.
Curiosity peeped out more and more in great concern about Miss Stanley’s
health; and when ladies trifled over their coffee, and saw through all
things with their half-shut eyes, they asked, and Lady Cecilia
answered, and parried, and explained, and her conscience winced, and
her countenance braved, and Miss Clarendon listened with that dreadfully
good memory, that positive point-blank recollection, which permits not
the slightest variation of statement. Her doubts and her suspicions
returned, but she was silent; and sternly silent she remained the rest
of the evening.
CHAPTER IX.
If “trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as
proofs of Holy Writ,” and that they are no one since the time of Othello
could ever doubt, it may be some consolation to observe, on the credit
side of human nature, that, to those who are not cursed with a jealous
infirmity, trifles light as air are often confirmations strong of the
constancy of affection. Well did Lady Cecilia know this when she was so
eager to be the bearer of the flowers which were sent by Beauclerc. She
foresaw and enjoyed the instant effect, the quick smile, and blush of
delight with which that bouquet was received by Helen.
“Oh, thank you! How kind of him!” and “all’s well,” was her immediate
conclusion. When she saw his note, she never even took notice that he
did not particularly mention her. The flowers from him were enough; she
knew his sincerity so well, trusted to it so completely, that she was
quite sure, if he had been angry with her, he would not have sent these
tokens of his love,--slight tokens, though they were all-sufficient for
her. Her fears had taken but one direction, and in that direction they
were all dispelled. He would be at breakfast to-morrow, when she should
know where he had been, and what had detained him from her the whole
of this day. She told Cecilia that she was now quite well, but that she
would not attempt to go down stairs. And Cecilia left her happy, so far
at least; and when she was alone with her flowers, she doubly enjoyed
them, inhaling the fragrance of each which she knew he particularly
liked, and thanking him in her heart for the careful choice, for she was
certain that they were not accidentally put together. Some of them were
associated with little circumstances known only to themselves, awakening
recollections of bright, happy moments, and selected, she was sure,
with reference to a recent conversation they had had on the language of
flowers.
Whether Helen fancied half this, or whether it was all true, it had the
effect of soothing and pleasing her anxious, agitated mind; and she was
the more ready to indulge in that pleasant reverie, from all that she
had previously suffered herself, and all that she feared Beauclerc had
yet to endure. She knew too well how much these reports would affect
him--and hear them he must. She considered what trials he had already
borne, and might still have to bear, for her sake, whatever course she
might now pursue. Though soon, very soon, the whole would be told to
him, yet still, though she might stand clear in his eyes as to the main
points, he must, and would blame her weakness in first consenting to
this deception--he who was above deceit. She had not absolutely _told_,
but she had _admitted_ a falsehood; she had _acted_ a falsehood. This
she could not extenuate. Her motive at first, to save Lady Davenant’s
life, was good; but then her weakness afterwards, in being persuaded
time after time by Cecilia, could not well be excused. She was conscious
that she had sunk step by step, dragged down that slippery path by
Cecilia, instead of firmly making a stand, as she ought to have done,
and up-holding by her own integrity her friend’s failing truth. With
returning anguish of self-reproach, she went over and over these
thoughts; she considered the many unforeseen circumstances that had
occurred. So much public shame, so much misery had been brought upon
herself and on all she loved, by this one false step! And how much more
might still await her, notwithstanding all that best of friends,
the general, had done! She recollected how much he had done for
her!--thinking of her too, as he must, with lowered esteem, and that was
the most painful thought of all;--to Beauclerc she could and would soon
clear her truth, but to the general--never, perhaps, completely!
Her head was leaning on her hand, as she was sitting deep in these
thoughts, when she was startled by an unusual knock at her door. It
was Cockburn with a packet, which General Clarendon had ordered him to
deliver into Miss Stanley’s own hands. The instant she saw the packet
she knew that it contained _the book;_ and on opening it she found
manuscript letters inserted between the marked pages, and there was a
note from General Clarendon. She trembled--she foreboded ill.
The note began by informing Miss Stanley how the enclosed manuscript
letters came into General Clarendon’s hands from a person whom Miss
Stanley had obliged, and who had hoped in return to do her some service.
The general next begged Miss Stanley to understand that these letters
had been put into his possession since his conversation with her at
breakfast time; his only design in urging her to mark her share in the
printed letters had been to obtain her authority for serving her to
the best of his ability; but he had since compared them:--and then came
references, without comment, to the discrepancies between the marked
passages, the uniform character of the omissions, followed only by a
single note of admiration at each from the general’s pen. And at last,
in cold polite phrase, came his regret that he had not been able to
obtain that confidence which he had trusted he had deserved, and his
renunciation of all future interference in her affairs--_or concerns_,
had been written, but a broad dash of the pen had erased the superfluous
words; and then came the inevitable conclusion, on which Helen’s eyes
fixed, and remained immovable for some time--that determination which
General Clarendon had announced to his wife in the first heat of
indignation, but which, Lady Cecilia had hoped, could be evaded,
changed, postponed--would not at least be so suddenly declared to Helen;
therefore she had given her no hint, had in no way prepared her for
the blow,--and with the full force of astonishment it came upon
her--“General Clarendon cannot have the pleasure he had proposed to
himself, of giving Miss Stanley at the altar to his ward. He cannot by
any public act of his attest his consent to that marriage, of which, in
his private opinion, he no longer approves.”
“And he is right. O Cecilia!” was Helen’s first thought, when she could
think after this shock--not of her marriage, not of herself, not of
Beauclerc, but of Cecilia’s falsehood--Cecilia’s selfish cowardice,
she thought, and could not conceive it possible,--could not believe it,
though it was there. “Incredible--yet proved--there--there--before her
eyes-brought home keen to her heart! after all! at such a time--after
her most solemn promise, with so little temptation, so utterly
false--with every possible motive that a good mind could have to
be true--in this last trial--her friend’s whole character at
stake--ungenerous--base! O Cecilia! how different from what I thought
you--or how changed! And I have helped to bring her to this!--I--I have
been the cause.--I will not stay in this house--I will leave her.
To save her--to save myself--save my own truth and my own real
character--let the rest go as it will--the world think what it may!
Farther and farther, lower and lower, I have gone: I will not go
lower--I will struggle up again at any risk, at any sacrifice. This is a
sacrifice Lady Davenant would approve of: she said that if ever I should
be convinced that General Clarendon did not wish me to be his guest--if
he should ever cease to esteem me--I should go, that instant--and I will
go. But where? To whom could she fly, to whom turn? The Collingwoods
were gone; all her uncle’s friends passed rapidly through her
recollection. Since she had been living with General and Lady Cecilia
Clarendon, several had written to invite her; but Helen knew a little
more of the world now than formerly, and she felt that there was not
one, no, not one of all these, to whom she could now, at her utmost
need, turn and say, ‘I am in distress, receive me! my character is
attacked, defend me! my truth is doubted, believe in me!’” And, her
heart beating with anxiety, she tried to think what was to be done.
There was an old Mrs. Medlicott, who had been a housekeeper of her
uncle’s, living at Seven Oaks--she would go there--she should be
safe--she should be independent. She knew that she was then in town, and
was to go to Seven Oaks the next day; she resolved to send Rose early
in the morning to Mrs. Medlicott’s lodging, which was near Grosvenor
Square, to desire her to call at General Clarendon’s as she went out of
town, at eight o’clock. She could then go with her to Seven Oaks; and,
by setting out before Cecilia could be up, she should avoid seeing her
again.
There are minds which totally sink, and others that wonderfully rise,
under the urgency of strong motive and of perilous circumstance. It is
not always the mind apparently strongest or most daring that stands the
test. The firm of principle are those most courageous in time of need.
Helen had determined what her course should be, and, once determined,
she was calm. She sat down and wrote to General Clarendon.
“MISS STANLEY regrets that she cannot explain to General Clarendon the
circumstances which have so much displeased him. She assures him that
no want of confidence has been, on her part, the cause; but she cannot
expect that, without further explanation, he should give her credit
for sincerity. She feels that with his view of her conduct, and in
his situation, his determination is right,--that it is what she
has deserved,--that it is just towards his ward and due to his own
character. She hopes, however, that he will not think it necessary
to announce to Mr. Beauclerc his determination of withdrawing his
approbation and consent to his marriage, when she informs him that it
will now never be by her claimed or accepted. She trusts that General
Clarendon will permit her to take upon herself the breaking off this
union. She encloses a letter to Mr. Beauclerc, which she begs may be
given to him to-morrow. General Clarendon will find she has dissolved
their engagement as decidedly as he could desire, and that her decision
will be irrevocable. And since General Clarendon has ceased to esteem
her, Miss Stanley cannot longer accept his protection, or encroach upon
his hospitality. She trusts that he will not consider it as any want
of respect, that she has resolved to retire from his family as soon as
possible. She is certain of having a safe and respectable home with a
former housekeeper of her uncle Dean Stanley’s, who will call for her at
eight o’clock to-morrow, and take her to Seven Oaks, where she resides.
Miss Stanley has named that early hour, that she may not meet Mr.
Beauclerc before she goes; she wishes also to avoid the struggle and
agony of parting with Lady Cecilia. She entreats General Clarendon will
prevent Lady Cecilia from attempting to see her in the morning, and
permit her to go unobserved out of the house at her appointed hour.
“So now farewell, my dear friend--yes, friend, this last time you must
permit me to call you; for such I feel you have ever been, and ever
would have been, to me, if my folly would have permitted. Believe
me--notwithstanding the deception of which I acknowledge I have been
guilty towards you, General Clarendon--I venture to say, _believe me_, I
am not ungrateful. At this instant my heart swells with gratitude, while
I pray that you may be happy--happy as you deserve to be. But you will
read this with disdain, as mere idle words: so be it. Farewell! HELEN
STANLEY.”
Next, she was to write to Beauclerc himself. Her letter was as
follows:--
“With my whole heart, dear Granville, I thank you for the generous
confidence you have shown towards me, and for the invariable steadiness
of your faith and love. For your sake, I rejoice. One good has at
least resulted from the trials you have gone through: you must now and
hereafter feel sure of your own strength of mind. With me it has been
different, for I have not a strong mind. I have been all weakness, and
must now be miserable; but wicked I will not be--and wicked I should
be if I took advantage of your confiding love. I must disappoint your
affection, but your confidence I will not betray. When I put your love
to that test which it has so nobly stood, I had hoped that a time would
come when all doubts would be cleared up, and when I could reward your
constancy by the devotion of my whole happy life--but that hope is past:
I cannot prove my innocence--I will no longer allow you to take it upon
my assertion. I cannot indeed, with truth, even assert that I have done
no wrong; for though I am not false, I have gone on step by step in
deception, and might go on, I know not how far, nor to what dreadful
consequences, if I did not now stop--and I do stop. On my own head be
the penalty of my fault--upon my own happiness--my own character: I will
not involve yours--therefore we part. You have not yet heard all that
has been said of me; but you soon will, and you will feel, as I do, that
I am not fit to be your wife. Your wife should not be suspected; I have
been--I am. All the happiness I can ever have in this world must be
henceforth in the thought of having saved from misery--if not secured
the happiness of those I love. Leave me this hope--Oh, Granville, do not
tell me, do not make me believe that you will never be happy without me!
You will--indeed you will. I only pray Heaven that you may find love as
true as mine, and strength to abide by the truth! Do not write to me--do
not try to persuade me to change my determination: it is irrevocable.
Further writing or meeting could be only useless anguish to us both.
Give me the sole consolation I can now have, and which you alone can
give--let me hear from Cecilia that you and your noble-minded guardian
are, after I am gone, as good friends as you were before you knew me. I
shall be gone from this house before you are here again; I cannot stay
where I can do no good, and might do much evil by remaining even a few
hours longer. As it is, comfort your generous heart on my account, with
the assurance that I am sustained by the consciousness that I am now,
to the best of my power, doing right. Adieu, Granville! Be happy! you
can--you have done no wrong. Be happy, and that will console
“Your affectionate HELEN STANLEY.”
This, enclosed to General Clarendon, she sent by Cockburn, who delivered
it to his master immediately. Though she could perfectly depend upon her
maid Rose’s fidelity, Helen did not tell her that she was going away
in the morning, to avoid bringing her into any difficulty if she were
questioned by Lady Cecilia; and besides, no note of preparation would be
heard or seen. She would take with her only sufficient for the day,
and would leave Rose to pack up all that belonged to her, after her
departure, and to follow her. Thanks to her own late discretion, she had
no money difficulties--no debts but such as Rose could settle, and she
had now only to write to Cecilia; but she had not yet recovered from
the tumult of mind which the writing to the general and to Beauclerc had
caused. She lay down upon the sofa, and closing her trembling eyelids,
she tried to compose herself sufficiently to think at least of what she
was to say. As she passed the table in going to the sofa, she, without
perceiving it, threw down some of the flowers; they caught her eye, and
she said to herself “Lie there! lie there! Granville’s last gifts! last
gifts to me! All over now; lie there and wither! Joys that are passed,
wither! All happiness for me, gone! Lie there, and wither, and die!--and
so shall I soon, I hope--if that only hope is not wrong.”
Some one knocked at the door; she started up, and said, “I cannot see
you, Cecilia!”
A voice not Cecilia’s, a voice she did not recollect, answered, “It is
not Cecilia; let me see you. I come from General Clarendon.”
Helen opened the door, and saw--Miss Clarendon. Her voice had sounded so
much lower and gentler than usual, that Helen had not guessed it to be
hers. She was cloaked, as if prepared to go away; and in the outer room
was another lady seated with her back towards them, and with her cloak
on also.
“My aunt Pennant--who will wait for me. As she is a stranger, she would
not intrude upon you, Miss Stanley; but will you allow me one minute?”
Helen, surprised, begged Miss Clarendon to come in, moved a chair
towards her, and stood breathless with anxiety. Miss Clarendon sat down,
and resuming her abruptness of tone, said, “I feel that I have no right
to expect that you should have confidence in me, and yet I do. I believe
in your sincerity, even from the little I know of you, and I have a
notion you believe in mine. Do you?”
“I do.”
“I wish it had pleased Heaven,” continued Miss Clarendon, “that my
brother had married a woman who could speak truth! But you need not
be afraid; I will not touch on your secrets. On any matter you have in
keeping, my honour as well as yours will command my silence--as will
also my brother’s happiness, which I have somewhat at heart; not that I
think it can be preserved by the means you take. But this is not what I
came to say. You mean to go away from this house to-morrow morning?”
“Yes,” said Helen.
“You are right. I would not stay where I did not esteem or where I had
reason to believe that I was not esteemed. You are quite right to go,
and to go directly; but not to your old housekeeper.”
“Why not?” said Helen.
“Because, though I dare say she is vastly respectable,--an excellent
person in her way, I am convinced,--yet my brother says she might not be
thought just the sort of person to whom you should go now--not just the
thing for you at present; though, at another time, it would be very
well and condescending; but now, when you are attacked, you must look to
appearances--in short, my brother will not allow you to go to this old
lady’s boarding-house, or cottage, or whatever it may be, at Seven Oaks;
he must be able to say for you where you are gone. You must be with me;
you must be at Llansillen. Llansillen is a place that can be named. You
must be with me--with General Clarendon’s sister. You must--you will, I
am sure, my dear Miss Stanley. I never was so happy in having a house of
my own as at this moment. You will not refuse to return with my aunt
and me to Llansillen, and make our home yours? We will try and make it
a happy home to you. Try; you see the sense of it: the world can say
nothing when you are known to be with Miss Clarendon; and you will, I
hope, feel the comfort of it, out of the stir and din of this London
world. I know you like the country, and Llansillen is a beautiful
place--romantic too; a fine castle, an excellent library, beautiful
conservatory; famous for our conservatories we are in South Wales; and
no neighbours--singular blessing! And my aunt Pennant, you will love her
so! Will you try? Come! say that you will.”
But Helen could not; she could only press the hand that Miss Clarendon
held out to her. There is nothing more touching, more overcoming, than
kindness at the moment the heart is sunk in despair. “But did General
Clarendon really wish you to ask me?” said Helen, when she could speak.
“Did he think so much and so carefully for me to the last? And with such
a bad opinion as he must have of me!”
“But there you know he is wrong.”
“It is like himself,” continued Helen; “consistent in protecting me to
the last. Oh, to lose such a friend!”
“Not lost, only mislaid,” said Miss Clarendon. “You will find him again
some fair day or other; truth always comes to light. Meanwhile, all is
settled. I must run and tell my aunt, and bless the fates and Lady
Emily Greville, that Lady Cecilia did not come up in the middle of it.
Luckily, she thinks I am gone, and knows nothing of my being with you;
for my brother explained all this to me in his study, after we had left
the saloon, and he desires me to say that his carriage shall be ready
for you at your hour, at eight o’clock. We shall expect you; and now,
farewell till to-morrow.”
She was gone, and her motto might well be, though in a different
acceptation from that of our greatest modern politician--“_Tout faire
sans paraître._”
But before Helen could go to rest, she must write to Lady Cecilia, and
her thoughts were in such perplexity, and her feelings in such conflict,
that she knew not how to begin. At last she wrote only a few hasty
lines of farewell, and referred for her determination, and for all
explanations, to her letter to the general. It came to “Farewell, dear
Cecilia.”
Dear! yes, still dear she was to Helen--she must be as Lady Davenant’s
daughter--still dear for her own sake was Cecilia, the companion of
her childhood, who had shown her such generous affection early, such
fondness always, who was so charming, with so many good qualities, so
much to win love--loved she must be still. “Farewell, Cecilia; may you
be happy!”
But as Helen wrote these words, she thought it impossible, she could
scarcely in the present circumstances wish it possible, that Cecilia
should be happy. How could she, unless her conscience had become quite
callous?
She gave her note to Rose, with orders to deliver it herself to Lady
Cecilia to-night, when she should demand admittance. And soon she came,
the very instant Lady Emily Greville went away--before Helen was in bed
she heard Cecilia at her door; she left her to parley with Rose--heard
her voice in the first instance eager, peremptory for admittance. Then a
sudden silence. Helen comprehended that she had opened her note--and in
another instant she heard her retreating step. On seeing the first
words referring for explanation to Helen’s letter to the general,
panic-struck, Lady Cecilia hurried to her own room to read the rest
privately.
Helen now tried to recollect whether every thing had been said, written,
done, that ought to be done; and at last went to bed and endeavoured to
sleep for a few hours.
CHAPTER X.
Helen was just dressed, and had given her last orders to her bewildered
maid, when she heard a knock at the door, and Mademoiselle Felicie’s
voice. She could not at this instant endure to hear her heartless
exclamatory speeches; she would not admit her. Mademoiselle Felicie gave
Rose a note for her young lady--it was from Cecilia.
“Dearest Helen,--The general will not allow me to take leave of you
this morning, but I shall certainly go to you in the course of to-day.
I cannot understand or make you understand any thing till I see you. I
_will_ see you to-day. Your affectionate CECILIA.”
“I understand it too well!” thought Helen.
The carriage was announced, Helen was ready; she hurried into it, and
she was gone! And thus she parted from the friend of her childhood--the
friend she had but a few months before met with such joy, such true
affection; and her own affection was true to the last.
As Helen drove from the door, she saw the general--yes, it certainly was
the general riding off--at this unusual hour!--Was it to avoid her?
But she was in too great anguish to dwell upon that or any other
circumstance; her only thought now was to subdue her emotion before
she was seen by Miss Clarendon and Mrs. Pennant. And by the time she
arrived, she thought she had quite recovered herself, and was not aware
that any traces of tears remained; but to Mrs. Pennant’s sympathising
eyes they were visible, and after the first introductions and
salutations were over, that kind lady, as she seated her at the
breakfast-table, gently pressing her hand, said, “Poor thing! no
wonder--parting with old friends for new is a sad trial: but you know
we shall become old friends in time: we will make what haste we can, my
dear Miss Stanley, and Esther will help me to make you forget that you
have not known us all your life.”
“There is very little to be known; no mysteries, that is one comfort,”
said Miss Clarendon; “so now to breakfast. You are very punctual, Miss
Stanley; and that is a virtue which aunt Pennant likes, and can estimate
to a fraction of a minute with that excellent watch of hers.”
There was some history belonging to that family-watch, which then came
out; and then the conversation turned upon little family anecdotes and
subjects which were naturally interesting to the aunt and niece, and not
exciting to Helen, whose mind, they saw, needed quiet, and freedom from
all observation.