“This instant—I wish he was here,” cried Helen.
“Good Heavens! do you?” cried Lady Cecilia, looking at the door with terror—she thought she heard his step.
“Yes, if you would but tell him—O let me call him!”
“Oh no, no! Spare me—spare me, I cannot speak now. I could not utter the words; I should not know what words to use. Tell him if you will, I cannot.”
“May I tell him?” said Helen, eagerly.
“No, no—that would be worse; if anybody tells him it must be myself.”
“Then you will now—when he comes in?”
“He is coming!” cried Cecilia.
General Clarendon came to the door—it was bolted.
“In a few minutes,” said Helen. Lady Cecilia did not speak, but listened, as in agony, to his receding footsteps.
“In a few minutes, Helen, did you say?—then there is nothing for me now, but to die—I wish I could die—I wish I was dead.”
Helen felt she was cruel, she began to doubt her own motives; she thought she had been selfish in urging Cecilia too strongly; and, going to her kindly, she said, “Take your own time, my dear Cecilia: only tell him—tell him soon.”
“I will, I will indeed, when I can—but now I am quite exhausted.”
“You are indeed,” said Helen, “how cruel I have been!—how pale you are!”
Lady Cecilia lay down on the sofa, and Helen covered her with a soft India shawl, trembling so much herself that she could hardly stand.
“Thank you, thank you, dear, kind Helen; tell him I am going to sleep, and I am sure I hope I shall.”
Helen closed the shutters—she had now done all she could; she feared she had done too much; and as she left the room, she said to herself,—“Oh, Lady Davenant! if you could see—if you knew—what it cost me!”
END OF VOLUME THE SECOND
VOLUME THE THIRD.
CHAPTER I.
The overwrought state of Helen’s feelings was relieved by a walk with Beauclerc, not in the dressed part of the park, but in what was generally undiscovered country: a dingle, a bosky dell, which he had found out in his rambles, and which, though so little distant from the busy hum of men, had a wonderful air of romantic seclusion and stillness—the stillness of evening. The sun had not set; its rich, red light yet lingered on the still remaining autumn tints upon the trees. The birds hopped fearlessly from bough to bough, as if this sweet spot were all their own. The cattle were quietly grazing below, or slowly winding their way to the watering-place. By degrees, the sounds of evening faded away upon the ear; a faint chirrup here and there from the few birds not yet gone to roost, and now only the humming of the flies over the water were to be heard.
It was perfect repose, and Beauclerc and Helen sat down on the bank to enjoy it together. The sympathy of the woman he loved, especially in his enjoyment of the beauties of nature, was to Beauclerc an absolute necessary of life. Nor would he have been contented with that show taste for the picturesque, which is, as he knew, merely one of a modern young lady’s many accomplishments. Helen’s taste was natural, and he was glad to feel it so true, and for him here alone expressed with such peculiar heightened feeling, as if she had in all nature now a new sense of delight. He had brought her here, in hopes that she would be struck with this spot, not only because it was beautiful in itself, and his discovery, but because it was like another bushy dell and bosky bourne, of which he had been from childhood fond, in another place, of which he hoped she would soon be mistress. “Soon! very soon, Helen!” he repeated, in a tone which could not be heard by her with indifference. He said that some of his friends in London told him that the report of their intended union had been spread everywhere—(by Lady Katrine Hawksby probably, as Cecilia, when Lady Castlefort departed, had confided to her, to settle her mind about Beauclerc, that he was coming over as Miss Stanley’s acknowledged lover). And since the report had been so spread, the sooner the marriage took place the better; at least, it was a plea which Beauclerc failed not to urge, and Helen’s delicacy failed not to feel.
She sighed—she smiled. The day was named—and the moment she consented to be his, nothing could be thought of but him. Yet, even while he poured out all his soul—while he enjoyed the satisfaction there is in perfect unreservedness of confidence, Helen felt a pang mix with her pleasure. She felt there was one thing she could not tell him: he who had told her every thing—all his faults, and follies. “Oh! why,” thought she, “why cannot I tell him every thing? I, who have no secrets of my own—why should I be forced to keep the secrets of another?” In confusion, scarcely finished, these ideas came across her mind, and she sighed deeply. Beauclerc asked why, and she could not tell him! She was silent; and he did not reiterate the indiscreet question. He was sure she thought of Lady Davenant; and he now spoke of the regret he felt that she could not be present at their marriage, and Lord Davenant too! Beauclerc said he had hoped that Lord Davenant, who loved Helen as if she were his own daughter, would have been the person to act as her father at the ceremony. But the general, his friend and her’s, would now, Beauclerc said, give her to him; and would, he was sure, take pleasure in thus publicly marking his approbation of his ward’s choice.
They rose, and going on down the path to the river’s side, they reached a little cove where he had moored his boat, and they returned home by water—the moon just visible, the air so still; all so placid, so delightful, and Beauclerc so happy, that she could not but be happy; yes—quite happy too. They reached the shore just as the lamps were lighting in the house. As they went in, they met the general, who said, “In good time;” and he smiled on Helen as she passed.
“It is all settled,” whispered Beauclerc to him; “and you are to give her away.”
“With pleasure,” said the general.
As Helen went up-stairs, she said to herself, “I understand the general’s smile; he thinks I have followed his advice; he thinks I have told all—and I—I can only be silent.”
There was a great dinner party, but the general, not thinking Cecilia quite equal to it, had engaged Mrs. Holdernesse, a relation of his own, to do the honours of the day.
Lady Cecilia came into the drawing-room in the evening; but, after paying her compliments to the company, she gladly followed the general’s advice, and retired to the music-room: Helen went with her, and Beauclerc followed. Lady Cecilia sat down to play at ecarté with him, and Helen tuned her harp. The general came in for a few minutes, he said, to escape from two young ladies, who had talked him half dead about craniology. He stood leaning on the mantelpiece, and looking over the game. Lady Cecilia wanted counters, and she begged Beauclerc to look for some which she believed he would find in the drawer of a table that was behind him. Beauclerc opened the drawer, but no sooner had he done so, than, in admiration of something he discovered there, he exclaimed, “Beautiful! beautiful! and how like!” It was the miniature of Helen, and besides the miniature, further back in the drawer, Lady Cecilia saw—how quick is the eye of guilty fear!—could it be?—yes—one of the fatal letters—the letter! Nothing but the picture had yet been seen by the general or by Beauclerc: Lady Cecilia stretched behind her husband, whose eyes were upon the miniature, and closed the drawer. It was all she could do, it was impossible for her to reach the letter.
Beauclerc, holding the picture to the light, repeated, “Beautiful! who did it? whom is it for? General, look! do you know it?”
“Yes, to be sure,” replied the general; “Miss Stanley.”
“You have seen it before?”
“Yes,” said the general, coldly. “It is very like. Who did it?”
“I did it,” cried Lady Cecilia, who now recovered her voice.
“You, my dear Lady Cecilia! Whom for? for me? is it for me?”
“For you? It may be, hereafter, perhaps.”
“Oh thank you, my dear Lady Cecilia!” cried Beauclerc.
“If you behave well, perhaps,” added she.
The general heard in his wife’s tremulous tone, and saw in her half confusion, half attempt at playfulness, only an amiable anxiety to save her friend, and to give her time to recover from her dismay. He at once perceived that Helen had not followed the course he had suggested; that she had not told Beauclerc, and did not intend that he should be told the whole truth. The general looked extremely grave; Beauclerc gave a glance round the room. “Here is some mystery,” said he, now first seeing Helen’s disconcerted countenance. Then he turned on the general a look of eager inquiry. “Some mystery, certainly,” said he, “with which I am not to be made acquainted?”
“If there be any mystery,” said the general, “with which you are not to be made acquainted, I am neither the adviser nor abettor. Neither in jest nor earnest am I ever an adviser of mystery.”
While her husband thus spoke, Lady Cecilia made another attempt to possess herself of the letter. This time she rose decidedly, and, putting aside the little ecarté table which was in her way, pressed forward to the drawer, saying something about “counters.” Her Cachemere caught on Helen’s harp, and, in her eager spring forward, it would have been overset, but that the general felt, turned, and caught it.
“What are you about, my dear Cecilia?—what do you want?”
“Nothing, nothing, thank you, my dear; nothing now.”
Then she did not dare to open the drawer, or to let him open it, and anxiously drew away his attention by pointing to a footstool which she seemed to want.
“Could not you ask me for it, my dear, without disturbing yourself? What are men made for?”
Beauclerc, after a sort of absent effort to join in quest of the footstool, had returned eagerly to the picture, and looking at it more closely, he saw the letters C.D. written in small characters in one corner; and, just as his eye turned to the other corner, Lady Cecilia, recollecting what initials were there, started up and snatched it from his hand. “Oh, Granville!” cried she, “you must not look at this picture any more till I have done something to it.” Beauclerc was trying to catch another look at it, when Cecilia cried out, “Take it, Helen! take it!” and she held it up on high, but as she held it, though she turned the face from him, she forgot, quite forgot that Colonel D’Aubigny had written his name on the back of the picture; and there it was in distinct characters such as could be plainly read at that height, “For Henry D’Aubigny.” Beauclerc saw, and gave one glance at Helen. He made no further attempt to reach the picture. Lady Cecilia, not aware of what he had seen, repeated, “Helen! Helen! why don’t you take it?—now! now!”
Helen could not stir. The general took the picture from his wife’s hand, gave it to Miss Stanley, without looking at her, and said to Lady Cecilia, “Pray keep yourself quiet, Cecilia. You have done enough, too much to-day; sit down,” said he, rolling her arm-chair close, and seating her. “Keep yourself quiet, I beg.”—“I beg,” in the tone of “I insist.”
She sat down, but catching a view of Beauclerc was alarmed by his aspect—and Helen! her head was bent down behind the harp. Lady Cecilia did not know yet distinctly what had happened. The general pressed her to lean back on the cushions which he was piling up behind her. Beauclerc made a step towards Helen, but checking himself, he turned to the ecarté table. “Those counters, after all, that we were looking for—” As he spoke he pulled open the drawer. The general with his back to him was standing before Lady Cecilia, she could not see what Beauclerc was doing, but she heard the drawer open, and cried out. “Not there, Beauclerc; no counters there—you need not look there.” But before she spoke, he had given a sudden pull to the drawer, which brought it quite out, and all the contents fell upon the floor, and there was the fatal letter, open, and the words “My dear, too dear Henry” instantly met his eyes; he looked no farther, but in that single glance the writing seemed to him to be Lady Cecilia’s, and quick his eye turned upon her. She kept perfectly quiet, and appeared to him perfectly composed. His eye then darted in search of Helen; she had sunk upon a seat behind the harp. Through the harp-strings he caught a glimpse of her face, all pale—crimsoned it grew as he advanced: she rose instantly, took up the letter, and, without speaking or looking at any one, tore it to pieces. Beauclerc in motionless astonishment. Lady Cecilia breathed again. The general’s countenance expressed “I interfere no farther.” He left the room; and Beauclerc, without another look at Helen, followed him.
For some moments after Lady Cecilia and Helen were left alone, there was a dead silence. Lady Cecilia sat with her eyes fixed upon the door through which her husband and Beauclerc had passed. She thought that Beauclerc might return; but when she found that he did not, she went to Helen, who had covered her face with her hands.
“My dearest friend,” said Lady Cecilia, “thank you! thank you!—you did the best that was possible!”
“O Cecilia!” exclaimed Helen, “to what have you exposed me?”
“How did it all happen?” continued Cecilia. “Why was not that letter burnt with the rest? How came it there? Can you tell me?”
“I do not know,” said Helen, “I cannot recollect.” But after some effort, she remembered that in the morning, while the general had been talking to her, she had in her confusion, when she took the packet, laid the picture and that letter beside her on the arm of the chair. She had, in her hurry of putting the other letters into her bag, forgotten this and the picture, and she supposed that they had fallen between the chair and the wall, and that they had been found and put into the table-drawer by one of the servants.
Helen was hastening out of the room, Cecilia detained her. “Do not go, my dear, for that would look as if you were guilty, and you know you are innocent. At the first sound of your harp Beauclerc will return—only command yourself for one hour or two.”
“Yes, it will only be for an hour or two,” said Helen, brightening with hope. “You will tell the general to-night Do you think Granville will come back? Where is the harp key?—I dropped it—here it is.” She began to tune the harp. Crack went one string—then another. “That is lucky,” said Lady Cecilia, “it will give you something to do, my love, if the people come in.”
The aide-de-camp entered. “I thought I heard harp-strings going,” said he.
“Several!—yes,” said Lady Cecilia, standing full in his way.
“Inauspicious sounds for us! had omens for my embassy.—Mrs. Holdernesse sent me.”
“I know,” said Lady Cecilia, “and you will have the goodness to tell her that Miss Stanley’s harp is unstrung.”
“Can I be of any use, Miss Stanley?” said he, moving towards the harp.
“No, no,” cried Lady Cecilia, “you are in my service,—attend to me.”
“Dear me, Lady Cecilia! I did not hear what you said.”
“That is what I complain of—hear me now.”
“I am all attention, I am sure. What are your commands?”
She gave him as many as his head could hold. A long message to Mrs. Holdernesse, and to Miss Holdernesse and Miss Anna about their music-books, which had been left in the carriage, and were to be sent for, and duets to be played, and glees, for the major and Lady Anne Ruthven.
“Good Heavens! I cannot remember any more,” cried the aide-de-camp.
“Then go off, and say and do all that before you come back again,” said Lady Cecilia.
“What amazing presence of mind you have!” said Helen. “How can you say so much, and think of every thing!”
The aide-de-camp performed all her behests to admiration, and was rewarded by promotion to the high office of turner-over general of the leaves of the music books, an office requiring, as her ladyship remarked to Miss Holdernesse, prompt eye and ear, and all his distinguished gallantry. By such compliments she fixed him to the piano-forte, while his curiosity and all his feelings, being subordinate to his vanity, were prevented from straying to Miss Stanley and her harp-stringing, a work still doing—still to do.
All the arrangement succeeded as Lady Cecilia’s arrangements usually did. Helen heard the eternal buzz of conversation and the clang of instruments, and then the harmony of music, all as in a dream, or as at the theatre, when the thoughts are absent or the feelings preoccupied; and in this dreamy state she performed the operation of putting in the harp-strings quite well: and when she was at last called upon by Cecilia, who gave her due notice and time, she sat and played automatically, without soul or spirit—but so do so many others. It passed “charmingly,” till a door softly opened behind her, and she saw the shadow on the wall, and some one stood, and passed from behind her. There was an end of her playing; however, from her just dread of making a scene, she commanded herself so powerfully, that, except her timidity, nothing was observed by the company, and that timidity was pitied by the good-natured Mrs. Holdernesse, who said to her daughter, “Anne, we must not press Miss Stanley any more; she, who is always so obliging, is tired now.” She then made way for Helen to pass, who, thanking her with such a look as might be given for a life saved, quitted the harp, and the crowd, closing behind her, happily thought of her no more. She retreated to the darkest part of the room, and sat down. She did not dare to look towards what she most wished to see. Her eyes were fixed upon the face of the young lady singing, and yet she saw not one feature of that face, while she knew, without looking, or seeming to look, exactly where Beauclerc stood. He had stationed himself in a doorway into the drawing-room; there, leaning back against the wall, he stood, and never stirred. Helen was so anxious to get one clear view of the expression of his countenance, that at last she ventured to move a little, and from behind the broad back of a great man she looked: Beauclerc’s eyes met hers. How different from their expression when they were sitting on the bank together but a few short hours before! He left the doorway instantly, and placed himself where Helen could see him no more.
Of all the rest of what passed this evening she knew nothing; she felt only a sort of astonishment at everybody’s gaiety, and a sense of the time being intolerably long. She thought that all these people never would go away—that their carriages never would be announced. But before it came to that time, General Clarendon insisted upon Lady Cecilia’s retiring. “I must,” said he, “play the tyrant, Cecilia; you have done too much to-day—Mrs. Holdernesse shall hold your place.” He carried Cecilia off, and Helen thought, or fancied, that he looked about for her. Glad to escape, she followed close behind. The general did not offer his arm or appear to notice her. When she came to the door leading to the staircase, there was Beauclerc, standing with folded arms, as in the music-room; he just bowed his head, and wished Lady Cecilia a good night, and waited, without a word, for Helen to pass, or not to pass, as she thought fit. She saw by his look that he expected explanation; but till she knew what Cecilia meant to do, how could she explain? To say nothing—to bear to be suspected,—was all she could do, without betraying her friend. That word betray—that thought ruled her. She passed him: “Good night” she could not then say. He bowed as she passed, and she heard no “Good night”—no sound. And there was the general in the hall to be passed also, before she could reach the staircase up which Cecilia was going. When he saw Helen with a look of surprise—as it seemed to her, of disapproving surprise—he said, “Are you gone, Miss Stanley?” The look, the tone, struck cold to her heart. He continued—“Though I drove Cecilia away, I did not mean to drive you away too. It is early.”
“Is it? I thought it was very late.”
“No—and if you can, I hope you will return.” There was a meaning in his eye, which she well understood.
“Thank you,” said she; “if I can certainly——”
“I hope you can and will.”
“Oh! thank you; but I must first——” see Cecilia, she was going to say, but, afraid of implicating her, she changed the sentence to—“I must first consider——”
“Consider! what the devil!” thought he, and his countenance was instantly angrily suited to the thought. Helen hesitated. “Do not let me detain—distress you farther, Miss Stanley, unavailingly; and since I shall not have the pleasure of seeing you again this evening,” concluded he, in a constrained voice, “I have the honour to wish you a good night.” He returned to the music-room.
CHAPTER II.
Helen instantly went to Cecilia’s room; Felicie was with her. Helen expected Lady Cecilia would dismiss her instantly; but mademoiselle was chattering. Helen had sometimes thought Cecilia let her talk too much, but to-night it was insufferable. Helen was too impatient, too anxious to bear it. “Cecilia, my dear, I want to speak to you alone, as soon as you can, in my own room.”
“As soon as possible,” Cecilia answered in a voice not natural. And she came, but not as soon as possible—shut the door behind her, showing that she had not dismissed Felicie, and, with hair dishevelled, as if hastening back to her room, said, “I am in a hurry; the general ordered me to make haste, and not to be an hour undressing.
“I will not keep you a moment,” said Helen. “I am in as great a hurry as you can be. Beauclerc is waiting for me.”
“Waiting for you at this time of night! Oh! my dear, he cannot be standing there with his arms folded all this time.”
Helen repeated what the general had said, and ended with, “I am determined to return.”
“No no,” Lady Cecilia said. The general could not advise her going back at this time of night. And with rapidity and confusion, she poured out a multitude of dissuasive arguments, some contradicting the others. “At this time of night! The world is not gone, and Beauclerc is in the midst of them by this time, you may be sure. You don’t think he is standing alone there all this time. You could not speak to him before all the world—don’t attempt it. You would only expose yourself. You would make a scene at last—undo all, and come to disgrace, and ruin me and yourself. I know you would, Helen. And if you were to send for him—into the library—alone! the servants would know it—and the company gone! And after all, for you, my dear, to make the first advance to reconciliation! If he is angry—I don’t think that would be quite—dignified; quite like you, Helen.”
“The general thinks it right, and I am sure he would not advise any thing improper—undignified. It does not signify, Cecilia, I am determined—I will go.” Trembling, she grew absolutely desperate from fear. “I am afraid you have forgot your promise, Cecilia; you said that if I could bear it for one hour, it would be over. Did you not promise me that if any difficulty came between me and——” She stopped short. She had felt indignant; but when she looked at Cecilia, and saw her tears, she could not go on. “Oh Helen!” cried Cecilia, “I do not ask you to pity me. You cannot know what I suffer—you are innocent—and I have done so wrong! You cannot pity me.”
“I do, I do,” cried Helen, “from the bottom of my heart. Only trust me, dear Cecilia; let me go down——”
Lady Cecilia sprang between her and the door. “Hear Me! hear me, Helen! Do not go to-night, and, cost what it will—cost me what it may, since it has come to this between you, I will confess all this night—I will tell all to the general, and clear you with him and with Granville. What more can you ask?—what more can I do, Helen? And will you go?”
“No no, my dear Cecilia. Since you promise me this, I will not go now.”
“Be satisfied then, and rest—for me there is no rest;” so saying Cecilia slowly left the room.
Helen could not sleep: this was the second wretched night she had passed in that most miserable of all uncertainty—whether she was right or wrong.
In the morning, to Helen’s astonishment, Cecilia’s first words were about a dream—“Oh, my dear Helen, I have had such a dream! I do not usually mind dreams in the least, but I must own to you that this has made an impression! My dear, I can hardly tell it; I can scarcely bear to think of it. I thought that Clarendon and I were sitting together, and my hand was on his shoulder; and I had worked myself up—I was just going to speak. He was winding up his watch, and I leaned forward to see his face better. He looked up-and it was not him: it was Colonel D’Aubigny come to life. The door opened, Clarendon appeared—his eyes were upon me; but I do not know what came afterwards; all was confusion and fighting. And then I was with that nurse my mother recommended, and an infant in her arms. I was going to take the child, when Clarendon snatched it, and threw it into the flames. Oh! I awoke with a scream!”
“How glad you must have been,” said Helen, “to awake and find it was only a dream!”
“But when I screamed,” continued Cecilia, “Clarendon started up, and asked if I was in pain. ‘Not of body,’ I said;—and then—oh, Helen! then I thought I would begin. ‘Not of body,’ I said, ‘but of mind;’ then I added, ‘I was thinking of Helen and Beauclerc,’ Clarendon said, ‘So was I; but there is no use in thinking of it; we can do no good.’—‘Then,’ I said, ‘suppose, Clarendon—only suppose that Helen, without saying any thing, were to let this matter pass off with Beauclerc?’—Clarendon answered, ‘It would not pass off with Beauclerc.’—‘But,’ said I, ‘I do not mean without any explanation at all. Only suppose that Helen did not enter into any particulars, do not you think, Clarendon, that things would go on well enough?’—‘No,’ he said decidedly, ‘no.’—‘Do you mean,’ said I, ‘that things would not go on at all?’—‘I do not say, not at all,’ he answered; ‘but well they would not go on.’”
“I am sure the general is right,” said Helen.
“Then,” continued Lady Cecilia, “then I put the question differently. I wanted to feel my way, to try whether I could possibly venture upon my own confession. ‘Consider it this way, Clarendon,’ I said. ‘Take it for granted that Helen did somehow arrange that Beauclerc were to be satisfied without any formal explanation.’—‘Formal!’ said he,—‘I will not say formal,’ said I; ‘but without a full explanation: in short, suppose that from mere timidity, Helen could not, did not, exactly tell him the whole before marriage—put it off till afterwards—then told him all candidly; do you think, Clarendon, that if you were in Beauclerc’s place (I quite stammered when I came to this)—do you think you could pardon, or forgive, or esteem, or love,’ I intended to end with, but he interrupted me with—‘I do not know,’ very shortly; and added, ‘I hope this is not what Miss Stanley intends to do?’”
“Oh! what did you answer?” cried Helen.
“I said I did not know. My dear Helen, it was the only thing I could say. What would Clarendon have thought, after all my supposes, if I had said any thing else? he must have seen the truth.”
“And that he is not to see,” said Helen: “and how false he must think me!”
“No, no; for I told him,” continued Lady Cecilia, “that I was sure you wished always to tell the whole truth about everything, but that there might be circumstances where you really could not; and where I, knowing all the circumstances, could not advise it. He said, ‘Cecilia, I desire you will not advise or interfere any farther in this matter. Promise me, Cecilia!’ He spoke sternly, and I promised as fast as I could. ‘Do nothing, say nothing more about it,’ he repeated; and now, after that, could I go on, Helen?”
“No, indeed; I do not think you could. My dear Cecilia, I really think you could not,” said Helen, much moved.
“And do you forgive me, my dear, good——.” But seeing Helen change colour, Lady Cecilia, following her eye, and looking out of the window, started up, exclaiming, “There is Beauclerc; I see him in my mother’s walk. I will go to him this minute; yes, I will trust him—I will tell him all instantly.”
Helen caught hold of her, and stopped her. Surprised, Cecilia said, “Do not stop me. I may never have the courage again if stopped now. Do not stop me, Helen.”
“I must, Cecilia. General Clarendon desired you not to interfere in the matter.”
“But this is not interfering, only interposing to prevent mischief.”
“But, Cecilia,” continued Helen eagerly, “another reason has just struck me.”
“I wish reasons would not strike you. Let me go. Oh, Helen; it is for you.”
“And it is for you I speak, Cecilia,” said Helen, as fast as she could. “If you told Beauclerc, you never could afterwards tell the general; it would be a new difficulty. You know the general could never endure your having confessed this to any man but himself—trusted Beauclerc rather than your husband.”
Cecilia stopped, and stood silent.
“My dear Cecilia,” continued Helen, “you must leave me to my own judgment now;” and, breaking from Cecilia, she left the room. She hurried out to meet Beauclerc. He stopped on seeing her, and then came forward with an air of evident deliberation.
“Do you wish to speak to me, Miss Stanley!”
“Miss Stanley!” cried Helen; “is it come to this, and without hearing me!”
“Without hearing you, Helen! Was not I ready last night to hear you? Without hearing you! Have not you kept me in torture, the worst of tortures—suspense? Why did not you speak to me last night?”
“I could not.”
“Why, why?”
“I cannot tell you,” said she.
“Then I can tell you, Helen.”
“You can!”
“And will. Helen, you could not speak to me till you had consulted—arranged—settled what was to be said—what not to be said—what told—what left untold.”
Between each half sentence he darted looks at her, defying hers to contradict—and she could not contradict by word or look. “You could not speak,” continued he passionately, “till you had well determined what was to be told—what left untold to me! To me, Helen, your confiding—devoted—accepted lover! for I protest before Heaven, had I knelt at the altar with you, Helen Stanley, not more yours, not more mine could I have deemed you—not more secure of your love and truth—your truth, for what is love without it!—not more secure of perfect felicity could I have been on earth than I was when we two sat together but yesterday evening on that bank. Your words—your looks—and still your looks—But what signify tears!—Tears, women’s tears! Oh! what is woman!—and what is man that believes in her?—weaker still?”
“Hear me!—hear me!”
“Hear you?—No, Helen, do not now ask me to hear you.—Do not force me to hear you.—Do not debase, do not sully, that perfect image of truth.—Do not sink yourself, Helen, from that height at which it was my entranced felicity to see you. Leave me one blessed, one sacred illusion. No,” cried he, with increasing vehemence, “say nothing of all you have prepared—not one arranged word conned over in your midnight and your morning consultations,” pointing back to the window of her dressing-room, where he had seen her and Lady Cecilia.
“You saw,” Helen began——
“Yes.—Am I blind, think you?—I wish I were. Oh! that I could be again the believing, fond, happy dupe I was but yesterday evening!”
“Dupe!” repeated Helen. “But pour out all—all, dear Granville. Think—say—what you will—reproach—abuse me as you please. It is a relief—take it—for I have none to give.”
“None!” cried he, his tone suddenly changing, “no relief to give!—What! have you nothing to say?—No explanation?—Why speak to me then at all?”
“To tell you so at once—to end your suspense—to tell you that I cannot explain. The midnight consultation and the morning, were not to prepare for you excuse or apology, but to decide whether I could tell you the whole; and since that cannot be, I determined not to enter into any explanation. I am glad that you do not wish to hear any.”
“Answer me one question,” said he:—“that picture-did you give it to Colonel D’Aubigny?”
“No. That is a question I can answer. No—he stole it from Cecilia’s portfolio. Ask me no more.”
“One question more—”
“No, not one more—I cannot tell you anything more.”
She was silent for a moment, he withdrew his eyes, and she went on.
“Granville! I must now put your love and esteem for me to the test. If that love be what I believe it to be; if your confidence in me is what I think it ought to be, I am now going to try it. There is a mystery which I cannot explain. I tell you this, and yet I expect you to believe that I am innocent of anything wrong but the concealment. There are circumstances which I cannot tell you.”
“But why?” interrupted Beauclerc.—“Ought there to be any circumstances which cannot be told to the man to whom you have plighted your faith? Away with this ‘cannot—this mystery!’ Did not I tell you every folly of my life—every fault? And what is this?—in itself, nothing!—concealment everything—Oh! Helen—”
She was going to say, “If it concerned only myself,”—but that would at once betray Cecilia, and she went on.—“If it were in my opinion right to tell it to you, I would. On this point, Granville, leave me to judge and act for myself. This is the test to which I put your love—put mine to any test you will, but if your confidence in me is not sufficient to endure this trial, we can never be happy together.” She spoke very low: but Beauclerc listened with such intensity that he could not only distinguish every syllable she said, but could distinctly hear the beating of her heart, which throbbed violently, in spite of all her efforts to be calm. “Can you trust me?” concluded she.
“I can,” cried he. “I can—I do! By Heaven I do! I think you an angel, and legions of devils could not convince me of the contrary. I trust your word—I trust that heavenly countenance—I trust entirely——” He offered, and she took his offered hand. “I trust entirely. Not one question more shall I ask—not a suspicion shall I have: you put me to the test, you shall find me stand it.”
“Can you?” said she; “you know how much I ask. I acknowledge a mystery, and yet I ask you to believe that I am not wrong.”
“I know,” said she; “you shall see.” And both in happiness once more, they returned to the house.
“I love her a thousand times better than ever,” thought Beauclerc, “for the independence of mind she shows in thus braving my opinion, daring to set all upon the cast—something noble in this! I am to form my own judgment of her, and I will, independently of what any other human being may say or think. The general, with his strict, narrow, conventional notions, has not an idea of the kind of woman I like, or of what Helen really is. He sees in Helen only the discreet proper-behaved young lady, adapted, so nicely adapted to her place in society, to nitch and notch in, and to be of no sort of value out of it. Give me a being able to stand alone, to think and feel, decide and act, for herself. Were Helen only what the general thinks her, she would not be for me; while she is what I think her, I love—I adore!” And when he saw his guardian, Beauclerc declared that, though Helen had entered into no explanations, he was perfectly satisfied.
The general answered, “I am glad you are satisfied.” Beauclerc perceived that the general was not; and in spite of all that he had just been saying to himself, this provoked and disgusted him. His theory of his own mind, if not quite false, was still a little at variance with his practice. His guardian’s opinion swayed him powerfully, whenever he believed that it was not designed to influence him; when the opinion was repressed, he could not rest without drawing it out. “Then, you think, general,” said he, “that some explanation ought to have been made?”
“No matter what I think, Granville, the affair is yours. If you are satisfied, that is all that is necessary.”
Then even, because left on their own point of suspension to vibrate freely, the diamond-scales of Beauclerc’s mind began to move, from some nice, unseen cause of variation. “But,” said he, “General Clarendon, no one can judge without knowing facts.”
“So I apprehend,” said the general.
“I may be of too easy faith,” replied Beauclerc.—[No reply.] “This is a point of honour.”—[No denial.] “My dear general, if there be anything which weighs with you, and which you know and I do not, I think, as my friend and my guardian, you ought to tell it to me.”
“Pardon me,” said the general, turning away from Beauclerc as he spoke, and striking first one heel of his boot against the scraper at the hall-door, then the other—“pardon me, Granville, I cannot admit you to be a better judge than I am myself of what I ought to do or not to do.”
The tone was dry and proud, but Beauclerc’s provoked imagination conceived it to be also mysterious; the scales of his mind vibrated again, but he had said he would trust—trust entirely, and he would: yet he could not succeed in banishing all doubt, till an idea started into his head—“That writing was Lady Cecilia’s! I thought so at the first moment, and I let it go again. It is hers, and Helen is keeping her secret:—but could Lady Cecilia be so ungenerous—so treacherous?” However, he had declared he would ask no questions; he was a man of honour, and he would ask none—none even of himself—a resolution which he found it surprisingly easy to keep when the doubt concerned only Lady Cecilia. Whenever the thought crossed his mind, he said to himself, “I will ask nothing—suspect nobody; but if it is Lady Cecilia’s affair, it is all the more generous in Helen.” And so, secure in this explanation, though he never allowed to himself that he admitted it, his trust in Helen was easy and complete, and his passion for her increased every hour.
But Lady Cecilia was disturbed even by the perfect confidence and happiness of Beauclerc’s manner towards Helen. She could not but fear that he had guessed the truth; and it seemed as if everything which happened tended to confirm him in his suspicions; for, whenever the mind is strongly interested on any subject, something alluding to it seems wonderfully, yet accidentally, to occur in everything that we read, or hear in common conversation, and so it now happened; things were continually said by persons wholly unconcerned, which seemed to bear upon her secret. Lady Cecilia frequently felt this with pangs of confusion, shame, and remorse; and, though Beauclerc did not watch, or play the spy upon her countenance, he could not help sometimes observing the flitting colour—the guilty changes of countenance—the assumed composure: that mind, once so artless, began to be degraded—her spirits sank; she felt that she “had lost the sunshine of a soul without a mystery!”
The day fixed for the marriage approached; Lady Cecilia had undertaken the superintendence of the trousseau, and Felicie was in anxious expectation of its arrival. Helen had written to the Collingwoods to announce the intended event, asking for the good bishop’s sanction, as her guardian, and regretting that he could not perform the ceremony. She had received from Lady Davenant a few lines, written just before she sailed, warm with all the enthusiasm of her ardent heart, and full of expectation that Helen’s lot would be one of the happiest this world could afford. All seemed indeed to smile upon her prospects, and the only clouds which dimmed the sunshine were Cecilia’s insincerity, and her feeling that the general thought her acting unhandsomely and unwisely towards his ward; but she consoled herself with the thought that he could not judge of what he did not know, that she did not deserve his displeasure, that Granville was satisfied, and if he was, why should not General Clarendon be so too? Much more serious, however, was the pain she felt on Cecilia’s account. She reproached herself with betraying the trust Lady Davenant had reposed in her. That dreadful prophecy seemed now accomplishing: Cecilia’s natural generosity, that for which Helen had ever most loved and admired her, the brightest, fairest parts of her character, seemed failing now; what could be more selfish than Cecilia’s present conduct towards herself, more treacherous to her noble minded, her confiding husband! The openness, the perfect unreserve between the two friends, was no longer what it had been. Helen, however, felt the constraint between them the less as she was almost constantly with Beauclerc, and in her young happiness she hoped all would be right. Cecilia would tell the general, and they would be as intimate, as affectionate, as they had ever been.
One morning General Clarendon, stopping Cecilia as she was coming down to breakfast, announced that he was obliged to set off instantly for London, on business which could not be delayed, and that she must settle with Miss Stanley whether they would accompany him or remain at Clarendon Park. He did not know, he said, how long he might be detained.
Cecilia was astonished, and excessively curious; she tried her utmost address to discover what was the nature of his business, in vain. All that remained was to do as he required without more words. He left the room, and Cecilia decided at once that they had better accompany him. She dreaded some delay; she thought that, if the general went alone to town, he might be detained Heaven knows how long; and though the marriage must be postponed at all events, yet if they went with the general, the ceremony might be performed in town as well as at Clarendon Park; and she with some difficulty convinced Helen of this. Beauclerc feared nothing but delay. They were to go. Lady Cecilia announced their decision to the general, who immediately set off, and the others in a few hours followed him.