Tales and Novels — Volume 10 / Helen

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—

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.