CHAPTER XII.
But there was still in Helen’s inmost soul one deceitful hope. She thought she had pulled it up by the roots many times, and the last time completely; but still a little fibre lurked, and still it grew again. It was the hope that Cecilia would keep that last promise, though at the moment Helen had flung from her the possibility; yet now she took it up again, and she thought it was possible that Cecilia might be true to her word. If her child should be born alive, and if it should be a boy! It became a heart-beating suspense as the time approached, and every day the news might be expected. The post came in but three times a week at Llansillen, and every post day Miss Clarendon repeated her prophecy to her aunt, “You will see, ma’am, the child will be born in good time, and alive. You who have always been so much afraid for Lady Cecilia, will find she has not feeling enough to do her any harm.”
In due time came a note from the general. “A boy! child and mother doing well. Give me joy.”
The joy to Miss Clarendon was much increased by the triumph, in her own perfectly right opinion. Mrs. Pennant’s was pure affectionate joy for the father, and for Lady Cecilia, for whom, all sinner as she was in her niece’s eyes, this good soul had compassion. Helen’s anxiety to hear again and again every post was very natural, the aunt thought; quite superfluous, the niece deemed it: Lady Cecilia would do very well, no doubt, she prophesied again, and laughed at the tremor, the eagerness, with which Helen every day asked if there was any letter from Cecilia. At last one came, the first in her own hand-writing, and it was to Helen herself, and it extinguished all hope. Helen could only articulate, “Oh! Cecilia!” Her emotion, her disappointment, were visible, but unaccountable: she could give no reason for it to Miss Clarendon, whose wondering eye was upon her; nor even to sympathising aunt Pennant could she breathe a word without betraying Cecilia; she was silent, and there was all that day, and many succeeding days, a hopelessness of languor in her whole appearance. There was, as Miss Clarendon termed it, a “backsliding in her recovery,” which grieved aunt Pennant, and Helen had to bear imputation of caprice, and of indolence from Miss Clarendon; but even that eye immediately upon her, that eye more severe than ever, had not power to rouse her. Her soul was sunk within, nothing farther to hope; there, was a dead calm, and the stillness and loneliness of Llansillen made that calm almost awful. The life of great excitation which she had led previous to her illness, rendered her more sensible of the change, of the total want of stimulus. The walks to Price’s cottage had been repeated, but, though it was a very bright spot, the eye could not always be fixed upon it.
Bodily exertion being more easy to her now than mental, she took long walks, and came in boasting how far she had been, and looking quite exhausted. And Miss Clarendon wondered at her wandering out alone; then she tried to walk with Miss Clarendon, and she was more tired, though the walks were shorter—and that was observed, and was not agreeable either to the observer, or to the observed. Helen endeavoured to make up for it; she followed Miss Clarendon about in all her various occupations, from flower-garden to conservatory, and from conservatory to pheasantry, and to all her pretty cottages, and her schools, and she saw and admired all the good that Esther did so judiciously, and with such extraordinary, such wonderful energy.
“Nothing wonderful in it,” Miss Clarendon said: and as she ungraciously rejected praise, however sincere, and required not sympathy, Helen was reduced to be a mere silent, stupid, useless stander-by, and she could not but feel this a little awkward. She tried to interest herself for the poor people in the neighbourhood, but their language was unintelligible to her, and her’s to them, and it is hard work trying to make objects for oneself in quite a new place, and with a pre-occupying sorrow in the mind all the time. It was not only hard work to Helen, but it seemed labour in vain—bringing soil by handfulls to a barren rock, where, after all, no plant will take root. Miss Clarendon thought that labour could never be in vain.
One morning, when it must be acknowledged that Helen had been sitting too long in the same position, with her head leaning on her hand, Miss Clarendon in her abrupt voice asked, “How much longer, Helen, do you intend to sit there, doing only what is the worst thing in the world for you—thinking?”
Helen started, and said she feared she had been sitting too long idle.
“If you wish to know how long, I can tell you,” said Miss Clarendon; “just one hour and thirteen minutes.”
“By the stop watch,” said Helen, smiling.
“By my watch,” said grave Miss Clarendon; “and in the mean time look at the quantity of work I have done.”
“And done so nicely!” said Helen, looking at it with admiration.
“Oh, do not think to bribe me with admiration; I would rather see you do something yourself than hear you praise my doings.”
“If I had anybody to work for. I have so few friends now in the world who would care for anything I could do! But I will try—you shall see, my dear Esther, by and bye.”
“By and bye! no, no—now. I cannot bear to see you any longer, in this half-alive, half-dead state.”
“I know,” said Helen, “that all you say is for my good. I am sure your only object is my happiness.”
“Your happiness is not in my power or in your’s, but it is in your power to deserve to be happy, by doing what is right—by exerting yourself:—that is my object, for I see you are in danger of being lost in indolence. Now you have the truth and the whole truth.”
Many a truth would have come mended from Miss Clarendon’s tongue, if it had been uttered in a softer tone, and if she had paid a little more attention to times and seasons: but she held it the sacred duty of sincerity to tell a friend her faults as soon as seen, and without circumlocution.
The next day Helen set about a drawing. She made it an object to herself, to try to copy a view of the dear Deanery in the same style as several beautiful drawings of Miss Clarendon’s. While she looked over her portfolio, several of her old sketches recalled remembrances which made her sigh frequently; Miss Clarendon heard her, and said—“I wish you would cure yourself of that habit of sighing; it is very bad for you.”
“I know it,” said Helen.
“Despondency is not penitence,” continued Esther: “reverie is not reparation.”
She felt as desirous as ever to make Helen happy at Llansillen, but she was provoked to find it impossible to do so. Of a strong body herself, capable of great resistance, powerful reaction under disappointment or grief, she could ill make allowance for feebler health and spirits—perhaps feebler character. For great misfortunes she had great sympathy, but she could not enter into the details of lesser sorrows, especially any of the sentimental kind, which she was apt to class altogether under the head—“Sorrows of my Lord Plumcake!” an expression which had sovereignly taken her fancy, and which her aunt did not relish, or quite understand.
Mrs. Pennant was, indeed, as complete a contrast to her niece in these points, as nature and habit joined could produce. She was naturally of the most exquisitely sympathetic mimosa-sensibility, shrinking and expanding to the touch of others’ joy or woe; and instead of having by long use worn this out, she had preserved it wonderfully fresh in advanced years. But, notwithstanding the contrast and seemingly incompatible difference between this aunt and niece, the foundations of their characters both being good, sound, and true, they lived on together well, and loved each other dearly. They had seldom differed so much on any point as in the present case, as to their treatment of their patient and their guest. Scarcely a day passed in which they did not come to some mutual remonstrance; and sometimes when she was by, which was not pleasant to her, as may be imagined. Yet perhaps even these little altercations and annoyances, though they tried Helen’s temper or grieved her heart at the moment, were of use to her upon the whole, by drawing her out of herself. Besides, these daily vicissitudes—made by human temper, manner, and character—supplied in some sort the total want of events, and broke the monotony of these tedious months.
The general’s bulletins, however, became at last more favourable: Mr. Churchill was decidedly better; his physician hoped he might soon be pronounced out of danger. The general said nothing of Beauclerc, but that he was, he believed, still at Paris. And from this time forward no more letters came from Beauclerc to Helen; as his hopes of Churchill’s recovery increased, he expected every day to be released from his banishment, and was resolved to write no more till he could say that he was free. But Helen, though she did not allow it to herself, felt this deeply: she thought that her determined silence had at last convinced him that all pursuit of her was vain; and that he submitted to her rejection: she told herself it was what should be, and yet she felt it bitterly. Lady Cecilia’s letters did not mention him, indeed they scarcely told anything; they had become short and constrained: the general, she said, advised her to go out more, and her letters often concluded in haste, with “Carriage at the door,” and all the usual excuses of a London life.
One day when Helen was sitting intently drawing, Miss Clarendon said “Helen!” so suddenly that she started and looked round; Miss Clarendon was seated on a low stool at her aunt’s feet, with one arm thrown over her great dog’s neck; he had laid his head on her lap, and resting on him, she looked up with a steadiness, a fixity of repose, which brought to Helen’s mind Raphael’s beautiful figure of Fortitude leaning on her lion; she thought she had never before seen Miss Clarendon look so handsome, so graceful, so interesting; she took care not to say so, however.
“Helen!” continued Miss Clarendon, “do you remember the time when I was at Clarendon Park and quitted it so abruptly? My reasons were good, whatever my manner was; the opinion of the world I am not apt to fear for myself, or even for my brother, but to the whispers of conscience I do listen. Helen! I was conscious that certain feelings in my mind were too strong,—in me, you would scarcely believe it—too tender. I had no reason to think that Granville Beauclerc liked me; it was therefore utterly unfit that I should think of him: I felt this, I left Clarendon Park, and from that moment I have refused myself the pleasure of his society, I have altogether ceased to think of him. This is the only way to conquer a hopeless attachment. But you, Helen, though you have commanded him never to attempt to see you again, have not been able to command your own mind. Since Mr. Churchill is so much better, you expect that he will soon be pronounced out of danger—you expect that Mr. Beauclerc will come over—come here, and be at your feet!”
“I expect nothing,” said Helen in a faltering voice, and then added resolutely, “I cannot foresee what Mr. Beauclerc may do, but of this be assured, Miss Clarendon, that until I stand as I once stood, and as I deserve to stand, in the opinion of your brother; unless, above all, I can bring proofs to Granville’s confiding heart, that I have ever been unimpeachable of conduct and of mind, and in all but one circumstance true—true as yourself, Esther—never, never, though your brother and all the world consented, never till I myself felt that I was proved to be as worthy to be his wife as I think I am, would I consent to marry him—no, not though my heart were to break.”
“I believe it,” said Mrs. Pennant; “and I wish—oh, how I wish—”
“That Lady Cecilia were hanged, as she deserves,” said Miss Clarendon: “so do I, I am sure; but that is nothing to the present purpose.”
“No, indeed,” said Helen.
“Helen!” continued Esther, “remember that Lady Blanche Forrester is at Paris.”
Helen shrank.
“Lady Cecilia tells you there is no danger; I say there is.”
“Why should you say so, my dear Esther?” said her aunt.
“Has not this friend of yours always deceived, misled you, Helen?”
“She can have no motive for deceiving me in this,” said Helen: “I believe her.”
“Believe her then!” cried Miss Clarendon; “believe her, and do not believe me, and take the consequences: I have done.”
Helen sighed, but though she might feel the want of the charm of Lady Cecilia’s suavity of manner, of her agreeable, and her agreeing temper, yet she felt the safe solidity of principle in her present friend, and admired, esteemed, and loved, without fear of change, her unblenching truth. Pretty ornaments of gold cannot be worked out of the native ore; to fashion the rude mass some alloy must be used, and when the slight filigree of captivating manner comes to be tested against the sterling worth of unalloyed sincerity, weighed in the just balance of adversity, we are glad to seize the solid gold, and leave the ornaments to those that they deceive.
The fear about Lady Blanche Forrester was, however, soon set at rest, and this time Lady Cecilia was right. A letter from her to Helen announced that Lady Blanche was married!—actually married, and not to Granville Beauclerc, but to some other English gentleman at Paris, no matter whom. Lord Beltravers and Madame de St. Cymon, disappointed, had returned to London; Lady Cecilia had seen Lord Beltravers, and heard the news from him. There could be no doubt of the truth of the intelligence, and scarcely did Helen herself rejoice in it with more sincerity than did Miss Clarendon, and Helen loved her for her candour as well as for her sympathy.
Time passed on; week after week rolled away. At last General Clarendon announced to his sister, but without one word to Helen, that Mr. Churchill was pronounced out of danger. The news had been sent to his ward, the general said, and he expected Granville would return from his banishment immediately.
Quite taken up in the first tumult of her feelings at this intelligence, Helen scarcely observed that she had no letter from Cecilia. But even aunt Pennant was obliged to confess, in reply to her niece’s observation, that this was “certainly very odd! but we shall soon hear some explanation, I hope.”
Miss Clarendon shook her head; she said that she had always thought how matters would end; she judged from her brother’s letters that he began to find out that he was not the happiest of men. Yet nothing to that effect was ever said by him; one phrase only excepted, in his letter to her on her last birth-day, which began with, “In our happy days, my dear Esther.”
Miss Clarendon said nothing to Helen upon this subject; she refrained altogether from mentioning Lady Cecilia.
Two, three post-days passed without bringing any letter to Helen. The fourth, very early in the morning, long before the usual time for the arrival of the post, Rose came into her room with a letter in her hand, saying, “From General Clarendon, ma’am. His own man, Mr. Cockburn, has just this minute arrived, ma’am—from London.” With a trembling hand, Helen tore the letter open: not one word from General Clarendon! It was only a cover, containing two notes; one from Lord Davenant to the general, the other from Lady Davenant to Helen.
Lord Davenant said that Lady Davenant’s health had declined so alarmingly after their arrival at Petersburgh, that he had insisted upon her return to England, and that as soon as the object of his mission was completed, he should immediately follow her. A vessel, he said, containing letters from England, had been lost, so that they were in total ignorance of what had occurred at home; and, indeed, it appeared from the direction of Lady Davenant’s note to Helen, written on her landing in England, that she had left Russia without knowing that the marriage had been broken off, or that Helen had quitted General Clarendon’s. She wrote—“Let me see you and Granville once more before I die. Be in London, at my own house, to meet me. I shall be there as soon as I can be moved.”
The initials only of her name were signed. Elliot added a postscript, saying that her lady had suffered much from an unusually long passage, and that she was not sure what day they could be in town.
There was nothing from Lady Cecilia.—Cockburn said that her ladyship had not been at home when he set out; that his master had ordered him to travel all night, to get to Llansillen as fast as possible, and to make no delay in delivering the letter to Miss Stanley.
To set out instantly, to be in town at her house to meet Lady Davenant, was, of course, Helen’s immediate determination. General Clarendon had sent his travelling carriage for her; and under the circumstances, her friends could have no wish but to speed her departure. Miss Clarendon expressed surprise at there being no letter from Lady Cecilia, and would see and question Cockburn herself; but nothing more was to be learned than what he had already told, that the packet from Lady Davenant had come by express to his master after Lady Cecilia had driven out, as it had been her custom of late, almost every day, to Kensington, to see her child. Nothing could be more natural, Mrs. Pennant thought, and she only wondered at Esther’s unconvinced look of suspicion. “Nothing, surely, can be more natural, my dear Esther.” To which Esther replied, “Very likely, ma’am.” Helen was too much hurried and too much engrossed by the one idea of Lady Davenant to think of what they said. At parting she had scarcely time even to thank her two friends for all their kindness, but they understood her feelings, and, as Miss Clarendon said, words on that point were unnecessary. Aunt Pennant embraced her again and again, and then let her go, saying, “I must not detain you, my dear.”
“But I must,” said Miss Clarendon, “for one moment. There is one point on which my parting words are necessary. Helen! keep clear of Lady Cecilia’s affairs, whatever they may be. Hear none of her secrets.”
Helen wished she had never heard any; did not believe there were any more to hear; but she promised herself and Miss Clarendon that she would observe this excellent counsel.
And now she was in the carriage, and on her road to town. And now she had leisure to breathe, and to think, and to feel. Her thoughts and feelings, however, could be only repetitions of fears and hopes about Lady Davenant, and uncertainty and dread of what would happen when she should require explanation of all that had occurred in her absence. And how would Lady Cecilia he able to meet her mother’s penetration?—ill or well, Lady Davenant was so clear-sighted. “And how shall I,” thought Helen, “without plunging deeper in deceit, avoid revealing the truth? Shall I assist Cecilia to deceive her mother in her last moments; or shall I break my promise, betray Cecilia’s secret, and at last be the death of her mother by the shock?” It is astonishing how often the mind can go over the same thoughts and feelings without coming to any conclusion, any ease from racking suspense. In the mean time, on rolled the carriage, and Cockburn, according to his master’s directions, got her over the ground with all conceivable speed.
CHAPTER XIII
When they were within the last stage of London, the carriage suddenly stopped, and Helen, who was sitting far back, deep in her endless reverie, started forward—Cockburn was at the carriage-door.
“My lady, coming to meet you, Miss Stanley.”
It was Cecilia herself. But Cecilia so changed in her whole appearance, that Helen would scarcely have known her. She was so much struck that she hardly knew what was said; but the carriage-doors were opened, and Lady Cecilia was beside her, and Cockburn shut the door without permitting one moment’s delay, and on they drove.
Lady Cecilia was excessively agitated. Helen had not power to utter a word, and was glad that Cecilia went on speaking very fast; though she spoke without appearing to know well what she was saying: of Helen’s goodness in coming so quickly, of her fears that she would never have been in time—“but she was in time,—her mother had not yet arrived. Clarendon had gone to meet her on the road, she believed—she was not quite certain.”
That seemed very extraordinary to Helen. “Not quite certain?” said she.
“No, I am not,” replied Cecilia, and she coloured; her very pale cheek flushed; but she explained not at all, she left that subject, and spoke of the friends Helen had left at Llansillen—then suddenly of her mother’s return—her hopes—her fears—and then, without going on to the natural idea of seeing her mother, and of how soon they should see her, began to talk of Beauclerc—of Mr. Churchill’s being quite out of danger—of the general’s expectation of Beauclerc’s immediate return. “And then, my dearest Helen,” said she, “all will be——-”
“Oh! I do not know how it will be!” cried she, her tone changing suddenly; and, from the breathless hurry in which she had been running on, sinking at once to a low broken tone, and speaking very slowly. “I cannot tell what will become of any of us. We can never be happy again—any one of us. And it is all my doing—and I cannot die. Oh! Helen, when I tell you——-”
She stopped, and Miss Clarendon’s warning counsel, all her own past experience, were full in Helen’s mind; and after a moment’s silence, she stopped Cecilia just as she seemed to have gathered power to speak, and begged that she would not tell her any thing that was to be kept secret. She could not, would not hear any secrets; she turned her head aside, and let down the glass, and looked out, as if determined not to be compelled to receive this confidence.
“Have you, then, lost all interest, all affection for me, Helen? I deserve it!—But you need not fear me now, Helen: I have done with deception, would to Heaven I had never begun with it!”
It was the tone and look of truth—she steadily fixed her eyes upon Helen—and instead of the bright beams that used to play in those eyes, there was now a dark deep-seated sorrow, almost despair. Helen was touched to the heart: it was indeed impossible for her, it would have been impossible for any one who had any feeling, to have looked upon Lady Cecilia Clarendon at that moment, and to have recollected what she had so lately been, without pity. The friend of her childhood looked upon her with all the poignant anguish of compassion—
“Oh! my dear Cecilia! how changed!”
Helen was not sensible that she uttered the words “how changed!”
“Changed! yes! I believe I am,” said Lady Cecilia, in a calm voice, “very much changed in appearance, but much more in reality; my mind is more altered than my person. Oh! Helen! if you could see into my mind at this moment, and know how completely it is changed;—but it is all in vain now! You have suffered, and suffered for me! but your sufferings could not equal mine. You lost love and happiness, but still conscious of deserving both: I had both at my command, and I could enjoy neither under the consciousness, the torture of remorse.”
Helen threw her arms round her, and exclaimed, “Do not think of me!—all will be well—since you have resolved on the truth, all will yet be well.”
Cecilia sighed deeply and went on.—“I am sure, Helen, you were surprised that my child was born alive; at least I was. I believe its mother had not feeling enough to endanger its existence. Well, Clarendon has that comfort at all events, and, as a boy, it will never put him in mind of his mother. Well, Helen, I had hopes of myself to the last minute; I really and truly hoped, as I told you, that I should have had courage to tell him all when I put the child into his arms. But his joy!—I could not dash his joy—I could not!—and then I thought I never could. I knew you would give me up; I gave up all hope of myself. I was very unhappy, and Clarendon thought I was very ill; and I acknowledge that I was anxious about you, and let all the blame fall on you, innocent, generous creature!—I heard my husband perpetually upbraiding you when he saw me ill—all, he said, the consequences of your falsehood—and all the time I knew it was my own.
“My dear Helen, it is impossible to tell you all the daily, hourly necessities for dissimulation which occurred. Every day, you know, we were to send to inquire for Mr. Churchill; and every day when Clarendon brought me the bulletin, he pitied me, and blamed you; and the double dealing in my countenance he never suspected—always interpreted favourably. Oh, such confidence as he had in me—and how it has been wasted, abused! Then letters from Beauclerc—how I bore to hear them read I cannot conceive: and at each time that I escaped, I rejoiced and reproached myself—and reproached myself and rejoiced. I succeeded in every effort at deception, and was cursed by my own success. Encouraged to proceed, I soon went on without shame and without fear. The general heard me defending you against the various reports which my venomous cousin had circulated, and he only admired what he called ‘my amiable zeal.’ His love for me increased, but it gave me no pleasure: for, Helen, now I am going to tell you an extraordinary turn which my mind took, for which I cannot account—I can hardly believe it—it seems out of human nature—my love for him decreased!—not only because I felt that he would hate me if he discovered my deceit, but because he was lowered in my estimation! I had always had, as every body has, even my mother, the highest opinion of his judgment. To that judgment I had always looked up; it had raised me in my own opinion; it was a motive to me to be equal to what he thought me: but now that motive was gone, I no longer looked up to him; his credulous affection had blinded his judgment—he was my dupe! I could not reverence—I could not love one who was my dupe. But I cannot tell you how shocked I was at myself when I felt my love for him decrease every time I saw him.
“I thought myself a monster; I had grown use to every thing but that—that I could not endure; it was a darkness of the mind—a coldness; it was as if the sun had gone out of the universe; it was more—it was worse—it was as if I was alone in the world. Home was a desert to me. I went out every evening; sometimes, but rarely, Clarendon accompanied me: he had become more retired; his spirits had declined with mine; and though he was glad I should go out and amuse myself, yet he was always exact as to the hours of my return. I was often late—later than I ought to have been, and I made a multitude of paltry excuses; this it was, I believe, which first shook his faith in my truth; but I was soon detected in a more decided failure.
“You know I never had the least taste for play of any kind: you may remember I used to be scolded for never minding what I was about at ecarté: in short, I never had the least love for it—it wearied me; but now that my spirits were gone, it was a sort of intoxication in which I cannot say I indulged—for it was no indulgence, but to which I had recourse. Louisa Castlefort, you know, was always fond of play—got into her first difficulties by that means—she led me on. I lost a good deal of money to her, and did not care about it as long as I could pay; but presently it came to a time when I could not pay without applying to the general: I applied to him, but under false pretences—to pay this bill or that, or to buy something, which I never bought: this occurred so often and to such extent, that he suspected—he discovered how it went; he told me so. He spoke in that low, suppressed, that terrible voice which I had heard once before; I said, I know not what, in deprecation of his anger. ‘I am not angry, Cecilia,’ said he. I caught his hand, and would have detained him; he withdrew that hand, and, looking at me, exclaimed, ‘Beautiful creature! half those charms would I give for truth!’ He left the room, and there was contempt in his look.
“All my love—all my reverence, returned for him in an instant; but what could I say? He never recurred to the subject; and now, when I saw the struggle in his mind, my passion for him returned in all its force.
“People who flattered me often, you know, said I was fascinating, and I determined to use my powers of fascination to regain my husband’s heart; how little I knew that heart! I dressed to please him—oh! I never dressed myself with such care in my most coquettish days;—I gave a splendid ball; I dressed to please him—he used to be delighted with my dancing: he had said, no matter what, but I wanted to make him say it—feel it again; he neither said nor felt it. I saw him standing looking at me, and at the close of the dance I heard from him one sigh. I was more in love with him than when first we were married, and he saw it, but that did not restore me to his confidence—his esteem; nothing could have done that, but—what I had not. One step in dissimulation led to another.
“After Lord Beltravers returned from Paris on Lady Blanche’s marriage, I used to meet him continually at Louisa Castlefort’s. As for play, that was over with me for ever, but I went to Louisa’s continually, because it was the gayest house I could go to; I used to meet Lord Beltravers there, and he pretended to pay me a vast deal of attention, to which I was utterly indifferent, but his object was to push his sister into society again by my means. He took advantage of that unfortunate note which I had received from Madame de St. Cymon, when she was at Old Forest; he wanted me to admit her among my acquaintance; he urged it in every possible way, and was excessively vexed that it would not do: not that he cared for her; he often spoke of her in a way that shocked me, but it hurt his pride that she should be excluded from the society to which her rank entitled her. I had met her at Louisa’s once or twice; but when I found that for her brother’s sake she was always to be invited, I resolved to go there no more, and I made a merit of this with Clarendon. He was pleased; he said, ‘That is well, that is right, my dear Cecilia.’ And he went out more with me. One night at the Opera, the Comtesse de St. Cymon was in the box opposite to us, no lady with her, only some gentlemen. She watched me; I did all I could to avoid her eye, but at an unlucky moment she caught mine, bent forward, and had the assurance to bow. The general snatched the opera-glass from my hand, made sure who it was, and then said to me,
“‘How does that woman dare to claim your notice, Lady Cecilia? I am afraid there must have been some encouragement on your part.’
“‘None,’ said I, ‘nor ever shall be; you see I take no notice.’
“‘But you must have taken notice, or this could never be?’
“‘No indeed!’ persisted I. ‘Helen! I really forgot at the moment that first unfortunate note. An instant afterwards I recollected it, and the visit about the cameos, but that was not my fault. I had, to be sure, dropped a card in return at her door, and I ought to have mentioned that, but I really did not recollect it till the words had passed my lips, and then it was too late, and I did not like to go back and spoil my case by an exception. The general did not look quite satisfied; he did not receive my assertions as implicitly as formerly. He left the box afterwards to speak to some one, and while he was gone in came Lord Beltravers. After some preliminary nothings, he went directly to the point; and said in an assured manner, ‘I believe you do not know my sister at this distance. She has been endeavouring to catch your eye.’
“‘The Comtesse de St. Cymon does me too much honour,’ said I with a slight inclination of the head, and elevation of the eyebrow, which spoke sufficiently plainly.
“Unabashed, and with a most provoking, almost sneering look, he replied, ‘Madame de St. Cymon had wished to say a few words to your ladyship on your own account; am I to understand this cannot be?’
“‘On my own account?’ said I, ‘I do not in the least understand your lordship.’ ‘I am not sure,’ said he, ‘that I perfectly comprehend it. But I know that you sometimes drive to Kensington, and sometimes take a turn in the gardens there. My sister lives at Kensington, and could not she, without infringing etiquette, meet you in your walk, and have the honour of a few words with you? Something she wants to say to you,’ and here he lowered his voice, ‘about a locket, and Colonel D’Aubigny.’
“Excessively frightened, and hearing some one at the door, I answered, ‘I do not know, I believe I shall drive to Kensington to-morrow.’ He bowed delighted, and relieved me from his presence that instant. The moment afterwards General Clarendon came in. He asked me, ‘Was not that Lord Beltravers whom I met?’
“‘Yes,’ said I; ‘he came to reproach me for not noticing his sister, and I answered him in such a manner as to make him clear that there was no hope.’
“‘You did right,’ said he, ‘if you did so.’ My mind was in such confusion that I could not quite command my countenance, and I put up my fan as if the lights hurt me. “‘Cecilia,’ said he, ‘take care what you are about. Remember, it is not my request only, but my command to my wife’ (he laid solemn stress on the words) ‘that she should have no communication with this woman.’
“‘My dear Clarendon, I have not the least wish.’
“‘I do not ask what your wishes may be; I require only your obedience.’
“Never have I heard such austere words from him. I turned to the stage, and I was glad to seize the first minute I could to get away. But what was to be done? If I did not go to Kensington, there was this locket, and I knew not what, standing out against me. I knew that this wretched woman had had Colonel D’Aubigny in her train abroad, and supposed that he must—treacherous profligate as he was—have given the locket to her, and now I was so afraid of its coming to Clarendon’s eyes or ears!—and yet why should I have feared his knowing about it? Colonel D’Aubigny stole it, just as he stole the picture. I had got it for you, do you recollect?”
“Perfectly,” said Helen, “and your mother missed it.”
“Yes,” continued Lady Cecilia. “O that I had had the sense to do nothing about it! But I was so afraid of its somehow bringing everything to light: my cowardice—my conscience—my consciousness of that first fatal falsehood before my marriage, has haunted me at the most critical moments: it has risen against me, and stood like an evil spirit threatening me from the right path.
“I went to Kensington, trusting to my own good fortune, which had so often stood me in stead; but Madame de St. Cymon was too cunning for me, and so interested, so mean, she actually bargained for giving up the locket. She hinted that she knew Colonel D’Aubigny had never been your lover, and ended by saying she had not the locket with her; and though I made her understand that the general would never allow me to receive her at my own house, yet she ‘hoped I could manage an introduction for her to some of my friends, and that she would bring the locket on Monday, if I would in the mean time try, at least with Lady Emily Greville and Mrs. Holdernesse.’
“I felt her meanness, and yet I was almost as mean myself, for I agreed to do what I could. Monday came, Clarendon saw me as I was going out, and, as he handed me into the carriage, he asked me where I was going. To Kensington I said, and added—oh! Helen, I am ashamed to tell you, I added,—I am going to see my child. And there I found Madame de St. Cymon, and I had to tell her of my failure with Lady Emily and Mrs. Holdernesse. I softened their refusal as much as I could, but I might have spared myself the trouble, for she only retorted by something about English prudery. At this moment a shower of rain came on, and she insisted upon my taking her home; ‘Come in,’ said she, when the carriage stopped at her door: ‘if you will come in, I will give it to you now, and you need not have the trouble of calling again.’ I had the folly to yield, though I saw that it was a trick to decoy me into her house, and to make it pass for a visit. It all flashed upon me, and yet I could not resist, for I thought I must obtain the locket at all hazards. I resolved to get it from her before I left the house, and then I thought all would be finished.
“She looked triumphant as she followed me into her saloon, and gave a malicious smile, which seemed to say, ‘You see you are visiting me after all.’ After some nonsensical conversation, meant to detain me, I pressed for the locket, and she produced it: it was indeed the very one that had been made for you—But just at that instant, while she still held it in her band, the door suddenly opened, and Clarendon stood opposite to me!
“I heard Madame de St. Cymon’s voice, but of what she said, I have no idea. I heard nothing but the single word ‘rain’ and with scarcely strength to articulate, I attempted to follow up that excuse. Clarendon’s look of contempt!—But he commanded himself, advanced calmly to me, and said, ‘I came to Kensington with these letters; they have just arrived by express. Lady Davenant is in England—she is ill.’ He gave me the packet, and left the room, and I heard the sound of his horses’ feet the next instant as he rode off. I broke from Madame de St. Cymon, forgetting the locket and everything. I asked my servants which way the general had gone? ‘To Town.’ I perceived that he must have been going to look for me at the nurse’s, and had seen the carriage at Madame de St. Cymon’s door. I hastened after him, and then I recollected that I had left the locket on the table at Madame de St. Cymon’s, that locket for which I had hazarded—lost—everything! The moment I reached home, I ran to Clarendon’s room; he was not there, and oh! Helen, I have not seen him since!
“From some orders which he left about horses, I suppose he went to meet my mother. I dared not follow him. She had desired me to wait for her arrival at her own house. All yesterday, all last night, Helen, what I have suffered! I could not bear it any longer, and then I thought of coming to meet you. I thought I must see you before my mother arrived—my mother! but Clarendon will not have met her till to-day. Oh, Helen! you feel all that I fear—all that I foresee.”
Lady Cecilia sank back, and Helen, overwhelmed with all she had heard, could for some time only pity her in silence; and at last could only suggest that the general would not have time for any private communication with Lady Davenant, as her woman would be in the carriage with her, and the general was on horseback.
It was late in the day before they reached town. As they came near Grosvenor Square, Cockburn inquired whether they were to drive home, or to Lady Davenant’s?
“To my mother’s, certainly, and as fast as you can.”
Lady Davenant had not arrived, but there were packages in the hall, her courier, and her servants, who said that General Clarendon was with her, but not in the carriage; he had sent them on. No message for Lady Cecilia, but that Lady Davenant would be in town this night.
To night—some hours still of suspense! As long as there were arrangements to be made, anything to do or to think of but that meeting of which they dared not think, it was endurable, but too soon all was settled; nothing to be done, but to wait and watch, to hear the carriages roll past, and listen, and start, and look at each other, and sink back disappointed. Lady Cecilia walked from the sofa to the window, and looked out, and back again—-continually, continually, till at last Helen begged her to sit down. She sat down before an old piano-forte of her mother’s, on which her eyes fixed; it was one on which she had often played with Helen when they were children. “Happy, innocent days,” said she; “I never shall we be so happy again, Helen! But I cannot think of it;” she rose hastily, and threw herself on the sofa.
A servant, who had been watching at the hall-door, came in—“The carriage, my lady! Lady Davenant is coming.”
Lady Cecilia started up; they ran down stairs; the carriage stopped, and in the imperfect light they saw the figure of Lady Davenant, scarcely altered, leaning upon General Clarendon’s arm. The first sound of her voice was feebler, softer, than formerly—quite tender, when she said, as she embraced them both by turns, “My dear children!”
“You have accomplished your journey, Lady Davenant, better than you expected,” said the general.
Something struck her in the tone of his voice. She turned quickly, saw her daughter lay her hand upon his arm, and saw that arm withdrawn!
They all entered the saloon—it was a blaze of light; Lady Davenant, shading her eyes with her hand, looked round at the countenances, which she had not yet seen. Lady Cecilia shrank back. The penetrating eyes turned from her, glanced at Helen, and fixed upon the general.
“What is all this?” cried she.
Helen threw her arms round Lady Davenant. “Let us think of you first, and only—be calm.”
Lady Davenant broke from her, and pressing forwards exclaimed, “I must see my daughter—if I have still a daughter! Cecilia!”
The general moved. Lady Cecilia, who had sunk upon a chair behind him, attempted to rise. Lady Davenant stood opposite to her; the light was now full upon her face and figure; and her mother saw how it was changed! and looking back at Helen, she said in a low, awful tone, “I see it; the black spot has spread!”
Scarcely had Lady Davenant pronounced these words, when she was seized with violent spasms. The general had but just time to save her from falling; he could not leave her. All was terror! Even her own woman, so long used to these attacks, said it was the worst she had ever seen, and for some time evidently feared it would terminate fatally. At last slowly she came to herself, but perfectly in possession of her intellects, she sat up, looked round, saw the agony in her daughter’s countenance, and holding out her hand to her, said, “Cecilia, if there is anything that I ought to know, it should be said now.” Cecilia caught her mother’s hand, and threw herself upon her knees. “Helen, Helen, stay!” cried she, “do not go, Clarendon!”
He stood leaning against the chimney-piece, motionless, while Cecilia, in a faltering voice, began; her voice gaining strength, she went on, and poured out all—even from the very beginning, that first suppression of the truth, that first cowardice, then all that followed from that one falsehood—all—even to the last degradation, when in the power, in the presence of that bad woman, her husband found and left her. She shuddered as she came to the thought of that look of his, and not daring, not having once dared while she spoke, to turn towards him, her eyes fixed upon her mother’s; but as she finished speaking, her head sank, she laid her face on the sofa beside her; she felt her mother’s arm thrown over her and she sobbed convulsively.
There was silence.
“I have still a daughter!” were the first words that broke the silence. “Not such as I might have had, but that is my own fault.”
“Oh mother!”
“I have still a daughter,” repeated Lady Davenant. “There is,” continued she, turning to General Clarendon, “there is a redeeming power in truth. She may yet be more worthy to be your wife than she has ever yet been!”
“Never!” exclaimed the general. His countenance was rigid as iron; then suddenly it relaxed, and going up to Helen, he said,
“I have done you injustice, Miss Stanley. I have been misled. I have done you injustice, and by Heaven! I will do you public justice, cost me what it will. Beauclerc will be in England in a few days, at the altar I will give you to him publicly; in the face of all the world, will I mark my approbation of his choice; publicly will I repair the wrong I have done you. I will see his happiness and yours before I leave England for ever!”
Lady Cecilia started up: “Clarendon!” was all she could say.
“Yes, Lady Cecilia Clarendon,” said he, all the stern fixedness of his face returning at once—“Yes, Lady Cecilia Clarendon, we separate, now and for ever.”
Then turning from her, he addressed Lady Davenant. “I shall be ordered on some foreign service. Your daughter, Lady Davenant, will remain with you, while I am still in England, unless you wish otherwise——”
“Leave my daughter with me, my dear general, till my death,” said Lady Davenant. She spoke calmly, but the general, after a respectful—an affectionate pressure of the hand she held out to him, said, “That may be far distant, I trust in God, and we shall at all events meet again the day of Helen’s marriage.”
“And if that day is to be a happy day to me,” cried Helen, “to me or to your own beloved ward, General Clarendon, it must be happy to Cecilia!”
“As happy as she has left it in my power to make her. When I am gone, my fortune——”
“Name it not as happiness for my daughter,” interrupted Lady Davenant, “or you do her injustice, General Clarendon.”
“I name it but to do her justice,” said he. “It is all that she has left it in my power to give;” and then his long suppressed passion suddenly bursting forth, he turned to Cecilia. “All I can give to one so false—false from the first moment to the last—false to me—to me! who so devotedly, fondly, blindly loved her!” He rushed out of the room.
Then Lady Davenant, taking her daughter in her arms, said, “My child, return to me!”
She sank back exhausted. Mrs. Elliott was summoned, she wished them all out of the room, and said so; but Lady Davenant would have her daughter stay beside her, and with Cecilia’s hand in hers, she fell into a profound slumber.