“All is right!” cried Lady Cecilia. “O my dear mother, I am the happiest creature in the world, if you were not going away; could not you stay—a little, a very little longer—just till—”
“No, no, my dear, do not urge me to stay,” said Lady Davenant; “I cannot—your father expects me to-morrow.”
All her preparations were made—in short, it must be so, and Lady Davenant begged her daughter would not spend the short remaining time they were to have together in entreaties, distressing and irritating to the feelings of those who ask and of those who must refuse. “Let us enjoy in peace,” said she, “all that is to be enjoyed this day before I go.”
When Helen entered the drawing-room before dinner, knowing that she was very late, she found assembled Lady Davenant, Beauclerc, and the officers, but Cecilia was not there, nor did the punctual general make his appearance; the dinner-hour was passed, a servant had twice looked in to announce it, and, seeing neither my lady nor the general, had in surprise retired. Silence prevailed—what could be the matter? So unusual for the general to be late. The general came in, hurried—very uncommon in him, and, after saying a few words in a low voice to Lady Davenant, who immediately went up stairs, he begged pardon, was very sorry he had kept dinner waiting, but Lady Cecilia had been taken ill—had fainted—she was better—he hoped it was nothing that would signify—she was lying down—he begged they would go to dinner. And to dinner they went, and when Lady Davenant returned she put Helen’s mind at ease by saying it was only a little faintishness from over-fatigue. She had prescribed rest, and Cecilia had herself desired to be left quite alone. After dinner Lady Davenant went up again to see her, found her not so well—feverish; she would not let Helen go to her—they would talk if they were together, and she thought it necessary to keep Cecilia very quiet. If she would but submit to this, she would be well again probably in the morning. At tea-time, and in the course of the evening twice, Cecilia sent to beg to speak to Helen; but Lady Davenant and the general joined in requesting her not to go. The general went himself to Lady Cecilia to enforce obedience, and he reported that she had submitted with a good grace.
Helen was happily engaged by Beauclerc’s conversation during the rest of the evening. It was late before they retired, and when she went up-stairs, Felicie said that her lady was asleep, and had been asleep for the last two hours, and she was sure that after such good rest her ladyship would be perfectly well in the morning. Without further anxiety about her friend, therefore, Helen went to her own room. It was a fine moonlight night, and she threw open the shutters, and stood for a long time looking out upon the moonlight, which she loved; and even after she had retired to bed it was long before she could sleep. The only painful thought in her mind was of Lady Davenant’s approaching departure; without her, all happiness would be incomplete; but still, hope and love had much that was delightful to whisper, and, as she at last sank to sleep, Beauclerc’s voice seemed still speaking to her in soft sounds. Yet the dream which followed was uneasy; she thought that they were standing together in the library, at the open door of the conservatory, by moonlight, and he asked her to walk out, and when she did not comply, all changed, and she saw him walking with another—with Lady Castlefort; but then the figure changed to one younger—more beautiful—it must be, as the beating of Helen’s heart in the dream told her—it must be Lady Blanche. Without seeing Helen, however, they seemed to come on, smiling and talking low to each other along the matted alley of the conservatory, almost to the very door where she was still, as she thought, standing with her hand upon the lock, and then they stopped, and Beauclerc pulled from an orange-tree a blossom which seemed the very same which Helen had given to him that evening, he offered it to Lady Blanche, and something he whispered; but at this moment the handle of the lock seemed to slip, and Helen awoke with a start; and when she was awake, the noise of her dream seemed to continue; she heard the real sound of a lock turning—her door slowly opened, and a white figure appeared. Helen started up in her bed, and awaking thoroughly, saw that it was only Cecilia in her dressing-gown.
“Cecilia! What’s the matter, my dear? are you worse?”
Lady Cecilia put her finger on her lips, closed the door behind her, and said, “Hush! hush! or you’ll waken Felicie; she is sleeping in the dressing-room to-night. Mamma ordered it, in case I should want her.”
“And how are you now? What can I do for you?”
“My dear Helen, you can do something for me indeed. But don’t get up. Lie down and listen to me. I want to speak to you.”
“Sit down, then, my dear Cecilia, sit down here beside me.”
“No, no, I need not sit down, I am very well, standing. Only let me say what I have to say. I am quite well.”
“Quite well! indeed you are not. I feel you all trembling. You must sit down, indeed, my dear,” said Helen, pressing her.
She sat down. “Now listen to me—do not waste time, for I can’t stay. Oh! if the general should awake and find me gone.”
“What is the matter, my dear Cecilia? Only tell me what I can do for you.”
“That is the thing; but I am afraid, now it is come to the point.” Lady Cecilia breathed quick and short. “I am almost afraid to ask you to do this for me.”
“Afraid! my dear Cecilia, to ask me to do anything in this world for you! How can you be afraid? Tell me only what it is at once.”
“I am very foolish—I am very weak. I know you love me—would do anything for me, Helen. And this is the simplest thing in the world, but the greatest favour—the greatest service. It is only just to receive a packet, which the general will give you in the morning. He will ask if it is for you. And you will just accept of it. I don’t ask you to say it is yours, or to say a word about it—only receive it for me.”
“Yes, I will, to be sure. But why should he give it to me, and not to yourself?”
“Oh, he thinks, and you must let him think, it is for you, that’s all. Will you promise me?”—But Helen made no answer. “Oh, promise me, promise me, speak, for I can’t stay. I will explain it all to you in the morning.” She rose to go.
“Stay, stay! Cecilia,” cried Helen, stopping her; “stay!—you must, indeed, explain it all to me now—you must indeed!”
Lady Cecilia hesitated—said she had not time. “You said, Helen, that you would take the packet, and you know you must; but I will explain it all as fast as I can. You know I fainted, but you do not know why? I will tell you exactly how it all happened:—you recollect my coming into the library after I was dressed, before you went up-stairs, and giving you a sprig of orange flowers?”
“Oh yes, I was dreaming of it just now when you came in,” said Helen. “Well, what of that?”
“Nothing, only you must have been surprised to hear so soon afterwards that I had fainted.”
“Yes,” Helen said, she had been very much surprised and alarmed; and again Lady Cecilia paused.
“Well, I went from you directly to Clarendon, to give him a rose, which you may remember I had in my hand for him. I found him in the study, talking to corporal somebody. He just smiled as I came in, took the rose, and said, ‘I shall be ready this moment:’ and looking to a table on which were heaps of letters and parcels which Granville had brought from town, he added, ‘I do not know whether there is anything there for you, Cecilia?’ I went to look, and he went on talking to his corporal. He was standing with his back to the table.”
Helen felt that Lady Cecilia told all these minute details as if there was some fact to which she feared to come. Cecilia went on very quickly. “I did not find anything for myself; but in tossing over the papers I saw a packet directed to General Clarendon. I thought it was a feigned hand—and yet that I knew it—that I had seen it somewhere lately. There was one little flourish that I recollected; it was like the writing of that wretched Carlos.”
“Carlos!” cried Helen: “well!”
“The more I looked at it,” continued Lady Cecilia, “the more like I thought it; and I was going to say so to the general, only I waited till he had done his business: but as I was examining it through the outer cover, of very thin foreign paper, I could distinguish the writing of some of the inside, and it was like your hand or like mine. You know, between our hands there is such a great resemblance, there is no telling one from the other.”
Helen did not think so, but she remained silent.
“At least,” said Cecilia, answering her look of doubt, “at least the general says so; he never knows our hands asunder. Well! I perceived that there was something hard inside—more than papers; and as I felt it, there came from it an uncommon perfume—a particular perfume, like what I used to have once, at the time—that time that I can never bear to think of, you know—”
“I know,” said Helen, and in a low voice she added, “you mean about Colonel D’Aubigny.”
“The perfume, and altogether I do not know what, quite overcame me. I had just sense enough to throw the packet from me: I made an effort, and reached the window, and I was trying to open the sash, I remember; but what happened immediately after that, I cannot tell you. When I came to myself, I was in my husband’s arms; he was carrying me up-stairs—and so much alarmed about me he was! Oh, Helen, I do so love him! He laid me on the bed, and he spoke so kindly, reproaching me for not taking more care of myself—but so fondly! Somehow I could not bear it just then, and I closed my eyes as his met mine. He, I knew, could suspect nothing—but still! He stayed beside me, holding my hand: then dinner was ready; he had been twice summoned. It was a relief to me when he left me. Next, I believe, my mother came up, and felt my pulse, and scolded me for over-fatiguing myself, and for that leap; and I pleaded guilty, and it was all very well. I saw she had not an idea there was anything else. Mamma really is not suspicious, with all her penetration—she is not suspicious.”
“And why did you not tell her all the little you had to tell, dear Cecilia? If you had, long ago, when I begged of you to do so—if you had told your mother all about—”
“Told her!” interrupted Cecilia; “told my mother!—oh no, Helen!”
Helen sighed, and feebly said, “Go on.”
“Well! when you were at dinner, it came into my poor head that the general would open that parcel before I could see you again, and before I could ask your advice and settle with you—before I could know what was to be done. I was so anxious, I sent for you twice.”
“But Lady Davenant and the general forbade me to go to you.”
“Yes,”—Lady Cecilia said she understood that, and she had seen the danger of showing too much impatience to speak to Helen; she thought it might excite suspicion of her having something particular to say, she had therefore refrained from asking again. She was not asleep when Helen came to bed, though Felicie thought she was; she was much too anxious to sleep till she had seen her husband again; she was awake when he came into his room; she saw him come in with some letters and packets in his hand; by his look she knew all was still safe—he had not opened that particular packet—he held it among a parcel of military returns in his hand as he came to the side of the bed on tiptoe to see if she was asleep—to ask how she did; “He touched my pulse,” said Lady Cecilia,—“and I am sure he might well say it was terribly quick.
“Every instant I thought he would open that packet. He threw it, however, and all the rest, down on the table, to be read in the morning, as usual, as soon as he awoke. After feeling my pulse again, the last thing, and satisfying himself that it was better—‘Quieter now,’ said he, he fell fast asleep, and slept so soundly, and I—”
Helen looked at her with astonishment, and was silent.
“Oh speak to me!” said Lady Cecilia, “what do you say, Helen?”
“I say that I cannot imagine why you are so much alarmed about this packet.”
“Because I am a fool, I believe,” said Lady Cecilia, trying to laugh. “I am so afraid of his opening it.”
“But why?” said Helen, “what do you think there is in it?”
“I have told you, surely! Letters—foolish letters of mine to that D’Aubigny. Oh how I repent I ever wrote a line to him! And he told me, he absolutely swore, he had destroyed every note and letter I ever wrote to him. He was the most false of human beings!”
“He was a very bad man—I always thought so,” said Helen; “but, Cecilia, I never knew that he had any letters of yours.”
“Oh yes, you did, my dear, at the time; do not you recollect I showed you a letter, and it was you who made me break off the correspondence?”
“I remember your showing me several letters of his,” said Helen, “but not of yours—only one or two notes—asking for that picture back again which he had stolen from your portfolio.”
“Yes, and about the verses; surely you recollect my showing you another letter of mine, Helen!”
“Yes, but these were all of no consequence; there must be more, or you could not be so much afraid, Cecilia, of the general’s seeing these, surely.” At this moment Lady Davenant’s prophecy, all she had said about her daughter, flashed across Helen’s mind, and with increasing eagerness she went on. “What is there in those letters that can alarm you so much?”
“I declare I do not know,” said Cecilia, “that is the plain truth; I cannot recollect—I cannot be certain what there is in them.”
“But it is not so long ago, Cecilia,—only two years?”
“That is true, but so many great events have happened since, and such new feelings, all that early nonsense was swept out of my mind. I never really loved that wretch—”
A gleam of joy came across Helen’s face.
“Never, never,” repeated Lady Cecilia.
“Oh, I am happy still,” cried Helen. “I told your mother I was sure of this.”
“Good heavens!—Does she know about this packet?”
“No, no!—how could she? But what frightens you, my dear Cecilia? you say there is nothing wrong in the letters?”
“Nothing—nothing.”
“Then make no wrong out of nothing,” cried Helen. “If you break confidence with your husband, that confidence will never, never unite again—your mother says so.”
“My mother!” cried Cecilia: “Good heavens!—so she does suspect?—tell me, Helen, tell me what she suspects.”
“That you did not at first—before you were married, tell the general the whole truth about Colonel D’Aubigny.”
Cecilia was silent.
“But it is not yet too late,” said Helen, earnestly; “you can set it all right now—this is the moment, my dearest Cecilia. Do, do,” cried Helen, “do tell him all—bid him look at the letters.”
“Look at them! Impossible! Impossible!” said Lady Cecilia. “Bid me die rather.”
She turned quite away.
“Listen to me, Cecilia;” she held her fast. “You must do it, Cecilia.”
“Helen, I cannot.”
“You can, indeed you can,” said Helen; “only have courage now, and you will be happier all your life afterwards.”
“Do not ask it—do not ask it—it is all in vain, you are wasting time.”
“No, no—not wasting time; and in short, Cecilia, you must do what I ask of you, for it is right; and I will not do what you ask of me, for it is wrong.”
“You will not!—You will not!” cried Lady Cecilia, breathless. “After all! You will not receive the packet for me! you will not let the general believe the letters to be yours! Then I am undone! You will not do it!—Then do not talk to me—do not talk to me—you do not know General Clarendon. If his jealousy were once roused, you have no idea what it would be.”
“If the man were alive,” said Helen, “but since he is dead—”
“But Clarendon would never forgive me for having loved another—”
“You said you did not love him.”
“Nor did I ever really love that man; but still Clarendon, from even seeing those letters, might think I did. The very fact of having written such letters would be destruction to me with Clarendon. You do not know Clarendon. How can I convince you it is impossible for me to tell him? At the time he first proposed for me—oh! how I loved him, and feared to lose him. One day my mother, when I was not by, said something—I do not know what, about a first love, let fall something about that hateful D’Aubigny, and the general came to me in such a state! Oh, Helen, in such a state! I thought it was all at an end. He told me he never would marry any woman on earth who had ever loved another. I told him I never had, and that was true, you know; but then I went a little beyond perhaps. I said I had never THOUGHT of anybody else, for he made such a point of that. In short, I was a coward—a fool; I little foresaw—I laughed it off, and told him that what mamma had said was all a mistake, all nonsense; that Colonel D’Aubigny was a sort of universal flirt—and that was very true, I am sure: that he had admired us both, both you and me, but you last, you most, Helen, I said.”
“Oh, Cecilia, how could you say so, when you knew he never cared for me in the least?”
“Forgive me, my dear, for there was no other way; and what harm did it do you, or what harm can it ever do you? It only makes it the easier for you to help me—to save me now. And Granville,” continued Lady Cecilia, thinking that was the obstacle in Helen’s mind, “and Granville need never know it.”
Helen’s countenance suddenly changed—“Granville! I never thought of that!” and now that she did think of it, she reproached herself with the selfishness of that fear. Till this moment, she knew her motives had been all singly for Cecilia’s happiness; now the fear she felt of this some way hurting her with Beauclerc made her less resolute. Lady Cecilia saw her giving way and hurried on——
“Oh, my dear Helen! I know I have been very wrong, but you would not quite give me up, would you?—Oh! for my mother’s sake! Consider how it would be with my mother, so ill as you saw her! I am sure if anything broke out now in my mother’s state of health it would be fatal.”
Helen became excessively agitated.
“Oh, Helen! would you make me the death of that mother?—Oh, Helen, save her! and do what you will with me afterwards. It will be only for a few hours—only a few hours!” repeated Lady Cecilia, seeing that these words made a great impression upon Helen,—“Save me, Helen! save my mother.”
She sank upon her knees, clasping her hands in an agony of supplication. Helen bent down her head and was silent—she could no longer refuse. “Then I must,” said she.
“Oh thank you! bless you!” cried Lady Cecilia in an ecstasy—“you will take the letters?”
“Yes,” Helen feebly said; “yes, since it must be so.”
Cecilia embraced her, thanked her, blessed her, and hastily left the room, but in an instant afterward she returned, and said, “One thing I forgot, and I must tell you. Think of my forgetting it! The letters are not signed with my real name, they are signed Emma—Henry and Emma!—Oh folly, folly! My dear, dear friend! save me but now, and I never will be guilty of the least deception again during my whole life; believe me, believe me! When once my mother is safely gone I will tell Clarendon all. Look at me, dear Helen, look at me and believe me.”
And Helen looked at her, and Helen believed her.
Helen slept no more this night. When alone in the stillness of the long hours, she went over and over again all that had passed, what Cecilia had said, what she had at first thought and afterwards felt, all the persuasions by which she had been wrought upon, and, on the contrary, all the reasons by which she ought to be decided; backward and forward her mind vibrated, and its painful vacillation could not be stilled.
“What am I going to do? To tell a falsehood! That cannot be right; but in the circumstances—yet this is Cecilia’s own way of palliating the fault that her mother so fears in her—that her mother trusted to me to guard her against; and now, already, even before Lady Davenant has left us, I am going to assist Cecilia in deceiving her husband, and on that very dangerous point—Colonel D’Aubigny.” Lady Davenant’s foreboding having already been so far accomplished struck Helen fearfully, and her warning voice in the dead silence of that night sounded, and her look was upon her, so strongly, that she for an instant hid her head to get rid of her image. “But what can I do? her own life is at stake! No less a motive could move me, but this ought—must—shall decide me. Yet, if Lady Davenant were to know it!—and I, in the last hours I have to pass with her—the last I ever may have with her, shall I deceive her? But it is not deceit, only prudence—necessary prudence; what a physician would order, what even humanity requires. I am satisfied it is quite right, quite, and I will go to sleep that I may be strong, and calm, and do it all well in the morning. After all, I have been too cowardly; frightening myself about nothing; too scrupulous—for what is it I have promised? only to receive the letters as if they were mine. Not to say that they are mine; he will not ask me, Cecilia thinks he will not ask me. But how can she tell? if he should, what can I do? I must then answer that they are mine. Indeed it is the same thing, for I should lead him to believe it as much by my receiving them in silence; it will be telling or acting an absolute falsehood, and can that ever be right?” Back it came to the same point, and in vain her cheek settled on the pillow and she thought she could sleep. Then with closed eyes she considered how the general would look, and speak, or not speak. “What will he think of me when he sees the picture—the letters? for he must open the packet. But he will not read them, no, he is too honourable. I do not know what is in them. There can be nothing, however, but nonsense, Cecilia says; yet even so, love-letters he must know they are, and a clandestine correspondence. I heard him once express such contempt for any clandestine affair. He, who is so nice, so strict, about women’s conduct, how I shall sink in his esteem! Well, be it so, that concerns only myself; and it is for his own sake too, to save his happiness; and Cecilia, my dear Cecilia, oh I can bear it, and it will be a pride to me to bear it, for I am grateful; my gratitude shall not be only in words; now, when I am put to the trial, I can do something for my friends. Yes, and I will, let the consequences be what they may.” Yet Beauclerc! that thought was at the bottom of her heart; the fear, the almost certainty, that some way or other—every way in which she could think of it, it would lead to difficulty with Beauclerc. But this fear was mere selfishness, she thought, and to counteract it came all her generous, all her grateful, all her long-cherished, romantic love of sacrifice—a belief that she was capable of self-devotion for the friends she loved; and upon the strength of this idea she fixed at last. Quieted, she soothed herself to repose, and, worn out with reasoning or trying to reason in vain, she at last, in spite of the morning light dawning upon her through the unclosed shutters, in a soft sort of enthusiastic vision fading away, fell asleep.
She slept long; when she awoke it was with that indescribable feeling that something painful had happened—that something dreadful was to be this day. She recollected, first, that Lady Davenant was to go. Then came all that had passed with Cecilia. It was late, she saw that her maid had been in the room, but had refrained from awakening her; she rose, and dressed as fast as she could. She was to go to Lady Davenant, when her bell rang twice. How to appear before one who knew her countenance so well, without showing that any thing had happened, was her first difficulty. She looked in her glass to see whether there was any alteration in her face; none that she could see, but she was no judge. “How foolish to think so much about it all!” She dressed, and between times inquired from her maid if she had heard of any change in Lady Davenant’s intentions of going. Had any counter-orders about the carriage been given? None; it was ordered to be at the door by twelve o’clock. “That was well,” Helen said to herself. It would all soon be over. Lady Davenant would be safe, then she could bear all the rest; next she hoped, that any perturbation or extraordinary emotion in herself would not be observed in the hurry of departure, or would be thought natural at parting with Lady Davenant. “So then, I come at every turn to some little deceit,” thought she, “and I must, I must!” and she sighed.
“It is a sad thing for you, ma’am, Lady Davenant’s going away,” said her maid.
Helen sighed again. “Very sad indeed.” Suddenly a thought darted into her mind, that the whole danger might be avoided. A hope came that the general might not open the packet before Lady Davenant’s departure, in which case Cecilia could not expect that she should abide by her promise, as it was only conditional. It had been made really on her mother’s account; Cecilia had said that if once her mother was safe out of the house, she could then, and she would the very next day tell the whole to her husband. Helen sprang from under the hands of her maid as she was putting up her hair behind, and ran to Cecilia’s dressing-room, but she was not there. It was now her usual time for coming, and Helen left open the door between them, that she might go to her before Felicie should be rung for. She waited impatiently, but no Cecilia came. The time, to her impatience, seemed dreadfully long. But her maid observed, that as her ladyship had not been well yesterday, it was no wonder she was later this morning than usual.
“Very true, but there is somebody coming along the gallery now, see if that is Lady Cecilia.”
“No, ma’am, Mademoiselle Felicie.”
Mademoiselle Felicie said ditto to Helen’s own maid, and, moreover, supposed her lady might not have slept well. Just then, one little peremptory knock at the door was heard.
“Bon Dieu! C’est Monsieur le Général!” exclaimed Felicie.
It was so—Felicie went to the door and returned with the general’s compliments to Miss Stanley, and he begged to see her as soon as it might suit her convenience in the library, before she went into the breakfast-room, and after she should have seen Lady Cecilia, who wished to see her immediately.
Helen found Lady Cecilia in bed, looking as if she had been much agitated, two spots of carnation colour high up in her cheeks, a well-known sign in her of great emotion. “Helen!” she cried, starting up the moment Helen came in, “he has opened the packet, and you see me alive. But I do believe I should have died, when it came to the point, but for you—dearest Helen, I should have been, and still but for you I must be, undone—and my mother—oh! if he had gone to her!”
“What has happened, tell me clearly, my dear Cecilia, and quickly, for I must go to General Clarendon; he has desired to see me as soon as I can after seeing you.”
“I know, I know,” said Cecilia, “but he will allow time, and you had better be some time with me, for he thinks I have all to explain to you this morning—and so I have, a great deal to say to you; sit down—quietly—Oh if you knew how I have been agitated, I am hardly able yet tell anything rightly.” She threw herself back on the pillows, and drew a long breath, as if to relieve the oppression of mind and body. “Now I think I can tell it.”
“Then do, my dear Cecilia—all—pray do! and exactly—oh, Cecilia, tell me all.”
“Every word, every look, to the utmost, as far as I can recollect, as if you had been present. Give me your hand, Helen, how cool you are—delightful! but how you tremble!”
“Never mind,” said Helen; “but how burning hot your hand is!”
“No matter. If ever I am well or happy again in this world, Helen, I shall owe it to you. After I left you I found the general fast asleep, I do not believe he had ever awoke—I lay awake for hours, till past five o’clock in the morning, I was wide awake—feverish. But can you conceive it? just then, when I was most anxious to be awake, when I knew there was but one hour—not so much, till he would awake and read that packet, I felt an irresistible sleepiness come over me; I turned and turned, and tried to keep my eyes open, and pulled and pinched my fingers. But all would not do, and I fell asleep, dreaming that I was awake, and how long I slept I cannot tell you, so deep, so dead asleep I must have been; but the instant I did awake, I started up and drew back the curtain, and I saw—oh, Helen! there was Clarendon dressed—standing with his arms folded—a letter open hanging from his hand. His eyes were fixed upon me, waiting, watching for my first look: he saw me glance at the letter in his hand, and then at the packet on the table near the bed. For an instant neither of us spoke: I could not, nor exclaim even; but surprised, terrified, he must have seen I was. As I leaned forward, holding by the curtains, he pulled one of them suddenly back, threw open the shutters, and the full glare was upon my face. I shut my eyes—I could not help it—and shrank; but, gathering strength from absolute terror of his silence, I spoke: I asked, ‘For Heaven’s sake! Clarendon, what is the matter? Why do you look so?’
“Oh, that look of his! still fixed on me—the same as I once saw before we were married—once, and but once, when he came from my mother to me about this man. Well! I put my hands before my eyes; he stepped forward, drew them down, and placed the open letter before me, and then asked me, in a terrible sort of suppressed voice, ‘Cecilia, whose writing is this?’
“The writing was before my eyes, but I literally could not see it—it was all a sort of maze. He saw I could not read it, and calmly bade me ‘Take time—examine—is it a forgery?’
“A forgery!—that had never crossed my mind, and for an instant I was tempted to say it was; but quickly I saw that would not do: there was the miniature, and that could not be a forgery. ‘No,’ I answered, ‘I do not think it is a forgery.’
“‘What then?’ said he, so hastily that I could hardly hear; and before I could think what to answer, he said, ‘I must see Lady Davenant.’ He stepped towards the bell; I threw myself upon his arm—‘Good Heavens! do not, Clarendon, if you are not out of your senses.’ ‘I am not out of my senses, Cecilia, I am perfectly calm; answer me, one word only—is this your writing? Oh! my dear Helen, then it was that you saved me.’”
“I!”
“Yes, forgive me, Helen, I answered, ‘There is a handwriting so like, that you never can tell it from mine. Ask me no more, Clarendon,’ I said.
“I saw a flash of light, as it were, come across his face—it was hope—but still it was not certainty. I saw this: oh! how quick one sees. He pointed to the first words of the letter, held his finger under them, and his hand trembled—think of his hand trembling! ‘Read,’ he said, and I read. How I brought myself to pronounce the words, I cannot imagine. I read what, as I hope for mercy, I had no recollection of ever having written—‘My dear, too dear Henry.’ ‘Colonel D’Aubigny?’ said the general. I answered, ‘Yes.’ He looked astonished at my self-possession—and so was I. For another instant his finger rested, pressing down there under the words, and his eyes on my face, as if he would have read into my soul. ‘Ask me no more,’ I repeated, scarcely able to speak; and something I said, I believe, about honour and not betraying you. He turned to the signature, and, putting his hand down upon it, asked, ‘What name is signed to this letter?’ I answered, I have seen—I know—I believe it is ‘Emma.’
“‘You knew then of this correspondence?’ was his next question. I confessed I did. He said that was wrong, ‘but quite a different affair’ from having been engaged in it myself, or some such word. His countenance cleared; that pale look of the forehead, the fixed purpose of the eye, changed. Oh! I could see—I understood it all with half a glance—saw the natural colour coming back, and tenderness for me returning—yet some doubt lingering still. He stood, and I heard some half-finished sentences. He said that you must have been very young at that time; I said, ‘Yes, very young:’—‘And the man was a most artful man,’ he observed; I said. ‘Yes, very artful.’ That was true, I am sure. Clarendon then recollected that you showed some emotion one day when Colonel D’Aubigny was first mentioned—at that time, you know, when we heard of his death. I said nothing. The general went on: ‘I could hardly have believed all this of Helen Stanley,’ he said. He questioned no farther:—and oh! Helen, what do you think I did next? but it was the only thing left me to put an end to doubts, which, to me, must have been fatal—forgive me, Helen!”
“Tell me what you did,” said Helen.
“Cannot you guess?”
“You told him positively that I wrote the letters?”
“No, not so bad, I never said that downright falsehood—no, I could not; but I did almost as bad.”
“Pray tell me at once, my dear Cecilia.”
“Then, in the first place, I stretched out my hand for the whole packet of letters which lay on the table untouched.”
“Well?”
“Well, he put them into my hands and said, ‘There is no direction on these but to myself, I have not looked at any of them except this, which in ignorance I first opened; I have not read one word of any of the others.’”
“Well,” said Helen; “and what did you do?”
“I said I was not going to read any of the letters, that I was only looking for—now, Helen, you know—I told you there was something hard in the parcel, something more than papers, I was sure what it must be—the miniature—the miniature of you, which I painted, you know, that I might have it when you were gone, and which he stole, and pretended before my mother to be admiring as your likeness, but he kept it only because it was my painting. I opened the paper in which it was folded; Clarendon darted upon it—‘It is Helen!’ and then he said. ‘How like! how beautiful! how unworthy of that man!’
“But, oh, Helen, think of what an escape I had next. There was my name—my initials C. D. at the bottom of the picture, as the painter; and that horrible man, not content with his initials opposite to mine, had on the back written at full length, ‘For Henry D’Aubigny.’—Clarendon looked at it, and said between his teeth. ‘He is dead.’—‘Thank God!’ said I.
“Then he asked me, how I came to paint this picture for that man; I answered—oh how happy then it was for me that I could tell the whole truth about that at least!—I answered that I did not do the picture for Colonel D’Aubigny; that it never was given to him; that he stole it from my portfolio, and that we both did what we could to get it back again from him, but could not. And that you even wanted me to tell my mother, but of that I was afraid; and Clarendon said, ‘You were wrong there, my dear Cecilia.’
“I was so touched when I heard him call me his dear Cecilia again, and in his own dear voice, that I burst into tears. That was a great relief to me, and I kept saying over and over again, that I was wrong—very wrong indeed! and then he kneeled down beside me, and I so felt his tenderness, his confiding love for me—for me, unworthy as I am.” The tears streamed from Lady Cecilia’s eyes as she spoke—“Quite unworthy!”
“No, no, not quite unworthy,” said Helen; “my poor dear Cecilia, what you must have felt!”
“Once!” continued Cecilia—“once! Helen, as my head was lying on his shoulder, my face hid, I felt so much love, so much remorse, and knowing I had done nothing really bad, I was tempted to whisper all in his ear. I felt I should be so much happier for ever—ever—if I could!”
“Oh that you had! my dear Cecilia, I would give anything upon earth for your sake, that you had.”
“Helen, I could not—I could not. It was too late, I should have been undone if I had breathed but a word. When he even suspected the truth! that look—that voice was so terrible. To see it—hear it again! I could not—oh, Helen, it would have been utter ruin—madness. I grant you, my dear Helen, it might have been done at first, before I was married; oh would to heaven it had! but it is useless thinking of that now. Helen, my whole earthly happiness is in your hands, this is all I have to say, may I—may I depend on you?”
“Yes, yes, depend upon me, my dearest Cecilia,” said Helen; “now let me go.”
Lady Cecilia held her one instant longer, to say that she had asked Clarendon to leave it to her to return the letters, “to save you the embarrassment, my dearest Helen; but he answered he must do this himself, and I did not dare to press the matter; but you need not be alarmed, he will be all gentleness to you, he said, ‘it is so different.’ Do not be afraid.”
“Afraid for myself?” said Helen; “oh no—rest, dear Cecilia, and let me go.”
“Go then, go,” cried Cecilia; “but for you what would become of my mother!—of me!—you save us all.”
Believing this, Helen hastened to accomplish her purpose; resolved to go through with it, whatever it might cost; her scruples vanished, and she felt a sort of triumphant pleasure in the courage of sacrificing herself.
General Clarendon was sitting in the music-room, within the library, the door open, so that he could see Helen the moment she came in, and that moment he threw down his book as he rose, and their eyes met: hers fell beneath his penetrating glance; he came forward immediately to meet her, with the utmost gentleness and kindness in his whole appearance and manner, took her hand, and, drawing her arm within his, said, in the most encouraging voice, “Consider me as your brother, Helen; you know you have allowed me so to feel for you, and so, believe me, I do feel.”
This kindness quite overcame her, and she burst into tears. He hurried her across the library, into the inner room, seated her, and when he had closed the door, stood beside her, and began, as if he had been to blame, to apologise for himself.
“You must have been surprised at my having opened letters which did not belong to me, but there was no direction, no indication that could stop me. They were simply in a cover directed to me. The purpose of whoever sent them must have been to make me read them; the ultimate purpose was, I doubt not, to ruin Lady Cecilia Clarendon in my opinion.”
“Or me,” said Helen.
“No, Miss Stanley, no, that at all events cannot be,” said the general. “Supposing the letters to be acknowledged by you, still it would be quite a different affair. But in the first place look at them, they may be forgeries. You will tell me if they are forgeries?”
And he placed the packet in her hands. Scarcely looking at the writing, she answered, “No, forgeries I am sure they are not.” The general looked again at the direction of the cover, and observed, “This is a feigned hand. Whose can it be?”
Helen was on the brink of saying that Cecilia had told her it was like the writing of Carlos. Now this cover had not, to the general’s knowledge, been seen by Cecilia, and that one answer might have betrayed all that she was to conceal, for he would instantly have asked how and when did Cecilia see it, and the cause of her fainting would have been then understood by him. Such hazards in every, even the first, least, step in falsehood; such hazard in this first moment! But she escaped this peril, and Helen answered: “It is something like the writing of the page Carlos, but I do not think all that direction is his. There seem to be two different hands. I do not know, indeed, how it is?”
“Some time or other it will come out,” said the general.
“I will keep this cover, it will lead to the direction of that boy, or of whoever it was that employed him.”
To give her further time the general went on looking at the miniature, which he held in his hand. “This is a beautiful likeness,” said he, “and not ill painted—by Cecilia, was not it?”
Helen looked at it, and answered, “Yes, by Cecilia.”
“I am glad it is safe,” said the general, “restored—Cecilia told me the history. I know that it was stolen, not given by you.”
“Given!” said Helen. “Oh no! stolen.”
“Base!” said the general.
“He was base,” answered Helen.
General Clarendon held in his hand, along with the picture, one letter separated from the rest, open; he looked at it as if embarrassed, while Helen spoke the last words, and he repeated, “Base! yes, he certainly was, or he would have destroyed these letters.”
Again Helen was on the point of saying that Colonel D’Aubigny had told Cecilia he had done so, but fortunately her agitation, in default of presence of mind, kept her silent.
“This is the first letter I opened,” said the general, “before I was aware that they were not what I should read. I saw only the first words, I thought then that I had a right to read them. When these letters met my eyes, I conceived them to have been written by my wife. I had a right to satisfy myself respecting the nature of the correspondence; that done, I looked no farther. I bore my suspense—I waited till she awoke.”
“So she told me, Cecilia has told me all; but even if she had not, in any circumstances who could doubt your honour, General Clarendon?”
“Then trust to it, Miss Stanley, for the past, for the future, trust to it! You gratify me more than I can express—you do me justice. I wished to return these letters to you with, my own hand,” continued he, “to satisfy myself, in the first place, that there was no mistake. Of that your present candour, indeed, the first look of that ingenuous countenance, was sufficient.”
Helen felt that she blushed all over.
“Pardon me for distressing you, my dear Helen. It was a matter in which a man MUST be selfish, must in point of honour, must in point of feeling, I owe to your candour not merely relief from what I could not endure and live, but relief from suspicion,—suspicion of the truth of one dearer to me than life.”
Helen sat as if she had been transfixed.
“I owe to you,” continued he, “the happiness of my whole future life.”
“Then I am happy,” cried Helen, “happy in this, at all events, whatever may become of me.”
She had not yet raised her eyes towards the general; she felt as if her first look must betray Cecilia; but she now tried to fix her eyes upon him as he looked anxiously at her, and she said, “thank you, thank you, General Clarendon! Oh, thank you for all the kindness you have shown me; but I am the more grieved, it makes me more sorry to sink quite in your esteem.”
“To sink! You do not: your candour, your truth raises you——”
“Oh! do not say that——”
“I do,” repeated the general, “and you may believe me. I am incapable of deceiving you—this is no matter of compliment. Between friend and friend I should count a word, a look of falsehood, treason.”
Helen’s tears stopped, and, without knowing what she did, she began hastily to gather up the packet of letters which she had let fall; the general assisted her in putting them into her bag, and she closed the strings, thanked him, and was rising, when he went on—“I beg your indulgence while I say a few words of myself.”
She sat down again immediately. “Oh! as many as you please.”
“I believe I may say I am not of a jealous temper.”
“I am sure you are not,” said Helen.
“I thank you,” said the general. “May I ask on what your opinion is founded?”
“On what has now passed, and on all that I have heard from Lady Davenant.”
He bowed. “You may have heard then, from Lady Davenant, of some unfortunate circumstances in my own and in a friend’s family which happened a short time before my marriage?”
Helen said she had.
“And of the impression these circumstances made on my mind, my consequent resolve never to marry a woman who had ever had any previous attachment?”
Helen was breathless at hearing all this repeated.
“Were you informed of these particulars?” said the general.
“Yes,” said Helen, faintly.
“I am not asking, Miss Stanley, whether you approved of my resolution; simply whether you heard of it?”
“Yes—certainly.”
“That’s well. It was on an understanding between Cecilia and myself on this point, that I married. Did you know this?”
“Yes,” said Helen.
“Some words,” continued the general, “once fell from Lady Davenant concerning this Colonel D’Aubigny which alarmed me. Cecilia satisfied me that her mother was mistaken. Cecilia solemnly assured me that she had never loved him.” The general paused.
Helen, conceiving that he waited for and required her opinion, replied, “So I always thought—so I often told Lady Davenant.” But at this moment recollecting the words at the beginning of that letter, “My dear, too dear Henry,” Helen’s voice faltered. The general saw her confusion, but attributed it to her own consciousness. “Had Lady Davenant not been mistaken,” resumed he, “that is to say had there ever been—as might have happened not unnaturally—had there ever been an attachment; in short, had Cecilia ever loved him, and told me so, I am convinced that such truth and candour would have satisfied me, would have increased—as I now feel—increased my esteem. I am at this moment convinced that, in spite of my declared resolution, I should in perfect confidence, have married.”
“Oh that Cecilia had but told him!” thought Helen.
“I should not, my dear Miss Stanley,” continued the general, “have thus taken up your time talking of myself, had I not an important purpose in view. I was desirous to do away in your mind the idea of my great strictness—not on my own account, but on yours, I wished to dispel this notion. Now you will no longer, I trust, apprehend that my esteem for you is diminished. I assure you I can make allowances.”
She was shocked at the idea of allowances, yet thanked him for his indulgence, and she could hardly refrain from again bursting into tears.
“Still by your agitation I see you are afraid of me,” said he, smiling.
“No indeed; not afraid of you, but shocked at what you must think of me.”
“I am not surprised, but sorry to see that the alarm I gave my poor Cecilia this morning has passed from her mind into yours. To her I must have appeared harsh: I was severe; but when I thought I had been deceived, duped, can you wonder?”
Helen turned her eyes away.
“My dear Miss Stanley, why will not you distinguish? the cases are essentially different. Nine out of ten of the young ladies who marry in these countries do not marry the first object of their fancy, and whenever there is, as there will be, I am sure, in your case, perfect candour, I do not apprehend the slightest danger to the happiness of either party. On the contrary, I should foretell an increase of esteem and love. Beauclerc has often——”
Beauclerc’s voice was at this instant heard in the hall.
“Compose yourself, my dear Miss Stanley—this way,” said the general, opening a door into the conservatory, for he heard Beauclerc’s step now in the library. The general followed Helen as she left the room, and touching the bag that contained the letters, said,
“Remember, whatever may be your hurry, lock this up first.”
“Thank you,” answered she; “I will, I will!” and she hastened on, and in a moment she was safe across the hall and upstairs, without meeting any one, and in her own room, and the bag locked up in her cabinet. Lady Davenant’s bell rang as she went to her apartment; she looked in at Cecilia, who started up in her bed.
“All is over,” said Helen, “all is well. I have the letters locked up; I cannot stay.”
Helen disengaged herself almost forcibly from Cecilia’s embrace, and she was in Lady Davenant’s room in another minute. She bade her good morning as composedly as she could, she thought quite as usual. But that was impossible: so much the better, for it would not have been natural this last morning of Lady Davenant’s stay, when nothing was as usual externally or internally. All was preparation for departure—her maids packing—Lady Davenant, making some last arrangements—in the midst of which she stopped to notice Helen—pressed her in her arms, and after looking once in her face, said, “My poor child! it must be so.”
Elliott interrupted, asking some question, purposely to draw off her attention; and while she turned about to give some orders to another servant, Elliott said to Miss Stanley, “My Lady was not well last night; she must be kept from all that can agitate her, as much as possible.”
Helen at that instant rejoiced that she had done what she had. She agreed with Elliott, she said, that all emotion which could be avoided should; and upon this principle busied herself, and was glad to employ herself in whatever she could to assist the preparations, avoiding all conversation with Lady Davenant.
“You are right, my love—quite right,” said Lady Davenant. “The best way is always to employ one’s self always to the last. Yes, put up those drawings carefully, in this portfolio, Elliott; take silver paper, Helen.”
They were Helen’s own drawings, so all went on, and all was safe—even when Cecilia was spoken of; while the silver paper went over the drawings, Helen answered that she had seen her. “She was not well, but still not seriously ill, though—”
“Yes,” said Lady Davenant; “only the general is too anxious about her—very naturally. He sent me word just now,” continued she, “that he has forbidden her to get up before breakfast. I will go and see her now; dear Cecilia! I hope she will do well—every way—I feel sure of it, Helen—sure as you do yourself, my dear—But what is the matter?”
“Nothing!” said Helen. That was not quite true; but she could not help it—“Nothing!” repeated she. “Only I am anxious, my dear Lady Davenant,” continued poor Helen blundering, unaccustomed to evasions—“only I am very anxious you should go soon to Cecilia; I know she is awake now, and you will be hurried after breakfast.”
Elliott looked reproachfully at Miss Stanley, for she thought it much better for her lady to be engaged in more indifferent matters till after breakfast, when she would have but a few minutes to spend with her daughter; so Helen, correcting herself, added—“But, perhaps I’m wrong, so do not let me interrupt you in whatever you are doing.”
“My dear child,” said Lady Davenant; “you do not know what you are saying or doing yourself this morning.”
But no suspicion was excited in her mind, as she accounted for Helen’s perturbation by the sorrow of their approaching separation, and by the hurry of her spirits at Beauclerc’s arrival the day before. And then came the meeting the general at breakfast, which Helen dreaded; but so composed, so impenetrable was he that she could hardly believe that anything could have occurred that morning to agitate him.
Lady Davenant, after being with her daughter, came to take leave of Helen, and said gravely, “Helen! remember what I said of Cecilia’s truth, my trust is in you. Remember, if I never see you again, by all the love and esteem I bear you, and all which you feel for me, remember this my last request—prayer—adjuration to you, support, save Cecilia!”
At that moment the general came to announce that the carriage was ready; promptly he led her away, handed her in and the order to “drive on,” was given. Lady Davenant’s last look, her last anxious smile, was upon Helen and Beauclerc as they stood beside each other on the steps, and she was gone.
Helen was so excessively agitated that Beauclerc did not attempt to detain her from hurrying to her own room, where she sat down, and endeavoured to compose herself. She repeated Lady Davenant’s last words, “Support, save Cecilia,” and, unlocking the cabinet in which she had deposited the fatal letters, she seized the bag that contained them, and went immediately to Cecilia. She was in her dressing-room, and the general sitting beside her on the sofa, upon which she was resting. He was sitting directly opposite to Helen as she entered; she started at the sight of him: his eye instantly fell upon the bag, and she felt her face suddenly flush. He took out his watch, said he had an appointment, and was gone before Helen raised her eyes.
“My dearest friend, come to me, come close to me,” cried Cecilia, and throwing her arms round Helen, she said, “Oh, I am the happiest creature now!”
“Are you?” said Helen.
“Yes, that I am, and I thank you for it; how much I thank you, Helen, it is impossible to express, and better I love you than anything upon earth but Clarendon himself, my best friend, my generous Helen. Oh, Clarendon has been so kind, so very kind! so sorry for having alarmed me! He is a noble, charming creature. I love him a thousand times better than I ever did, am happier than I ever was! and all this I owe to you, dearest Helen. But I cannot get your eyes from that bag,—what have you there?”
“The letters,” said Helen.
“The letters!” exclaimed Cecilia, springing up, “give them to me,” seizing and opening the bag. “Oh that dreadful perfume! Helen open the window, and bolt the door, my dear—both doors.”
While Helen was doing so, Cecilia struck one little quick blow on a taper-lighter; it flared, and when Helen turned, one of the letters was in flames, and Cecilia continued feeding the flame with them as fast as ever it could devour.
“Burn! burn! there, there!” cried she, “I would not look at any one of them again for the world; I know no more what is in them than if I had never written them, except those horrid, horrid words Clarendon saw and showed me. I cannot bear to think of it. There now,” continued she, as they burned, “no one can ever know anything more about the matter: how glad I am to see them burning!—burnt! safe! The smell will go off in a minute or two. It is going,—yes, gone! is not it? Now we may breathe freely. But you look as if you did not know whether you were glad or sorry, Helen.”
“I believe it was right; the general advised me to lock, them up,” said Helen, “but then—”
“Did he? how thoughtful of him! But better to burn them at once; I am sure it was not my fault that they were not long ago destroyed. I was assured by that abominable man—but no matter, we will never think of him again. It is done now—no, not completely yet,” said she, looking close at the half white, half black burnt paper, in which words, and whole lines still appeared in shrunken but yet quite legible characters. “One cannot be too careful,” and she trampled on the burnt paper, and scattered the cinders. Helen was anxious to speak, she had something important to say, but hesitated; she saw that Cecilia’s thoughts were so far from what she wanted to speak of that she could not instantly say it; she could not bear to overturn all Cecilia’s present happiness, and yet, said to herself, I must—I must—or what may happen hereafter? Then forcing herself to speak, she began, “Your mother is safe now, Cecilia.”
“Oh yes, and thank you, thank you for that—”
“Then now, Cecilia—your promise.”
“My promise!” Lady Cecilia’s eyes opened in unfeigned astonishment. “What promise?—Oh, I recollect, I promised—did I?”
“My dear Cecilia, surely you cannot have forgotten.”
“How was it?”
“You know the reason I consented was to prevent the danger of any shock to Lady Davenant.”
“Well, I know, but what did I promise?”
The words had in reality passed Lady Cecilia’s lips at the time without her at all considering them as a promise, only as a means of persuasion to bring Helen to her point.
“What did I promise?” repeated she. “You said, ‘As soon as my mother is safe, as soon as she is gone, I will tell my husband all,’—Cecilia, you cannot forget what you promised.”
“Oh, no, now I remember it perfectly, but I did not mean so soon. I never imagined you would claim it so soon: but some time I certainly will tell him all.”
“Do not put it off, dearest Cecilia. It must be done—let it be done to-day.”
“To-day!” Lady Cecilia almost screamed.
“I will tell you why,” said Helen.
“To-day!” repeated Lady Cecilia.
“If we let the present now pass,” continued Helen, “we shall lose both the power and the opportunity, believe me.”
“I have not the power, Helen, and I do not know what you mean by the opportunity,” said Cecilia.
“We have a reason now to give General Clarendon—a true good reason, for what we have done.”
“Reason!” cried Lady Cecilia, “what can you mean?”
“That it was to prevent danger to your mother, and now she is safe; and if you tell him directly, he will see this was, really so.”
“That is true; but I cannot—wait till to-morrow, at least.”
“Every day will make it more difficult. The deception will be greater, and less pardonable. If we delay, it will become deliberate falsehood, a sort of conspiracy between us,” said Helen.
“Conspiracy! Oh, Helen, do not use such a shocking word, when it is really nothing at all.”
“Then why not tell it?” urged Helen.
“Because, though it is nothing at all in reality, yet Clarendon would think it dreadful—though I have done nothing really wrong.”
“So I say—so I know,” cried Helen; “therefore——”
“Therefore let me take my own time,” said Cecilia. “How can you urge me so, hurrying me so terribly, and when I am but just recovered from one misery, and when you had made me so happy, and when I was thanking you with all my heart.”
Helen was much moved, but answered as steadily as she could. “It seems cruel, but indeed I am not cruel.”
“When you had raised me up,” continued Cecilia, “to dash me down again, and leave me worse than ever!”
“Not worse—no, surely not worse, when your mother is safe.”
“Yes, safe, thank you—but oh, Helen, have you no feeling for your own Cecilia?”
“The greatest,” answered Helen; and her tears said the rest.
“You, Helen! I never could have thought you would have urged me so!”
“O Cecilia! if you knew the pain it was to me to make you unhappy again,—but I assure you it is for your own sake. Dearest Cecilia, let me tell you all that General Clarendon said about it, and then you will know my reasons.” She repeated as quickly as she could, all that had passed between her and the general, and when she came to this declaration that, if Cecilia had told him plainly the fact before, he would have married with perfect confidence, and, as he believed, with increased esteem and love: Cecilia started up from the sofa on which she had thrown herself, and exclaimed,
“O that I had but known this at the time, and I would have told him.”
“It is still time,” said Helen.
“Time now?—impossible. His look this morning. Oh! that look!”
“But what is one look, my dear Cecilia, compared with a whole life of confidence and happiness?”
“A life of happiness! never, never for me; in that way at least, never.”
“In that way and no other, Cecilia, believe me. I am certain you never could endure to go on concealing this, living with him you love so, yet deceiving him.”
“Deceiving! do not call it deceiving, it is only suppressing a fact that would give him pain; and when he can have no suspicion, why give him that pain? I am afraid of nothing now but this timidity of yours—this going back. Just before you came in, Clarendon was saying how much he admired your truth and candour, how much he is obliged to you for saving him from endless misery; he said so to me, that was what made me so completely happy. I saw that it was all right for you as well as me, that you had not sunk, that you had risen in his esteem.”
“But I must sink, Cecilia, in his esteem, and now it hangs upon a single point—upon my doing what I cannot do.” Then she repeated what the general had said about that perfect openness which he was sure there would be in this case between her and Beauclerc. “You see what the general expects that I should do.”
“Yes,” said Cecilia; and then indeed she looked much disturbed. “I am very sorry that this notion of your telling Beauclerc came into Clarendon’s head—very, very sorry, for he will not forget it. And yet, after all,” continued she, “he will never ask you point blank, ‘Have you told Beauclerc?’—and still more impossible that he should ask Beauclerc about it.”
“Cecilia!” said Helen, “if it were only for myself I would say no more; there is nothing I would not endure—that I would not sacrifice—even my utmost happiness.”—She stopped, and blushed deeply.
“Oh, my dearest Helen! do you think I could let you ever hazard that? If I thought there was the least chance of injuring you with Granville!—I would do any thing—I would throw myself at Clarendon’s feet this instant.”