Book: Helen

M >> Maria Edgeworth >> Helen



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TALES AND NOVELS

BY

MARIA EDGEWORTH.



IN TEN VOLUMES.

WITH ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL.



VOL. X.

HELEN.

1857.




HELEN.



CHAPTER I.


"There is Helen in the lime-walk," said Mrs. Collingwood to her husband, as
she looked out of the window. The slight figure of a young person in deep
mourning appeared between the trees,--"How slowly she walks! She looks very
unhappy!"

"Yes," said Mr. Collingwood, with a sigh, "she is young to know sorrow, and
to struggle with difficulties to which she is quite unsuited both by nature
and by education, difficulties which no one could ever have foreseen. How
changed are all her prospects!"

"Changed indeed!" said Mrs. Collingwood, "pretty young creature!--Do you
recollect how gay she was when first we came to Cecilhurst? and even last
year, when she had hopes of her uncle's recovery, and when he talked of
taking her to London, how she enjoyed the thoughts of going there! The
world was bright before her then. How cruel of that uncle, with all his
fondness for her, never to think what was to become of her the moment he
was dead: to breed her up as an heiress, and leave her a beggar!"

"But what is to be done, my dear?" said her husband.

"I am sure I do not know; I can only feel for her, you must think for her."

"Then I think I must tell her directly of the state in which her uncle's
affairs are left, and that there is no provision for her."

"Not yet, my dear," said Mrs, Collingwood: "I don't mean about there being
no provision for herself, that would not strike her, but her uncle's
debts,--there is the point: she would feel dreadfully the disgrace to his
memory--she loved him so tenderly!"

"Yet it must be told," said Mr. Collingwood, resolutely "and perhaps it
will be better now; she will feel it less, while her mind is absorbed by
grief for him."

Helen was the only daughter of colonel and Lady Anne Stanley; her parents
had both died when she was too young to know her loss, nor had she ever
felt till now that she was an orphan, for she had been adopted and brought
up with the greatest tenderness by her uncle, Dean Stanley, a man of
genius, learning, and sincere piety, with the most affectionate heart, and
a highly cultivated understanding. But on one subject he really had
not common sense; in money matters he was inconceivably imprudent and
extravagant; extravagant from charity, from taste, from habit. He possessed
rich benefices in the church, and an ample private fortune, and it was
expected that his niece would be a great heiress--he had often said so
himself, and his fondness for her confirmed every one in this belief.
But the dean's taste warred against his affection: his too hospitable,
magnificent establishment had exceeded his income; he had too much indulged
his passion for all the fine arts, of which he was a liberal patron: he had
collected a magnificent library, and had lavished immense sums of money on
architectural embellishments. Cursed with too fine a taste, and with too
soft a heart--a heart too well knowing how to yield, never could he deny
himself, much less any other human being, any gratification which money
could command; and soon the necessary consequence was, that he had no money
to command, his affairs fell into embarrassment--his estate was sold; but,
as he continued to live with his accustomed hospitality and splendour, the
world believed him to be as rich as ever.

Some rise superior from the pressure of pecuniary difficulties, but that
was not the case with Dean Stanley, not from want of elasticity of mind;
but perhaps because his ingenuity continually suggested resources, and his
sanguine character led him to plunge into speculations--they failed, and in
the anxiety and agitation which his embarrassments occasioned him, he fell
into bad health, his physicians ordered him to Italy. Helen, his devoted
nurse, the object upon which all his affections centered, accompanied him
to Florence. There his health and spirits seemed at first, by the change
of climate, to be renovated; but in Italy he found fresh temptations to
extravagance, his learning and his fancy combined to lead him on from day
to day to new expense, and he satisfied his conscience by saying to himself
that all the purchases which he now made were only so much capital, which
would, when sold in England, bring more than their original price, and
would, he flattered himself, increase the fortune he intended for his
niece. But one day, while he was actually bargaining for an antique, he was
seized with a fit of apoplexy. From this fit he recovered, and was able to
return to England with his niece. Here he found his debts and difficulties
had been increasing; he was harassed with doubts as to the monied value of
his last-chosen chef-d'oeuvres; his mind preyed upon his weakened frame, he
was seized with another fit, lost his speech, and, after struggles the most
melancholy for Helen to see, conscious as she was that she could do nothing
for him--he expired--his eyes fixed on her face, and his powerless hand
held between both hers.

All was desolation and dismay at the deanery; Helen was removed to the
vicarage by the kindness of the good vicar and his wife, Mr. and Mrs.
Collingwood.

It was found that the dean, instead of leaving a large fortune, had nothing
to leave. All he had laid out at the deanery was sunk and gone; his real
property all sold; his imaginary wealth, his pictures, statues--his whole
collection, even his books, his immense library, shrunk so much in value
when estimated after his death, that the demands of the creditors could not
be nearly answered: as to any provision for Miss Stanley, that was out of
the question.

These were the circumstances which Mrs. Collingwood feared to reveal, and
which Mr. Collingwood thought should be told immediately to Helen; but
hitherto she had been so much absorbed in sorrow for the uncle she had
loved, that no one had ventured on the task.

Though Mr. and Mrs. Collingwood had not known her long (for they had but
lately come to the neighbourhood), they had the greatest sympathy for her
orphan state; and they had seen enough of her during her uncle's illness to
make them warmly attached to her. Every body loved her that knew her, rich
or poor, for in her young prosperity, from her earliest childhood, she had
been always sweet-tempered and kind-hearted; for though she had been bred
up in the greatest luxury, educated as heiress to a large fortune, taught
every accomplishment, used to every fashionable refinement, she was not
spoiled--she was not in the least selfish. Indeed, her uncle's indulgence,
excessive though it was, had been always joined with so much affection,
that it had early touched her heart, and filled her whole soul with ardent
gratitude.

It is said, that the ill men do, lives after them--the good is oft interred
with their bones. It was not so with Dean Stanley: the good he had intended
for Helen, his large fortune, was lost and gone; but the real good he had
done for his niece remained in full force, and to the honour of his memory:
the excellent education he had given her--it was excellent not merely in
the worldly meaning of the word, as regards accomplishments and elegance
of manners, but excellent in having given her a firm sense of duty, as the
great principle of action, and as the guide of her naturally warm generous
affections.

And now, when Helen returned from her walk, Mr. Collingwood, in the
gentlest and kindest manner he was able, informed her of the confusion in
her uncle's affairs, the debts, the impossibility of paying the creditors,
the total loss of all fortune for herself.

Mrs. Collingwood had well foreseen the effect this intelligence would have
on Helen. At first, with fixed incredulous eyes, she could not believe that
her uncle could have been in any way to blame. Twice she asked--"Are you
sure--are you certain--is there no mistake?" And when the conviction was
forced upon her, still her mind did not take in any part of the facts, as
they regarded herself. Astonished and, shocked, she could feel nothing but
the disgrace that would fall upon the memory of her beloved uncle.

Then she exclaimed--"One part of it is not true, I am certain:" and hastily
leaving the room, she returned immediately with a letter in her hand,
which, without speaking, she laid before Mr. Collingwood, who wiped his
spectacles quickly, and read.

It was addressed to the poor dean, and was from an old friend of his,
Colonel Munro, stating that he had been suddenly ordered to India, and
was obliged to return a sum of money which the dean had many years before
placed in his hands, to secure a provision for his niece, Miss Stanley.

This letter had arrived when the dean was extremely ill. Helen had been
afraid to give it to him, and yet thought it right to do so. The moment
her uncle had read the letter, which he was still able to do, and to
comprehend, though he was unable to speak, he wrote on the back with
difficulty, in a sadly trembling hand, yet quite distinctly, these
words:--"That money is yours, Helen Stanley: no one has any claim upon it.
When I am gone consult Mr. Collingwood; consider him as your guardian."

Mr. Collingwood perceived that this provision had been made by the dean for
his niece before he had contracted his present debts--many years before,
when he had sold his paternal estate, and that knowing his own disposition
to extravagance, he had put this sum out of his own power.

"Right--all right, my dear Miss Stanley," said the vicar; "I am very
glad--it is all justly yours."

"No," said Helen, "I shall never touch it: take it, my dear Mr.
Collingwood, take it, and pay all the debts before any one can complain."

Mr. Collingwood pressed her to him without speaking; but after a moment's
recollection he replied:--"No, no, my dear child, I cannot let you do this:
as your guardian, I cannot allow such a young creature as you are, in a
moment of feeling, thus to give away your whole earthly fortune--it must
not be."

"It must, indeed it must, my dear sir. Oh, pay everybody at
once--directly."

"No, not directly, at all events," said Mr. Collingwood--certainly not
directly: the law allows a year."

"But if the money is ready," said Helen, "I cannot understand why the
debt should not be paid at once. Is there any law against paying people
immediately?"

Mr. Collingwood half smiled, and on the strength of that half smile Helen
concluded that he wholly yielded. "Yes, do," cried she, "send this money
this instant to Mr. James, the solicitor: he knows all about it, you say,
and he will see everybody paid."

"Stay, my dear Miss Stanley," said the vicar, "I cannot consent to this,
and you should be thankful that I am steady. If I were at this minute to
consent, and to do what you desire--pay away your whole fortune, you would
repent, and reproach me with my folly before the end of the year--before
six months were over."

"Never, never," said Helen.

Mrs. Collingwood strongly took her husband's side of the question. Helen
could have no idea, she said, how necessary money would be to her. It was
quite absurd to think of living upon air; could Miss Stanley think she was
to go on in this world without money?

Helen said she was not so absurd; she reminded Mrs. Collingwood that she
should still have what had been her mother's fortune. Before Helen had well
got out the words, Mrs. Collingwood replied,

"That will never do, you will never be able to live upon that; the interest
of Lady Anne Stanley's fortune, I know what it was, would just do for
pocket-money for you in the style of life for which you have been educated.
Some of your uncle's great friends will of course invite you presently, and
then you will find what is requisite with that set of people."

"Some of my uncle's friends perhaps will," said Helen; "but I am not
obliged to go to great or fine people, and if I cannot afford it I will
not, for I can live independently on what I have, be it ever so little."

Mrs. Collingwood allowed that if Helen were to live always in the country
in retirement, she might do upon her mother's fortune.

"Wherever I live--whatever becomes of me, the debts must be paid--I will do
it myself;" and she took up a pen as she spoke--"I will write to Mr. James
by this day's post."

Surprised at her decision of manner and the firmness of one in general so
gentle, yielding, and retired, and feeling that he had no legal power to
resist, Mr. Collingwood at last gave way, so far as to agree that he would
in due time use this money in satisfying her uncle's creditors; _provided
she lived for the next six months within her income_.

Helen smiled, as if that were a needless proviso.

"I warn you," continued Mr. Collingwood, "that you will most probably find
before six months are over, that you will want some of this money to pay
debts of your own."

"No, no, no," cried she; "of that there is not the slightest chance."

"And now, my dear child," said Mrs. Collingwood, "now that Mr. Collingwood
has promised to do what you wish, will you do what we wish? Will you
promise to remain with us? to live here with us, for the present at least;
we will resign you whenever better friends may claim you, but for the
present will you try us?"

"Try!" in a transport of gratitude and affection she could only repeat
the words "Try! oh, my dear friends, how happy I am, an orphan, without a
relation, to have such a home."

But though Mr. and Mrs. Collingwood, childless as they were, felt real
happiness in having such a companion--such an adopted daughter, yet they
were sure that some of Dean Stanley's great friends and acquaintance in
high life would ask his niece to spend the spring in town, or the summer in
the country with them; and post after post came letters of condolence to
Miss Stanley from all these personages of high degree, professing the
greatest regard for their dear amiable friend's memory, and for Miss
Stanley, his and their dear Helen; and these polite and kind expressions
were probably sincere at the moment, but none of these dear friends seemed
to think of taking any trouble on her account, or to be in the least
disturbed by the idea of never seeing their dear Helen again in the course
of their lives.

Helen, quite touched by what was said of her uncle, thought only of him;
but when she showed the letters to Mr. and Mrs. Collingwood, they marked
the oversight, and looked significantly as they read, folded the letters up
and returned them to Helen in silence. Afterwards between themselves, they
indulged in certain comments.

"Lady C---- does not invite her, for she has too many daughters, and they
are too ugly, and Helen is too beautiful," said Mrs. Collingwood.

"Lady L---- has too many sons," said Mr. Collingwood, "and they are too
poor, and Helen is not an heiress now."

"But old Lady Margaret Dawe, who has neither sons nor daughters, what
stands in the way there? Oh! her delicate health--delicate health is a
blessing to some people--excuses them always from doing anything for
anybody."

Then came many, who hoped, in general, to see Miss Stanley as soon as
possible; and some who were "very anxious indeed" to have their dear Helen
with them; but when or where never specified--and a general invitation, as
every body knows, means nothing but "Good morning to you."

Mrs. Coldstream ends with, "I forbear to say more at present," without
giving any reason.

"And here is the dean's dear duchess, always in the greatest haste, with
'You know my heart,' in a parenthesis, 'ever and ever most sincerely and
affec'--yours.'"

"And the Davenants," continued Mrs. Collingwood, "who were such near
neighbours, and who were so kind to the dean at Florence; they have not
even written!"

"But they are at Florence still," said Mr. Collingwood, "they can hardly
have heard of the poor dean's death."

The Davenants were the great people of this part of the country; their
place, Cecilhurst, was close to the deanery and to the vicarage, but they
were not known to the Collingwoods, who had come to Cecilhurst during the
dean's absence abroad.

"And here is Mrs. Wilmot too," continued Mrs. Collingwood, "wondering as
usual, at everybody else, wondering that Lady Barker has not invited Miss
Stanley to Castleport; and it never enters into Mrs. Wilmot's head that she
might invite her to Wilmot's fort. And this is friendship, as the world
goes!"

"And as it has been ever since the beginning of the world and will be
to the end," replied Mr. Collingwood. "Only I thought in Dean Stanley's
case--however, I am glad his niece does not see it as we do."

No--with all Helen's natural quickness of sensibility, she suspected
nothing, saw nothing in each excuse but what was perfectly reasonable and
kind; she was sure that her uncle's friends could not mean to neglect her.
In short, she had an undoubting belief in those she loved, and she loved
all those who she thought had loved her uncle, or who had ever shown her
kindness. Helen had never yet experienced neglect or detected insincerity,
and nothing in her own true and warm heart could suggest the possibility
of double-dealing, or even of coldness in friendship. She had yet to learn
that--

"No after-friendship e'er can raze
Th' endearments of our early days,
And ne'er the heart such fondness prove,
As when it first began to love;
Ere lovely nature is expelled,
And friendship is romantic held.
But prudence comes with hundred eyes,
The veil is rent, the vision flies,
The dear illusions will not last,
The era of enchantment's past:
The wild romance of life is done,
The real history begun!"




CHAPTER II.


Some time after this, Mr. Collingwood, rising from the breakfast-table,
threw down the day's paper, saying there was nothing in it; Mrs.
Collingwood glancing her eye over it exclaimed--

"Do you call this nothing? Helen, hear this!

"Marriage in high life--At the ambassador's chapel, Paris, on the 16th
instant, General Clarendon to Lady Cecilia Davenant, only daughter of Earl
and Countess Davenant."

"Married! absolutely married!" exclaimed Helen: "I knew it was to be, but
so soon I did not expect. Ambassador's chapel--where did you say?--Paris?
No, that must be a mistake, they are all at Florence--settled there, I
thought their letters said."

Mrs. Collingwood pointed to the paragraph, and Helen saw it was certainly
Paris--there could be no mistake. Here was a full account of the marriage,
and a list of all "the fashionables who attended the fair bride to the
hymeneal altar. Her father gave her away."

"Then certainly it is so," said Helen; and she came to the joyful
conclusion that they must all be on their way home:--"Dear Lady Davenant
coming to Cecilhurst again!"

Lady Cecilia, "the fair bride," had been Helen's most intimate friend;
they had been when children much together, for the deanery was so close to
Cecilhurst, that the shrubbery opened into the park. "But is it not rather
extraordinary, my dear. Helen," said Mrs. Collingwood, "that you should
see this account of your dear Lady Cecilia's marriage in the public papers
only, without having heard of it from any of your friends themselves--not
one letter, not one line from any of them?"

A cloud came over Helen's face, but it passed quickly, and she was sure
they had written--something had delayed their letters. She was certain Lady
Davenant or Lady Cecilia had written; or, if they had not, it was because
they could not possibly, in such a hurry, such agitation as they must have
been in. At all events, whether they had written or not, she was certain
they could not mean anything unkind; she could not change her opinion of
her friend for a letter more or less. "Indeed!" said Mrs. Collingwood, "how
long is it since you have seen them?"

"About two years; just two years it is since I parted from them at
Florence."

"And you have corresponded with Lady Cecilia constantly ever since?" asked
Mrs. Collingwood.

"Not constantly."

"Not constantly--oh!" said Mrs. Collingwood, in a prolonged and somewhat
sarcastic tone.

"Not constantly--so much the better," said her husband: "a constant
correspondence is always a great burthen, and moreover, sometimes a great
evil, between young ladies especially--I hate the sight of ladies' long
cross-barred letters."

Helen said that Lady Cecilia's letters were never cross-barred, always
short and far between.

"You seem wonderfully fond of Lady Cecilia," said Mrs. Collingwood.

"Not wonderfully," replied Helen, "but very fond, and no wonder, we were
bred up together. And"--continued she, after a little pause, "and if Lady
Cecilia had not been so generous as she is, she might have been--she must
have been, jealous of the partiality, the fondness, which her mother always
showed me."

"But was not Lady Davenant's heart large enough to hold two?" asked Mrs.
Collingwood. "Was not she fond of her daughter?"

"Yes, as far as she knew her, but she did not know Lady Cecilia." "Not
know her own daughter!" Mr. and Mrs. Collingwood both at once exclaimed,
"How could that possibly be?"

"Very easily," Helen said, "because she saw so little of her."

"Was not Lady Cecilia educated at home?"

"Yes, but still Lady Cecilia, when a child, was all day long with her
governess, and at Cecilhurst the governess's apartments were quite out of
the way, in one of the wings at the end of a long corridor, with a separate
staircase; she might as well have been in another house."

"Bad arrangement," said Mr. Collingwood, speaking to himself as he stood on
the hearth. "Bad arrangement which separates mother and daughter."

"At that time," continued Helen, "there was always a great deal of company
at Cecilhurst. Lord Davenant was one of the ministers then. I believe--I
know he saw a great many political people, and Lady Davenant was forced to
be always with them talking."

"Talking! yes, yes!" said Mr. Collingwood, "I understand it all--Lady
Davenant is a great politician, and female politicians, with their heads
full of the affairs of Europe, cannot have time to think of the affairs of
their families."

"What is the matter, my dear Helen?" said Mrs. Collingwood, taking her
hand. Helen had tears in her eyes and looked unhappy.

"I have done very wrong," said she; "I have said something that has given
you a bad, a false opinion of one for whom I have the greatest admiration
and love--of Lady Davenant. I am excessively sorry; I have done very
wrong."

"Not the least, my dear child; you told us nothing but what everybody
knows--that she is a great politician; you told us no more."

"But I should have told you more, and what nobody knows better than I do,"
cried Helen, "that Lady Davenant is a great deal more, and a great deal
better than a politician. I was too young to judge, you may think, hut
young as I was, I could see and feel, and children can and do often see a
great deal into character, and I assure you Lady Davenant's is a sort of
deep, high character, that you would admire."

Mrs. Collingwood observed with surprise, that Helen spoke of her with even
more enthusiasm than of her dear Lady Cecilia. "Yes, because she is a
person more likely to excite enthusiasm."

"You did not feel afraid of her, then?"

"I do not say that," replied Helen; "yet it was not fear exactly, it was
more a sort of awe, but still I liked it. It is so delightful to have
something to look up to. I love Lady Davenant all the better, even for that
awe I felt of her."

"And I like you all the better for everything you feel, think, and say
about your friends," cried Mrs. Collingwood; "but let us see what they will
do; when I see whether they can write, and what they write to you, I will
tell you more of my mind--if any letters come."

"If!--" Helen repeated, but would say no more--and there it rested, or
at least stopped. By common consent the subject was not recurred to
for several days. Every morning at post-time Helen's colour rose with
expectation, and then faded with disappointment; still, with the same
confiding look, she said, "I am sure it is not their fault."

"Time will show," said Mrs. Collingwood.

At length, one morning when she came down to breakfast, "Triumph, my dear
Helen!" cried Mrs. Collingwood, holding up two large letters, all scribbled
over with "Try this place and try that, mis-sent to Cross-keys--Over moor,
and heaven knows where--and--no matter."

Helen seized the packets and tore them open; one was from Paris, written
immediately after the news of Dean Stanley's death; it contained two
letters, one from Lady Davenant, the other from Lady Cecilia--"written,
only think!" cried she, "how kind!--the very day before her marriage;
signed 'Cecilia Davenant, for the last time,'--and Lady Davenant, too--to
think of me in all their happiness."

She opened the other letters, written since their arrival in England, she
read eagerly on,--then stopped, and her looks changed.

"Lady Davenant is not coming to Cecilhurst. Lord Davenant is to be sent
ambassador to Petersburgh, and Lady Davenant will go along with him!--Oh!
there is an end of everything, I shall never see her again!--Stay--she is
to be first with Lady Cecilia at Clarendon Park, wherever that is, for some
time--she does not know how long--she hopes to see me there--oh! how
kind, how delightful!" Helen put Lady Davenant's letter proudly into Mrs.
Collingwood's hand, and eagerly opened Lady Cecilia's.

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