Book: Helen

M >> Maria Edgeworth >> Helen




Helen cleared her uncle's memory from this imputation, and explained that
the bracelets were a present from General Clarendon. She did not know they
were so "very valuable," but she hoped she had not done wrong to accept of
them in the circumstances; and she told how she had been induced to take
them.

Lady Davenant said she had done quite right. The general was no
present-maker, and this exception in his favour could I not lead to any
future inconvenience. "But Cecilia," continued she, "is too much addicted
to trinket giving, which ends often disagreeably even between friends, or
at all events fosters a foolish taste, and moreover associates it with
feelings of affection in a way particularly deceitful and dangerous to such
a little, tender-hearted person as I am speaking to, whose common sense
would too easily give way to the pleasure of pleasing or fear of offending
a friend. Kiss me, and don't contradict me, for your conscience tells you
that what I say is true."

The sapphires, the ruby brooch, and all her unsettled accounts, came across
Helen's mind; and if the light had shone upon her face at that moment, her
embarrassment must have been seen; but Lady Davenant, as she finished the
last words, laid her head upon the pillow, and she turned and settled
herself comfortably to go to sleep. Helen retired with a disordered
conscience; and the first thing she did in the morning was to look in the
red case in which the sapphires came, to see if there was any note of their
price; she recollected having seen some little bit of card--it was found
on the dressing-table. When she beheld the price, fear took away her
breath--it was nearly half her whole year's income; still she _could_ pay
it. But the ruby brooch that had not yet arrived--what would that cost? She
hurried to her accounts; she had let them run on for months unlooked at,
but she thought she must know the principal articles of expense in dress by
her actual possessions. There was a heap of little crumpled bills which,
with Felicie's griffonage, Helen had thrown into her table-drawer. In vain
did she attempt to decipher the figures, like apothecaries' marks, linked
to quarters and three-quarters, and yards, of gauzes, silks, and muslins,
altogether inextricably puzzling. They might have been at any other moment
laughable, but now they were quite terrible to Helen; the only thing she
could make clearly out was the total; she was astonished when she saw to
how much little nothings can amount, an astonishment felt often by the
most experienced--how much more by Helen, all unused to the arithmetic of
economy! At this instant her maid came in smiling with a packet, as if sure
of being the bearer of the very thing her young lady most wished for; it
was the brooch--the very last thing in the world she desired to see. With
a trembling hand she opened the parcel, looked at the note of the price,
and sank upon her chair half stupified, with her eyes fixed upon the sum.
She sat she knew not how long, till, roused by the opening of Cecilia's
door, she hastened to put away the papers. "Let me see them, my dear, don't
put away those papers," cried Cecilia; "Felicie tells me that you have been
at these horrid accounts these two hours, and--you look--my dear Helen, you
must let me see how much it is!" She drew the total from beneath Helen's
hand. It was astounding even to Cecilia, as appeared by her first unguarded
look of surprise. But, recovering herself immediately, she in a playfully
scolding tone told Helen that all this evil came upon her in consequence of
her secret machinations. "You set about to counteract me, wrote for things
that I might not get them for you, you see what has come of it! As to these
bills, they are all from tradespeople who cannot be in a hurry to be paid;
and as to the things Felicie has got for you, she can wait, is not she a
waiting-woman by profession? Now, where is the ruby-brooch? Have you never
looked at it?--I hope it is pretty--I am sure it is handsome," cried she as
she opened the case. "Yes; I like it prodigiously, I will take it off your
hands, my dear; will that do?"

"No, Cecilia, I cannot let you do that, for you have one the same, I know,
and you cannot want another--no, no."

"You speak like an angel, my dear, but you do not look like one," said
Cecilia. "So woe-begone, so pale a creature, never did I see! do look at
yourself in the glass; but you are too wretched to plague. Seriously, I
want this brooch, and mine it must be--it is mine: I have a use for it, I
assure you."

"Well, if you have a use for it, really," said Helen, "I should indeed be
very glad----"

"Be glad then, it is mine," said Cecilia; "and now it is yours, my dear
Helen, now, not a word! pray, if you love me!"

Helen could not accept of it; she thanked Cecilia with all her heart, she
felt her kindness--her generosity, but even the hitherto irresistible
words, "If you love me," were urged in vain. If she had not been in actual
need of money, she might have been over-persuaded, but now her spirit of
independence strengthened her resolution, and she persisted in her refusal.
Lady Davenant's bell rang, and Helen, slowly rising, took up the miserable
accounts, and said, "Now I must go----"

"Where!" said Cecilia; "you look as if you had heard a knell that summoned
you--what are you going to do?" "To tell all my follies to Lady Davenant."

"Tell your follies to nobody but me," cried Lady Cecilia. "I have enough of
my own to sympathise with you, but do not go and tell them to my mother, of
all people; she, who has none of her own, how can you expect any mercy?"

"I do not; I am content to bear all the blame I so richly deserve, but I
know that after she has heard me, she will tell me what I ought to do, she
will find out some way of settling it all rightly, and if that can but be,
I do not care how much I suffer. So the sooner I go to her the better,"
said Helen.

"But you need not be in such a hurry; do not be like the man who said,
'Je veux etre l'enfant prodigue, je veux etre l'enfant perdu.' L'enfant
prodigue, well and good, but why l'enfant perdu?"

"My dear Cecilia, do not play with me now--do not stop me," said Helen
anxiously. "It is serious with me now, and it is as much as I can do----"

Cecilia let her go, but trembled for her, as she looked after her, and saw
her stop at her mother's door.

Helen's first knock was too low, it was unheard, she was obliged to wait;
another, louder, was answered by, "Come in." And in the presence she stood,
and into the middle of things she rushed at once; the accounts, the total,
lay before Lady Davenant. There it was: and the culprit, having made her
confession, stood waiting for the sentence.

The first astonished change of look, was certainly difficult to sustain.
"I ought to have foreseen this," said Lady Davenant; "my affection has
deceived my judgment. Helen, I am sorry for your sake, and for my own."

"Oh do not speak in that dreadful calm voice, as if--do not give me up at
once," cried Helen.

"What can I do for you? what can be done for one who has no strength of
mind?" I have some, thought Helen, or I should not be here at this moment.
"Of what avail, Helen, is your good heart--your good intentions, without
the power to abide by them? When you can be drawn aside from the right by
the first paltry temptation--by that most contemptible of passions--the
passion for baubles! You tell me it was not that, what then? a few words of
persuasion from any one who can smile, and fondle, and tell you that they
love you;--the fear of offending Cecilia! how absurd! Is this what you both
call friendship? But weaker still, Helen, I perceive that you have been led
blindfold in extravagance by a prating French waiting-maid--to the brink of
ruin, the very verge of dishonesty."

"Dishonesty! how?"

"Ask yourself, Helen: is a person honest, who orders and takes from the
owner that for which he cannot pay? Answer me, honest or dishonest."

"Dishonest! if I had intended not to pay. But I did intend to pay, and I
will."

"You will! The weak have no will--never dare to say I will. Tell me how you
will pay that which you owe. You have no means--no choice, except to take
from the fund you have already willed to another purpose. See what good
intentions, come to, Helen, when you cannot abide by them!"

"But I can," cried Helen; "whatever else I do, I will not touch that fund,
destined for my dear uncle--I have not touched it. I could pay it in two
years, and I will--I will give up my whole allowance."

"And what will you live upon in the mean time?"

"I should not have said my whole allowance, but I can do with very little,
I will buy nothing new."

"Buy nothing--live upon nothing!" repeated Lady Davenant; "how often have
I heard these words said by the most improvident, in the moment of
repentance, even then as blind and uncalculating as ever! And you, Helen,
talk to me of your powers of forbearance,--you, who, with the strongest
motive your heart could feel, have not been able for a few short months to
resist the most foolish--the most useless fancies."

Helen burst into tears. But Lady Davenant, unmoved, at least to all outward
appearance, coldly said, "It is not feeling that you want, or that I
require from you; I am not to be satisfied by words or tears."

"I deserve it all," said Helen; "and I know you are not cruel. In the midst
of all this, I know you are my best friend."

Lady Davenant was now obliged to be silent, lest her voice should betray
more tenderness than her countenance chose to show.

"Only tell me what I can do now," continued Helen; "what can I do?"

"What you CAN do, I will tell you, Helen. Who was the man you were dancing
with last night?" "I danced with several; which do you mean?"

"Your partner in the quadrille you were dancing when I came in."

"Lord Estridge: but you know him--he has been often here."

"Is he rich?" said Lady Davenant.

"Oh yes, very rich, and very self-sufficient: he is the man Cecilia used to
call '_Le prince de mon merite._'"

"Did she? I do not remember. He made no impression on me, nor on you, I
dare say."

"Not the least, indeed."

"No matter, he will do as well as another, since he is rich. You can marry
him, and pay your present debts, and contract new, for thousands instead of
hundreds:--this is what you CAN do, Helen."

"Do you think I can?" said Helen.

"You can, I suppose, as well as others. You know that young ladies often
marry to pay their debts?"

"So I once heard," said Helen, "but is it possible?"

"Quite. You might have been told more--that they enter into regular
partnerships, joint-stock companies with dress-makers and jewellers, who
make their ventures and bargains on the more or less reputation of the
young ladies for beauty or for fashion, supply them with finery, speculate
on their probabilities of matrimonial success, and trust to being repaid
after marriage. Why not pursue this plan next season in town? You must come
to it like others, whose example you follow--why not begin it immediately?"

There is nothing so reassuring to the conscience as to hear, in the midst
of blame that we do deserve, suppositions of faults, imputations which we
know to be unmerited--impossible. Instead of being hurt or alarmed by what
Lady Davenant had said, the whole idea appeared to Helen so utterly beneath
her notice, that the words made scarcely any impression on her mind, and
her thoughts went earnestly back to the pressing main question--"What can
I do, honestly to pay this money that I owe?" She abruptly asked Lady
Davenant if she thought the jeweller could be prevailed upon to take back
the sapphires and the brooch?

"Certainly not, without a considerable loss to you," replied Lady Davenant;
but with an obvious change for the better in her countenance, she added,
"Still the determination to give up the bauble is good; the means, at
whatever loss, we will contrive for you, if you are determined."

"Determined!--oh yes." She ran for the bracelets and brooch, and eagerly
put them into Lady Davenant's hand. And now another bright idea came into
her mind: she had a carriage of her own--a very handsome carriage, almost
new; she could part with it--yes, she would, though it was a present from
her dear uncle--his last gift; and he had taken such pleasure in having it
made perfect for her. She was very, very fond of it, but she would part
with it; she saw no other means of abiding by her promise, and paying his
debts and her own. This passed rapidly through her mind; and when she had
expressed her determination, Lady Davenant's manner instantly returned to
all its usual kindness, and she exclaimed as she embraced her, drew her
to her, and kissed her again and again--"You are my own Helen! These are
deeds, Helen, not words: I am satisfied--I may be satisfied with you now!

"And about that carriage, my dear, it shall not go to a stranger, it shall
be mine. I want a travelling chaise--I will purchase it from you: I shall
value it for my poor friend's sake, and for yours, Helen. So now it is
settled, and you are clear in the world again. I will never spoil you,
but I will always serve you, and a greater pleasure I cannot have in this
world."

After this happy termination of the dreaded confession, how much did Helen
rejoice that she had had the courage to tell all to her friend. The pain
was transient--the confidence permanent.

As Helen was going into her own room, she saw Cecilia flying up stairs
towards her, with an open letter in her hand, her face radiant with joy. "I
always knew it would all end well! Churchill might well say that all the
sand in my hour-glass was diamond sand. There, my dear Helen--there," cried
Cecilia, embracing her as she put the letter into her hand. It was from
Beauclerc, his answer to Lady Cecilia's letter, which had followed him to
Naples. It was written the very instant he had read her explanation, and,
warm from his heart, he poured out all the joy he felt on hearing the
truth, and, in his transport of delight, he declared that he quite forgave
Lady Cecilia, and would forget, as she desired, all the misery she had made
him feel. Some confounded quarantine he feared might detain him, but he
would certainly be at Clarendon Park in as short a time as possible.
Helen's first smile, he said, would console him for all he had suffered,
and make him forget everything.

Helen's first smile he did not see, nor the blush which spread and rose as
she read. Cecilia was delighted. "Generous, affectionate Cecilia!" thought
Helen; "if she has faults, and she really has but one, who could help
loving her?" Not Helen, certainly, or she would have been the most
ungrateful of human beings. Besides her sympathy in Helen's happiness,
Cecilia was especially rejoiced at this letter, coming, as it did, the very
day after her mother's return; for though she had written to Lady Davenant
on Beauclerc's departure, and told her that he was gone only on Lord
Beltravers' account, yet she dreaded that, when it came to speaking, her
mother's penetration would discover that something extraordinary had
happened. Now all was easy. Beauclerc was coming back: he had finished his
friend's business, and, before he returned to Clarendon Park he wished
to know if he might appear there as the acknowledged admirer of Miss
Stanley--if he might with any chance of success pay his addresses to her.
Secure that her mother would never ask to see the letter, considering it
either as a private communication to his guardian, or as a love letter
to Helen, Cecilia gave this version of it to Lady Davenant; and how she
settled it with the general, Helen never knew, but it seemed all smooth and
right.

And now, the regatta being at an end, the archery meetings over, and no
hope of further gaiety for this season at Clarendon Park, the Castleforts
and Lady Katrine departed. Lady Katrine's last satisfaction was the hard
haughty look with which she took leave of Miss Stanley--a look expressing,
as well as the bitter smile and cold form of good breeding could express
it, unconquered, unconquerable hate.




CHAPTER VIII


There is no better test of the strength of affection than the ready turning
of the mind to the little concerns of a friend, when preoccupied with
important interests of our own. This was a proof of friendship, which Lady
Davenant had lately given to Helen, for, at the time when she had entered
with so much readiness and zeal into Helen's little difficulties and debts,
great political affairs and important interests of Lord Davenant's were in
suspense, and pressed heavily upon her mind. What might be the nature of
these political embarrassments had not been explained. Lady Davenant had
only hinted at them. She said, "she knew from the terror exhibited by
the inferior creatures in office that some change in administration
was expected, as beasts are said to howl and tremble before storm, or
earthquake, or any great convulsion of nature takes place."

Since Lady Davenant's return from town, where Lord Davenant still remained,
nothing had been said of the embassy to Russia but that it was delayed.
Lady Cecilia, who was quick, and, where she was not herself concerned,
usually right, in interpreting the signs of her mother's discomfiture,
guessed that Lord Davenant had been circumvented by some diplomatist of
inferior talents, and she said to Helen, "When an ass kicks you never tell
it, is a maxim which mamma heard from some friend, and she always acts
upon it; but a kick, whether given by ass or not, leaves a bruise, which
sometimes tells in spite of ourselves, and my mother should remember
another maxim of that friend's, that the faults and follies of the great
are the delight and comfort of the little. Now, my mother, though she is
so well suited, from her superior abilities and strength of mind, and all
that, to be the wife of a great political leader, yet in some respects she
is the most unfit person upon earth for _the situation_; for, though she
feels the necessity of conciliating, she cannot unbend with her inferiors,
that is, with half the world. As Catalani said of singing, it is much more
difficult to descend than to ascend well. Shockingly mamma shows in her
manner sometimes how tired she is of the stupid, and how she despises the
mean; and all the underlings think she can undo them with papa, for it has
gone abroad that she _governs_, while in fact, though papa asks her advice,
to be sure, because she is so wise, she never does interfere in the least;
but, now it has once got into the world's obstinate head that she does, it
cannot be put out again, and mamma is the last person upon earth to take
her own part, or condescend to explain and set things right. She is always
thinking of papa's glory and the good of the public, but the public will
never thank him and much less her; so there she is a martyr, without her
crown; now, if I were to make a martyr of myself, which, Heaven forbid! I
would at least take right good care to secure my crown, and to have my full
glory round my head, and set on becomingly. But seriously, my dear Helen,"
continued Lady Cecilia, "I am unhappy about papa and mamma, I assure you.
I have seen little clouds of discontent long gathering, lowering, and
blackening, and I know they will burst over their heads in some tremendous
storm at last."

Helen hoped not, but looked frightened.

"Oh, you may hope not, my dear, but I know it will be--we may not hear the
thunder, but we shall see the lightning all the more dangerous. We shall be
struck down, unless--" she paused.

"Unless what?" said Helen.

"Unless the storm be dispersed in time."

"And how?"

"The lightning drawn off by some good conductor--such as myself; I am quite
serious, and though you were angry with me for laughing just now, as if I
was not the best of daughters, even though I laugh, I can tell you I am
meditating an act of self-devotion for my mother's sake--a grand _coup
d'etat_." "_Coup d'etat_? you, Cecilia! my dear--"

"I, Helen, little as you think of me."

"Of your political talents you don't expect me to think much, do you?"

"My political talents! you shall see what they are. I am capable of a
grand _coup d'etat_. I will have next week a three days' congress,
anti-political, at Clarendon Park, where not a word of politics shall be
heard, nor any thing but nonsense if I can help it, and the result shall
be, as you shall see, goodwill between all men and all women--women?
yes, there's the grand point. Mamma has so affronted two ladies, very
influential as they call it, each--Lady Masham, a favourite at court, and
Lady Bearcroft, risen from the ranks, on her husband's shoulders; he, 'a
man of law,' Sir Benjamin Bearcroft, and very clever she is I hear, but
loud and coarse; absolutely inadmissible she was thought till lately, and
now, only tolerated for her husband's sake, but still have her here I
must."

"I think you had better not," remonstrated Helen; "if she is so very
vulgar, Lady Davenant and the general will never endure her." "Oh, he will!
the general will bear a great deal for mamma's sake, and more for papa's. I
must have her, my dear, for the husband is of consequence and, though he is
ashamed of her, for that very reason he cannot bear that any body should
neglect her, and terribly mamma has neglected her! Now, my dear Helen, do
not say a word more against it." Very few words had Helen said. "I must
ponder well," continued Cecilia, "and make out my list of worthies, my
concordatum party."

Helen much advised the consulting Lady Davenant first; but Lady Cecilia
feared her mother might be too proud to consent to any advance on her own
part. Helen still feared that the bringing together such discordant people
would never succeed, but Lady Cecilia, always happy in paying herself with
words answerable to her wishes, replied, "that discords well managed often
produced the finest harmony." The only point she feared was, that she
should not gain the first step, that she should not be able to prevail upon
the general to let her give the invitations. In truth, it required all her
persuasive words, and more persuasive looks to accomplish this preliminary,
and to bring General Clarendon to invite, or permit to be invited, to
Clarendon Park, persons whom he knew but little, and liked not at all. But
as Lady Cecilia pleaded and urged that it would soon be over, "the whole
will be over in three days--only a three days' visit; and for mamma!--I am
sure, Clarendon--you will do anything for her, and for papa, and your
own Cecilia? "--the general smiled, and the notes were written, and the
invitations were accepted, and when once General Clarendon had consented,
he was resolutely polite in his reception of these to him unwelcome guests.
His manner was not false; it was only properly polite, not tending to
deceive any one who understood the tokens of conventional good breeding.
It however required considerable power over himself to keep the line of
demarcation correctly, with one person in particular to whom he had a
strong political aversion: Mr. Harley.--His very name was abhorrent
to General Clarendon, who usually designated him as "That Genius,
Cecilia--that favourite of your mother's! "--while to Lady Davenant
Mr. Harley was the only person from whose presence she anticipated any
pleasure, or who could make the rest of the party to her endurable. Helen,
though apprehensive of what might be the ultimate result of this congress,
yet could not help rejoicing that she should now have an opportunity of
seeing some of those who are usually considered "high as human veneration
can look." It is easy, after one knows who is who, to determine that we
should have found out the characteristic qualities and talents in each
countenance. Lady Cecilia, however, would not tell Helen the names of the
celebrated unknown who were assembled when they went into the drawing-room
before dinner, and she endeavoured to guess from their conversation the
different characters of the speakers; but only a few sentences were
uttered, signifying nothing; snuff-boxes were presented, pinches taken
and inclinations made with becoming reciprocity, but the physiognomy of
a snuff-box Helen could not interpret, though Lavater asserts that every
thing in nature, even a cup of tea, has a physiognomy.

Dinner was announced, and the company paired off, seemingly not standing
on the order of their going; yet all, especially as some were strangers,
secretly mindful of their honours, and they moved on in precedence just,
and found themselves in places due at the dinner-table.

But Helen did not seem likely to obtain more insight into the characters
of these great personages in the dining-room than she had done in the
drawing-room. For it often happens that, when the most celebrated, and
even the most intellectual persons are brought together expressly for the
purpose of conversation, then it does not flow, but sinks to silence, and
ends at last in the stagnation of utter stupidity. Each seems oppressed
with the weight of his own reputation, and, in the pride of high celebrity,
and the shyness, real or affected, of high rank, each fears to commit
himself by a single word. People of opposite parties, when thrown together,
cannot at once change the whole habit of their minds, nor without some
effort refrain from that abuse of their opposites in which they are
accustomed to indulge when they have it all to themselves. Now every
subject seems laboured--for in the pedantry of party spirit no partisan
will speak but in the slang or cant of his own craft. Knowledge is not only
at one entrance, but at every entrance quite shut out, and even literature
itself grows perilous, so that to be safe they must all be dumb.

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