Book: Helen

M >> Maria Edgeworth >> Helen




"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 General!" 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.




CHAPTER XVI.


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 hare 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."

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