Book: Helen

M >> Maria Edgeworth >> Helen




"Oh, my dear, do not say so before you know; perhaps, as you thought at
first, we shall find that it is all only a mistake of that giddy dentist's;
for your brother's sake try to think as well as you can of his wife; she is
a charming agreeable creature, I am sure."

"You've only seen her once, my dear aunt," said Miss Clarendon. "For my
brother's sake I would give up half her agreeableness for one ounce--for
one scruple--of truth."

"Well, well, take it with some grains of allowance, my dear niece; and, at
any rate, do not suffer yourself to be so prejudiced as to conceive she can
be in fault in this business."

"We shall see to-day," said Miss Clarendon; "I will not he prejudiced; but
I remember hearing at Florence that this Colonel D'Aubigny had been an
admirer of Lady Cecilia's. I will get at the truth."

With this determination, and in pursuance of the resolve to be early, they
were at General Clarendon's full a quarter of an hour before the arrival
of any other company; but Lady Cecilia entered so immediately after the
general, that Miss Clarendon had no time to speak with her brother alone.
Determined, however, as she was, to get at the truth, without preface, or
even smoothing her way to her object, she rushed into the middle of things
at once. "Have you heard any reports about Miss Stanley, brother?"

"Yes."

"And you, Lady Cecilia?"

"Yes."

"What have you heard?"

Lady Cecilia was silent, looked at the general, and left it to him to speak
as much or as little as he pleased. She trusted to his laconic mode of
answering, which, without departing from truth, defied curiosity. Her trust
in him upon the present occasion was, however, a little disturbed by her
knowledge of his being at this moment particularly displeased with Helen.
But, had she known the depths as well as she knew the surface of his
character, her confidence in his caution would have been increased, instead
of being diminished by this circumstance: Helen was lost in his esteem, but
she was still under his protection; her secrets were not only sacred, but,
as far as truth and honour could admit, he would still serve and save her.
Impenetrable, therefore, was his look, and brief was his statement to his
sister. A rascally bookseller had been about to publish a book, in which
were some letters which paragraphs in certain papers had led the public
to believe were Miss Stanley's; the publication had been stopped, the
offensive chapter suppressed, and the whole impression destroyed."

"But, brother," pursued Miss Clarendon, "were the letters Miss Stanley's,
or not? You know I do not ask from idle curiosity, but from regard for Miss
Stanley;" and she turned her inquiring eyes full upon Lady Cecilia.

"I believe, my dear Esther," said Lady Cecilia, "I believe we had better
say no more; you had better inquire no further."

"That must be a bad case which can bear no inquiry," said Miss Clarendon;
"which cannot admit any further question, even from one most disposed to
think well of the person concerned--a desperately bad case."

"Bad! no, Esther. It would be cruel of you so to conclude: and falsely it
would be--might be; indeed, Esther! my dear Esther!----" Her husband's eyes
were upon Lady Cecilia, and she did not dare to justify Helen decidedly;
her imploring look and tone, and her confusion, touched the kind aunt, hut
did not stop the impenetrable niece.

"Falsely, do you say? Do you say, Lady Cecilia, that it would be to
conclude falsely? Perhaps not falsely though, upon the data given to me.
The data may be false."

"Data! I do not know what you mean exactly, Esther," said Lady Cecilia, in
utter confusion.

"I mean exactly what I say," pursued Miss Clarendon; "that if I reason
wrong, and come to a false conclusion, or what you call a cruel conclusion,
it is not my fault, but the fault of those who do not plainly tell me the
facts."

She looked from Lady Cecilia to her brother, and from her brother to Lady
Cecilia. On her brother no effect was produced: calm, unalterable, looked
he; as though his face had been turned to stone. Lady Cecilia struggled
in vain to be composed. "I wish I could tell you, Esther," said she; "but
facts cannot always--all facts--even the most innocent--that is, even with
the best intentions--cannot always be all told, even in the defence of
one's best friend."

"If this be the best defence you can make for your best friend, I am glad
you will never have to defend me, and I am sorry for Helen Stanley."

"Oh, my dear Esther!" said her aunt, with a remonstrating look; for, though
she had not distinctly heard all that was said, she saw that things were
going wrong, and that Esther was making them worse. "Indeed, Esther, my
dear, we had better let this matter rest."

"Let this matter rest!" repeated Miss Clarendon; "that is not what you
would say, my dear aunt, if you were to hear any evil report of me. If any
suspicion fell like a blast on my character you would never say 'let it
rest.'"

Fire lighted in her brother's eyes, and the stone face was all animated,
and he looked sudden sympathy, and he cried, "You are right, sister, in
principle, but wrong in--fact."

"Set me right where only I am wrong then," cried she.

He turned to stone again, and her aunt in a low voice, said, "Not now."

"Now or never," said the sturdy champion; "it is for Miss Stanley's
character. You are interested for her, are not you, aunt?" "Certainly, I am
indeed; but we do not know all the circumstances--we cannot--"

"But we must. You do not know, brother, how public these reports are. Mr.
St. Leger Swift, the dentist, has been chattering to us all morning about
them. So, to go to the bottom of the business at once, will you, Lady
Cecilia, answer me one straight-forward question?"

Straight-forward question! what is coming? thought Lady Cecilia: her face
flushed, and taking up a hand-screen, she turned away, as if from the
scorching fire; but it was not a scorching fire, as everybody, or at least
as Miss Clarendon, could see. The face turned away from Miss Clarendon was
full in view of aunt Pennant, who was on her other side; and she, seeing
the distressed state of the countenance, pitied, and gently laying her hand
upon Lady Cecilia's arm, said, in her soft low voice, "This must be a very
painful subject to you, Lady Cecilia. I am sorry for you."

"Thank you," said Lady Cecilia, pressing her hand with quick gratitude for
her sympathy. "It is indeed to me a painful subject, for Helen has been my
friend from childhood, and I have so much reason for loving her!"

Many contending emotions struggled in Cecilia's countenance, and she could
say no more: but what she had said, what she had looked, had been quite
enough to interest tenderly in her favour that kind heart to which it was
addressed; and Cecilia's feeling was true at the instant; she forgot
all but Helen; the screen was laid down; tears stood in her eyes--those
beautiful eyes! "If I could but tell you the whole--oh if I could! without
destroying----"

Miss Clarendon at this moment placed herself close opposite to Cecilia,
and, speaking so low that neither her brother nor her aunt could hear her,
said, "Without destroying yourself, or your friend--which?"

Lady Cecilia could not speak.

"You need not--I am answered," said Miss Clarendon; and returning to her
place, she remained silent for some minutes.

The general rang, and inquired if Mr. Beauclerc had come in.

"No."

The general made no observation and then began some indifferent
conversation with Mrs. Pennant, in which Lady Cecilia forced herself to
join; she dreaded even Miss Clarendon's silence--that grim repose,--and
well she might.

"D'Aubigny's Memoirs, I think, was the title of the book, aunt, that the
dentist talked of? That is the book you burnt, is not it, brother?--a
chapter in that book?"

"Yes," said the general.

And again Miss Clarendon was silent; for though she well recollected what
she had heard at Florence, and however strong were her suspicions, she
might well pause; for she loved her brother before every thing but truth
and justice,--she loved her brother too much to disturb his confidence.
"I have no proof," thought she; "I might destroy his happiness by another
word, and I may be wrong."

"But shall not we see Miss Stanley?" said Mrs. Pennant.

Lady Cecilia was forced to explain that Helen was not very well, would not
appear till after dinner--nothing very much the matter--a little faintish.

"Fainted," said the general.

"Yes, quite worn out--she was at Lady Castlefort's last night--such a
crowd!" She went on to describe its city horrors.

"But where is Mr. Beauclerc all this time?" said Miss Clarendon: "has he
fainted too? or is he faintish?"

"Not likely," said Lady Cecilia; "faint heart never won fair lady. He is
not of the faintish sort."

At this moment a thundering knock at the door announced the rest of the
company, and never was company more welcome. But Beauclerc did not appear.
Before dinner was served, however, a note came from him to the general.
Lady Cecilia stretched out her hand for it, and read,

"MY DEAR FRIENDS,--I am obliged to dine out of town. I shall not return
to-night, but you will see me at breakfast-time to-morrow. Yours ever,
GRANVILLE BEAUCLERC."

Cockburn now entered with a beautiful bouquet of hot-house flowers, which,
he said, Mr. Beauclerc's man had brought with the note, and which were, he
said, for Miss Stanley. Lady Cecilia's countenance grew radiant with joy,
and she exclaimed, "Give them to me,--I must have the pleasure of taking
them to her myself."

And she flew off with them. Aunt Pennant smiled on her as she passed, and,
turning to her niece as Lady Cecilia left the room, said, "What a bright
creature! so warm, so affectionate!" Miss Clarendon was indeed struck with
the indisputably natural sincere satisfaction and affection in Cecilia's
countenance; and, herself of such a different nature, could not comprehend
the possibility of such contradiction in any character: she could not
imagine the existence of such variable, transitory feelings--she could not
believe any human being capable of sacrificing her friend to save herself,
while she still so loved her victim, could still feel such generous
sympathy for her. She determined at least to suspend her judgment; she
granted Lady Cecilia a reprieve from her terrific questions and her as
terrific looks. Cecilia recovered her presence of mind, and dinner went
off delightfully, to her at least, with the sense of escape in recovered
self-possession, and "spirits light, to every joy in tune."

From the good-breeding of the company there was no danger that the topic
she dreaded should be touched upon. Whatever reports might have gone forth,
whatever any one present might have heard, nothing would assuredly be
said of her friend Miss Stanley, to her, or before her, unless she or
the general introduced the subject; and she was still more secure of his
discretion than of her own. The conversation kept safe on London-dinner
generalities and frivolities. Yet often things that were undesignedly said
touched upon the _taboo'd_ matter; and those who knew when, where, and how
it touched, looked at or from one another, and almost equally dangerous was
either way of looking. Such perfect neutrality of expression is not given
to all men in these emergencies as to General Clarendon.

The dessert over, out of the dinner-room and in the drawing-room, the
ladies alone together, things were not so pleasant to Lady Cecilia.
Curiosity peeped out more and more in great concern about Miss Stanley's
health; and when ladies trifled over their coffee, and saw through all
things with their half-shut eyes, they asked, and Lady Cecilia answered,
and parried, and explained, and her conscience winced, and her countenance
braved, and Miss Clarendon listened with that dreadfully good memory,
that positive point-blank recollection, which permits not the slightest
variation of statement. Her doubts and her suspicions returned, but she was
silent; and sternly silent she remained the rest of the evening.




CHAPTER IX.


If "trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs
of Holy Writ," and that they are no one since the time of Othello could
ever doubt, it may be some consolation to observe, on the credit side of
human nature, that, to those who are not cursed with a jealous infirmity,
trifles light as air are often confirmations strong of the constancy of
affection. Well did Lady Cecilia know this when she was so eager to be the
bearer of the flowers which were sent by Beauclerc. She foresaw and enjoyed
the instant effect, the quick smile, and blush of delight with which that
bouquet was received by Helen.

"Oh, thank you! How kind of him!" and "all's well," was her immediate
conclusion. When she saw his note, she never even took notice that he did
not particularly mention her. The flowers from him were enough; she knew
his sincerity so well, trusted to it so completely, that she was quite
sure, if he had been angry with her, he would not have sent these tokens
of his love,--slight tokens, though they were all-sufficient for her. Her
fears had taken but one direction, and in that direction they were all
dispelled. He would be at breakfast to-morrow, when she should know where
he had been, and what had detained him from her the whole of this day. She
told Cecilia that she was now quite well, but that she would not attempt to
go down stairs. And Cecilia left her happy, so far at least; and when she
was alone with her flowers, she doubly enjoyed them, inhaling the fragrance
of each which she knew he particularly liked, and thanking him in her heart
for the careful choice, for she was certain that they were not accidentally
put together. Some of them were associated with little circumstances known
only to themselves, awakening recollections of bright, happy moments, and
selected, she was sure, with reference to a recent conversation they had
had on the language of flowers.

Whether Helen fancied half this, or whether it was all true, it had the
effect of soothing and pleasing her anxious, agitated mind; and she was
the more ready to indulge in that pleasant reverie, from all that she had
previously suffered herself, and all that she feared Beauclerc had yet to
endure. She knew too well how much these reports would affect him--and hear
them he must. She considered what trials he had already borne, and might
still have to bear, for her sake, whatever course she might now pursue.
Though soon, very soon, the whole would be told to him, yet still, though
she might stand clear in his eyes as to the main points, he must, and would
blame her weakness in first consenting to this deception--he who was above
deceit. She had not absolutely _told_, but she had _admitted_ a falsehood;
she had _acted_ a falsehood. This she could not extenuate. Her motive
at first, to save Lady Davenant's life, was good; but then her weakness
afterwards, in being persuaded time after time by Cecilia, could not well
be excused. She was conscious that she had sunk step by step, dragged down
that slippery path by Cecilia, instead of firmly making a stand, as she
ought to have done, and up-holding by her own integrity her friend's
failing truth. With returning anguish of self-reproach, she went over and
over these thoughts; she considered the many unforeseen circumstances that
had occurred. So much public shame, so much misery had been brought upon
herself and on all she loved, by this one false step! And how much more
might still await her, notwithstanding all that best of friends, the
general, had done! She recollected how much he had done for her!--thinking
of her too, as he must, with lowered esteem, and that was the most painful
thought of all;--to Beauclerc she could and would soon clear her truth, but
to the general--never, perhaps, completely!

Her head was leaning on her hand, as she was sitting deep in these
thoughts, when she was startled by an unusual knock at her door. It was
Cockburn with a packet, which General Clarendon had ordered him to deliver
into Miss Stanley's own hands. The instant she saw the packet she knew that
it contained _the book;_ and on opening it she found manuscript letters
inserted between the marked pages, and there was a note from General
Clarendon. She trembled--she foreboded ill.

The note began by informing Miss Stanley how the enclosed manuscript
letters came into General Clarendon's hands from a person whom Miss Stanley
had obliged, and who had hoped in return to do her some service. The
general next begged Miss Stanley to understand that these letters had been
put into his possession since his conversation with her at breakfast time;
his only design in urging her to mark her share in the printed letters had
been to obtain her authority for serving her to the best of his ability;
but he had since compared them:--and then came references, without
comment, to the discrepancies between the marked passages, the uniform
character of the omissions, followed only by a single note of admiration at
each from the general's pen. And at last, in cold polite phrase, came his
regret that he had not been able to obtain that confidence which he had
trusted he had deserved, and his renunciation of all future interference in
her affairs--_or concerns_, had been written, but a broad dash of the pen
had erased the superfluous words; and then came the inevitable conclusion,
on which Helen's eyes fixed, and remained immovable for some time--that
determination which General Clarendon had announced to his wife in the
first heat of indignation, but which, Lady Cecilia had hoped, could be
evaded, changed, postponed--would not at least be so suddenly declared to
Helen; therefore she had given her no hint, had in no way prepared her
for the blow,--and with the full force of astonishment it came upon
her--"General Clarendon cannot have the pleasure he had proposed to
himself, of giving Miss Stanley at the altar to his ward. He cannot by any
public act of his attest his consent to that marriage, of which, in his
private opinion, he no longer approves."

"And he is right. O Cecilia!" was Helen's first thought, when she could
think after this shock--not of her marriage, not of herself, not of
Beauclerc, but of Cecilia's falsehood--Cecilia's selfish cowardice, she
thought, and could not conceive it possible,--could not believe it,
though it was there. "Incredible--yet proved--there--there--before her
eyes-brought home keen to her heart! after all! at such a time--after her
most solemn promise, with so little temptation, so utterly false--with
every possible motive that a good mind could have to be true--in this last
trial--her friend's whole character at stake--ungenerous--base! O Cecilia!
how different from what I thought you--or how changed! And I have helped
to bring her to this!--I--I have been the cause.--I will not stay in this
house--I will leave her. To save her--to save myself--save my own truth
and my own real character--let the rest go as it will--the world think
what it may! Farther and farther, lower and lower, I have gone: I will not
go lower--I will struggle up again at any risk, at any sacrifice. This is a
sacrifice Lady Davenant would approve of: she said that if ever I should
be convinced that General Clarendon did not wish me to be his guest--if he
should ever cease to esteem me--I should go, that instant--and I will go.
But where? To whom could she fly, to whom turn? The Collingwoods were gone;
all her uncle's friends passed rapidly through her recollection. Since
she had been living with General and Lady Cecilia Clarendon, several had
written to invite her; but Helen knew a little more of the world now than
formerly, and she felt that there was not one, no, not one of all these, to
whom she could now, at her utmost need, turn and say, 'I am in distress,
receive me! my character is attacked, defend me! my truth is doubted,
believe in me!'" And, her heart beating with anxiety, she tried to think
what was to be done. There was an old Mrs. Medlicott, who had been a
housekeeper of her uncle's, living at Seven Oaks--she would go there--she
should be safe--she should be independent. She knew that she was then in
town, and was to go to Seven Oaks the next day; she resolved to send Rose
early in the morning to Mrs. Medlicott's lodging, which was near Grosvenor
Square, to desire her to call at General Clarendon's as she went out of
town, at eight o'clock. She could then go with her to Seven Oaks; and, by
setting out before Cecilia could be up, she should avoid seeing her again.

There are minds which totally sink, and others that wonderfully rise, under
the urgency of strong motive and of perilous circumstance. It is not always
the mind apparently strongest or most daring that stands the test. The
firm of principle are those most courageous in time of need. Helen had
determined what her course should be, and, once determined, she was calm.
She sat down and wrote to General Clarendon.

"Miss STANLEY regrets that she cannot explain to General Clarendon the
circumstances which have so much displeased him. She assures him that no
want of confidence has been, on her part, the cause; but she cannot expect
that, without further explanation, he should give her credit for sincerity.
She feels that with his view of her conduct, and in his situation, his
determination is right,--that it is what she has deserved,--that it is just
towards his ward and due to his own character. She hopes, however, that he
will not think it necessary to announce to Mr. Beauclerc his determination
of withdrawing his approbation and consent to his marriage, when she
informs him that it will now never be by her claimed or accepted. She
trusts that General Clarendon will permit her to take upon herself the
breaking off this union. She encloses a letter to Mr. Beauclerc, which she
begs may be given to him to-morrow. General Clarendon will find she has
dissolved their engagement as decidedly as he could desire, and that her
decision will be irrevocable. And since General Clarendon has ceased to
esteem her, Miss Stanley cannot longer accept his protection, or encroach
upon his hospitality. She trusts that he will not consider it as any want
of respect, that she has resolved to retire from his family as soon as
possible. She is certain of having a safe and respectable home with a
former housekeeper of her uncle Dean Stanley's, who will call for her at
eight o'clock to-morrow, and take her to Seven Oaks, where she resides.
Miss Stanley has named that early hour, that she may not meet Mr. Beauclerc
before she goes; she wishes also to avoid the struggle and agony of parting
with Lady Cecilia. She entreats General Clarendon will prevent Lady Cecilia
from attempting to see her in the morning, and permit her to go unobserved
out of the house at her appointed hour.

"So now farewell, my dear friend--yes, friend, this last time you must
permit me to call you; for such I feel you have ever been, and ever
would have been, to me, if my folly would have permitted. Believe
me--notwithstanding the deception of which I acknowledge I have been guilty
towards you, General Clarendon--I venture to say, _believe me_, I am not
ungrateful. At this instant my heart swells with gratitude, while I pray
that you may be happy--happy as you deserve to be. But you will read this
with disdain, as mere idle words: so be it. Farewell! HELEN STANLEY."

Next, she was to write to Beauclerc himself. Her letter was as follows:--

"With my whole heart, dear Granville, I thank you for the generous
confidence you have shown towards me, and for the invariable steadiness
of your faith and love. For your sake, I rejoice. One good has at least
resulted from the trials you have gone through: you must now and hereafter
feel sure of your own strength of mind. With me it has been different,
for I have not a strong mind. I have been all weakness, and must now be
miserable; but wicked I will not be--and wicked I should be if I took
advantage of your confiding love. I must disappoint your affection, but
your confidence I will not betray. When I put your love to that test which
it has so nobly stood, I had hoped that a time would come when all doubts
would be cleared up, and when I could reward your constancy by the
devotion of my whole happy life--but that hope is past: I cannot prove
my innocence--I will no longer allow you to take it upon my assertion.
I cannot indeed, with truth, even assert that I have done no wrong; for
though I am not false, I have gone on step by step in deception, and might
go on, I know not how far, nor to what dreadful consequences, if I did not
now stop--and I do stop. On my own head be the penalty of my fault--upon
my own happiness--my own character: I will not involve yours--therefore we
part. You have not yet heard all that has been said of me; but you soon
will, and you will feel, as I do, that I am not fit to be your wife. Your
wife should not be suspected; I have been--I am. All the happiness I can
ever have in this world must be henceforth in the thought of having saved
from misery--if not secured the happiness of those I love. Leave me this
hope--Oh, Granville, do not tell me, do not make me believe that you will
never be happy without me! You will--indeed you will. I only pray Heaven
that you may find love as true as mine, and strength to abide by the truth!
Do not write to me--do not try to persuade me to change my determination:
it is irrevocable. Further writing or meeting could be only useless anguish
to us both. Give me the sole consolation I can now have, and which you
alone can give--let me hear from Cecilia that you and your noble-minded
guardian are, after I am gone, as good friends as you were before you knew
me. I shall be gone from this house before you are here again; I cannot
stay where I can do no good, and might do much evil by remaining even a few
hours longer. As it is, comfort your generous heart on my account, with the
assurance that I am sustained by the consciousness that I am now, to the
best of my power, doing right. Adieu, Granville! Be happy! you can--you
have done no wrong. Be happy, and that will console

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