Book: Helen

M >> Maria Edgeworth >> Helen




Bodily exertion being more easy to her now than mental, she took long
walks, and came in boasting how far she had been, and looking quite
exhausted. And Miss Clarendon wondered at her wandering out alone; then she
tried to walk with Miss Clarendon, and she was more tired, though the walks
were shorter--and that was observed, and was not agreeable either to the
observer, or to the observed. Helen endeavoured to make up for it; she
followed Miss Clarendon about in all her various occupations, from
flower-garden to conservatory, and from conservatory to pheasantry, and to
all her pretty cottages, and her schools, and she saw and admired all the
good that Esther did so judiciously, and with such extraordinary, such
wonderful energy.

"Nothing wonderful in it," Miss Clarendon said: and as she ungraciously
rejected praise, however sincere, and required not sympathy, Helen was
reduced to be a mere silent, stupid, useless stander-by, and she could not
but feel this a little awkward. She tried to interest herself for the poor
people in the neighbourhood, but their language was unintelligible to her,
and her's to them, and it is hard work trying to make objects for oneself
in quite a new place, and with a pre-occupying sorrow in the mind all the
time. It was not only hard work to Helen, but it seemed labour in vain--
bringing soil by handfulls to a barren rock, where, after all, no plant
will take root. Miss Clarendon thought that labour could never be in vain.

One morning, when it must be acknowledged that Helen had been sitting
too long in the same position, with her head leaning on her hand, Miss
Clarendon in her abrupt voice asked, "How much longer, Helen, do you
intend to sit there, doing only what is the worst thing in the world for
you--thinking?"

Helen started, and said she feared she had been sitting too long idle.

"If you wish to know how long, I can tell you," said Miss Clarendon; "just
one hour and thirteen minutes."

"By the stop watch," said Helen, smiling.

"By my watch," said grave Miss Clarendon; "and in the mean time look at the
quantity of work I have done."

"And done so nicely!" said Helen, looking at it with admiration.

"Oh, do not think to bribe me with admiration; I would rather see you do
something yourself than hear you praise my doings."

"If I had anybody to work for. I have so few friends now in the world who
would care for anything I could do! But I will try--you shall see, my dear
Esther, by and bye."

"By and bye! no, no--now. I cannot bear to see you any longer, in this
half-alive, half-dead state."

"I know," said Helen, "that all you say is for my good. I am sure your only
object is my happiness."

"Your happiness is not in my power or in your's, but it is in your power to
deserve to be happy, by doing what is right--by exerting yourself:--that
is my object, for I see you are in danger of being lost in indolence. Now
you have the truth and the whole truth."

Many a truth would have come mended from Miss Clarendon's tongue, if it had
been uttered in a softer tone, and if she had paid a little more attention
to times and seasons: but she held it the sacred duty of sincerity to tell
a friend her faults as soon as seen, and without circumlocution.

The next day Helen set about a drawing. She made it an object to herself,
to try to copy a view of the dear Deanery in the same style as several
beautiful drawings of Miss Clarendon's. While she looked over her
portfolio, several of her old sketches recalled remembrances which made her
sigh frequently; Miss Clarendon heard her, and said--"I wish you would cure
yourself of that habit of sighing; it is very bad for you."

"I know it," said Helen.

"Despondency is not penitence," continued Esther: "reverie is not
reparation."

She felt as desirous as ever to make Helen happy at Llansillen, but she was
provoked to find it impossible to do so. Of a strong body herself, capable
of great resistance, powerful reaction under disappointment or grief, she
could ill make allowance for feebler health and spirits--perhaps feebler
character. For great misfortunes she had great sympathy, but she could not
enter into the details of lesser sorrows, especially any of the sentimental
kind, which she was apt to class altogether under the head--"Sorrows of my
Lord Plumcake!" an expression which had sovereignly taken her fancy, and
which her aunt did not relish, or quite understand.

Mrs. Pennant was, indeed, as complete a contrast to her niece in these
points, as nature and habit joined could produce. She was naturally of the
most exquisitely sympathetic mimosa-sensibility, shrinking and expanding
to the touch of others' joy or woe; and instead of having by long use worn
this out, she had preserved it wonderfully fresh in advanced years. But,
notwithstanding the contrast and seemingly incompatible difference between
this aunt and niece, the foundations of their characters both being good,
sound, and true, they lived on together well, and loved each other dearly.
They had seldom differed so much on any point as in the present case, as to
their treatment of their patient and their guest. Scarcely a day passed in
which they did not come to some mutual remonstrance; and sometimes when she
was by, which was not pleasant to her, as may be imagined. Yet perhaps even
these little altercations and annoyances, though they tried Helen's temper
or grieved her heart at the moment, were of use to her upon the whole, by
drawing her out of herself. Besides, these daily vicissitudes--made by
human temper, manner, and character--supplied in some sort the total want
of events, and broke the monotony of these tedious months.

The general's bulletins, however, became at last more favourable:
Mr. Churchill was decidedly better; his physician hoped he might soon be
pronounced out of danger. The general said nothing of Beauclerc, but that
he was, he believed, still at Paris. And from this time forward no more
letters came from Beauclerc to Helen; as his hopes of Churchill's recovery
increased, he expected every day to be released from his banishment, and
was resolved to write no more till he could say that he was free. But
Helen, though she did not allow it to herself, felt this deeply: she
thought that her determined silence had at last convinced him that all
pursuit of her was vain; and that he submitted to her rejection: she told
herself it was what should be, and yet she felt it bitterly. Lady Cecilia's
letters did not mention him, indeed they scarcely told anything; they had
become short and constrained: the general, she said, advised her to go
out more, and her letters often concluded in haste, with "Carriage at the
door," and all the usual excuses of a London life.

One day when Helen was sitting intently drawing, Miss Clarendon said
"Helen!" so suddenly that she started and looked round; Miss Clarendon was
seated on a low stool at her aunt's feet, with one arm thrown over her
great dog's neck; he had laid his head on her lap, and resting on him, she
looked up with a steadiness, a fixity of repose, which brought to Helen's
mind Raphael's beautiful figure of Fortitude leaning on her lion; she
thought she had never before seen Miss Clarendon look so handsome, so
graceful, so interesting; she took care not to say so, however.

"Helen!" continued Miss Clarendon, "do you remember the time when I was at
Clarendon Park and quitted it so abruptly? My reasons were good, whatever
my manner was; the opinion of the world I am not apt to fear for myself, or
even for my brother, but to the whispers of conscience I do listen. Helen!
I was conscious that certain feelings in my mind were too strong,--in me,
you would scarcely believe it--too tender. I had no reason to think that
Granville Beauclerc liked me; it was therefore utterly unfit that I should
think of him: I felt this, I left Clarendon Park, and from that moment I
have refused myself the pleasure of his society, I have altogether ceased
to think of him. This is the only way to conquer a hopeless attachment.
But you, Helen, though you have commanded him never to attempt to see you
again, have not been able to command your own mind. Since Mr. Churchill
is so much better, you expect that he will soon be pronounced out of
danger--you expect that Mr. Beauclerc will come over--come here, and be at
your feet!"

"I expect nothing," said Helen in a faltering voice, and then added
resolutely, "I cannot foresee what Mr. Beauclerc may do, but of this be
assured, Miss Clarendon, that until I stand as I once stood, and as I
deserve to stand, in the opinion of your brother; unless, above all, I
can bring _proofs_ to Granville's confiding heart, that I have ever been
unimpeachable of conduct and of mind, and in all but one circumstance
true--true as yourself, Esther--never, never, though your brother and all
the world consented, never till I myself felt that I was _proved_ to be as
worthy to be his wife as I think I am, would I consent to marry him--no,
not though my heart were to break."

"I believe it," said Mrs. Pennant; "and I wish--oh, how I wish--"

"That Lady Cecilia were hanged, as she deserves," said Miss Clarendon: "so
do I, I am sure; but that is nothing to the present purpose."

"No, indeed," said Helen.

"Helen!" continued Esther, "remember that Lady Blanche Forrester is at
Paris."

Helen shrank.

"Lady Cecilia tells you there is no danger; I say there is."

"Why should you say so, my dear Esther?" said her aunt.

"Has not this friend of yours always deceived, misled you, Helen?"

"She can have no motive for deceiving me in this," said Helen: "I believe
her."

"Believe her then!" cried Miss Clarendon; "believe her, and do not believe
me, and take the consequences: I have done."

Helen sighed, but though she might feel the want of the charm of Lady
Cecilia's suavity of manner, of her agreeable, and her agreeing temper, yet
she felt the safe solidity of principle in her present friend, and admired,
esteemed, and loved, without fear of change, her unblenching truth. Pretty
ornaments of gold cannot be worked out of the native ore; to fashion
the rude mass some alloy must be used, and when the slight filigree of
captivating manner comes to be tested against the sterling worth of
unalloyed sincerity, weighed in the just balance of adversity, we are
glad to seize the solid gold, and leave the ornaments to those that they
deceive.

The fear about Lady Blanche Forrester was, however, soon set at rest, and
this time Lady Cecilia was right. A letter from her to Helen announced
that Lady Blanche was married!--actually married, and not to Granville
Beauclerc, but to some other English gentleman at Paris, no matter whom.
Lord Beltravers and Madame de St. Cymon, disappointed, had returned to
London; Lady Cecilia had seen Lord Beltravers, and heard the news from him.
There could be no doubt of the truth of the intelligence, and scarcely did
Helen herself rejoice in it with more sincerity than did Miss Clarendon,
and Helen loved her for her candour as well as for her sympathy.

Time passed on; week after week rolled away. At last General Clarendon
announced to his sister, but without one word to Helen, that Mr. Churchill
was pronounced out of danger. The news had been sent to his ward, the
general said, and he expected Granville would return from his banishment
immediately.

Quite taken up in the first tumult of her feelings at this intelligence,
Helen scarcely observed that she had no letter from Cecilia. But even aunt
Pennant was obliged to confess, in reply to her niece's observation, that
this was "certainly very odd! but we shall soon hear some explanation, I
hope."

Miss Clarendon shook her head; she said that she had always thought how
matters would end; she judged from her brother's letters that he began to
find out that he was not the happiest of men. Yet nothing to that effect
was ever said by him; one phrase only excepted, in his letter to her on her
last birth-day, which began with, "In our happy days, my dear Esther."

Miss Clarendon said nothing to Helen upon this subject; she refrained
altogether from mentioning Lady Cecilia.

Two, three post-days passed without bringing any letter to Helen. The
fourth, very early in the morning, long before the usual time for the
arrival of the post, Rose came into her room with a letter in her hand,
saying, "From General Clarendon, ma'am. His own man, Mr. Cockburn, has just
this minute arrived, ma'am--from London." With a trembling hand, Helen tore
the letter open: not one word from General Clarendon! It was only a cover,
containing two notes; one from Lord Davenant to the general, the other from
Lady Davenant to Helen.

Lord Davenant said that Lady Davenant's health had declined so alarmingly
after their arrival at Petersburgh, that he had insisted upon her return to
England, and that as soon as the object of his mission was completed, he
should immediately follow her. A vessel, he said, containing letters from
England, had been lost, so that they were in total ignorance of what had
occurred at home; and, indeed, it appeared from the direction of Lady
Davenant's note to Helen, written on her landing in England, that she had
left Russia without knowing that the marriage had been broken off, or that
Helen had quitted General Clarendon's. She wrote--"Let me see you and
Granville once more before I die. Be in London, at my own house, to meet
me. I shall be there as soon as I can be moved."

The initials only of her name were signed. Elliot added a postscript,
saying that her lady had suffered much from an unusually long passage, and
that she was not sure what day they could be in town.

There was nothing from Lady Cecilia.--Cockburn said that her ladyship had
not been at home when he set out; that his master had ordered him to travel
all night, to get to Llansillen as fast as possible, and to make no delay
in delivering the letter to Miss Stanley.

To set out instantly, to be in town at her house to meet Lady Davenant,
was, of course, Helen's immediate determination. General Clarendon had sent
his travelling carriage for her; and under the circumstances, her friends
could have no wish but to speed her departure. Miss Clarendon expressed
surprise at there being no letter from Lady Cecilia, and would see and
question Cockburn herself; but nothing more was to be learned than what he
had already told, that the packet from Lady Davenant had come by express to
his master after Lady Cecilia had driven out, as it had been her custom of
late, almost every day, to Kensington, to see her child. Nothing could
be more natural, Mrs. Pennant thought, and she only wondered at Esther's
unconvinced look of suspicion. "Nothing, surely, can be more natural, my
dear Esther." To which Esther replied, "Very likely, ma'am." Helen was too
much hurried and too much engrossed by the one idea of Lady Davenant to
think of what they said. At parting she had scarcely time even to thank her
two friends for all their kindness, but they understood her feelings, and,
as Miss Clarendon said, words on that point were unnecessary. Aunt Pennant
embraced her again and again, and then let her go, saying, "I must not
detain you, my dear."

"But I must," said Miss Clarendon, "for one moment. There is one point on
which my parting words are necessary. Helen! keep clear of Lady Cecilia's
affairs, whatever they may be. Hear none of her secrets."

Helen wished she had never heard any; did not believe there were any more
to hear; but she promised herself and Miss Clarendon that she would observe
this excellent counsel.

And now she was in the carriage, and on her road to town. And now she had
leisure to breathe, and to think, and to feel. Her thoughts and feelings,
however, could be only repetitions of fears and hopes about Lady Davenant,
and uncertainty and dread of what would happen when she should require
explanation of all that had occurred in her absence. And how would Lady
Cecilia he able to meet her mother's penetration?--ill or well, Lady
Davenant was so clear-sighted. "And how shall I," thought Helen, "without
plunging deeper in deceit, avoid revealing the truth? Shall I assist
Cecilia to deceive her mother in her last moments; or shall I break my
promise, betray Cecilia's secret, and at last be the death of her mother
by the shock?" It is astonishing how often the mind can go over the same
thoughts and feelings without coming to any conclusion, any ease from
racking suspense. In the mean time, on rolled the carriage, and Cockburn,
according to his master's directions, got her over the ground with all
conceivable speed.




CHAPTER XIII


When they were within the last stage of London, the carriage suddenly
stopped, and Helen, who was sitting far back, deep in her endless reverie,
started forward--Cockburn was at the carriage-door.

"My lady, coming to meet you, Miss Stanley."

It was Cecilia herself. But Cecilia so changed in her whole appearance,
that Helen would scarcely have known her. She was so much struck that she
hardly knew what was said; but the carriage-doors were opened, and Lady
Cecilia was beside her, and Cockburn shut the door without permitting one
moment's delay, and on they drove.

Lady Cecilia was excessively agitated. Helen had not power to utter a word,
and was glad that Cecilia went on speaking very fast; though she spoke
without appearing to know well what she was saying: of Helen's goodness
in coming so quickly, of her fears that she would never have been in time
--"but she was in time,--her mother had not yet arrived. Clarendon had gone
to meet her on the road, she believed--she was not quite certain."

That seemed very extraordinary to Helen. "Not quite certain?" said she.

"No, I am not," replied Cecilia, and she coloured; her very pale cheek
flushed; but she explained not at all, she left that subject, and spoke of
the friends Helen had left at Llansillen--then suddenly of her mother's
return--her hopes--her fears--and then, without going on to the natural
idea of seeing her mother, and of how soon they should see her, began to
talk of Beauclerc--of Mr. Churchill's being quite out of danger--of the
general's expectation of Beauclerc's immediate return. "And then, my
dearest Helen," said she, "all will be-----"

"Oh! I do not know how it will be!" cried she, her tone changing suddenly;
and, from the breathless hurry in which she had been running on, sinking at
once to a low broken tone, and speaking very slowly. "I cannot tell what
will become of any of us. We can never be happy again--any one of us. And
it is all my doing--and I cannot die. Oh! Helen, when I tell you-----"

She stopped, and Miss Clarendon's warning counsel, all her own past
experience, were full in Helen's mind; and after a moment's silence, she
stopped Cecilia just as she seemed to have gathered power to speak, and
begged that she would not tell her any thing that was to be kept secret.
She could not, would not hear any secrets; she turned her head aside, and
let down the glass, and looked out, as if determined not to be compelled to
receive this confidence.

"Have you, then, lost all interest, all affection for me, Helen? I deserve
it!--But you need not fear me now, Helen: I have done with deception, would
to Heaven I had never begun with it!"

It was the tone and look of truth--she steadily fixed her eyes upon
Helen--and instead of the bright beams that used to play in those eyes,
there was now a dark deep-seated sorrow, almost despair. Helen was touched
to the heart: it was indeed impossible for her, it would have been
impossible for any one who had any feeling, to have looked upon Lady
Cecilia Clarendon at that moment, and to have recollected what she had so
lately been, without pity. The friend of her childhood looked upon her with
all the poignant anguish of compassion--

"Oh! my dear Cecilia! how changed!"

Helen was not sensible that she uttered the words "how changed!"

"Changed! yes! I believe I am," said Lady Cecilia, in a calm voice, "very
much changed in appearance, but much more in reality; my mind is more
altered than my person. Oh! Helen! if you could see into my mind at this
moment, and know how completely it is changed;--but it is all in vain now!
You have suffered, and suffered for me! but your sufferings could not equal
mine. You lost love and happiness, but still conscious of deserving both: I
had both at my command, and I could enjoy neither under the consciousness,
the torture of remorse."

Helen threw her arms round her, and exclaimed, "Do not think of me!--all
will be well--since you have resolved on the truth, all will yet he well."

Cecilia sighed deeply and went on.--"I am sure, Helen, you were surprised
that my child was born alive; at least I was. I believe its mother had not
feeling enough to endanger its existence. Well, Clarendon has that comfort
at all events, and, as a boy, it will never put him in mind of his mother.
Well, Helen, I had hopes of myself to the last minute; I really and truly
hoped, as I told you, that I should have had courage to tell him all when
I put the child into his arms. But his joy!--I could not dash his joy--I
could not!--and then I thought I never could. I knew you would give me up;
I gave up all hope of myself. I was very unhappy, and Clarendon thought I
was very ill; and I acknowledge that I was anxious about you, and let all
the blame fall on you, innocent, generous creature!--I heard my husband
perpetually upbraiding you when he saw me ill--all, he said, the
consequences of your falsehood--and all the time I knew it was my own.

"My dear Helen, it is impossible to tell you all the daily, hourly
necessities for dissimulation which occurred. Every day, you know, we were
to send to inquire for Mr. Churchill; and every day when Clarendon brought
me the bulletin, he pitied me, and blamed you; and the double dealing in
my countenance he never suspected--always interpreted favourably. Oh,
such confidence as he had in me--and how it has been wasted, abused! Then
letters from Beauclerc--how I bore to hear them read I cannot conceive:
and at each time that I escaped, I rejoiced and reproached myself--and
reproached myself and rejoiced. I succeeded in every effort at deception,
and was cursed by my own success. Encouraged to proceed, I soon went on
without shame and without fear. The general heard me defending you against
the various reports which my venomous cousin had circulated, and he only
admired what he called 'my amiable zeal.' His love for me increased, but
it gave me no pleasure: for, Helen, now I am going to tell you an
extraordinary turn which my mind took, for which I cannot account--I
can hardly believe it--it seems out of human nature--my love for him
decreased!--not only because I felt that he would hate me if he discovered
my deceit, but because he was lowered in my estimation! I had always had,
as every body has, even my mother, the highest opinion of his judgment. To
that judgment I had always looked up; it had raised me in my own opinion;
it was a motive to me to be equal to what he thought me: but now that
motive was gone, I no longer looked up to him; his credulous affection had
blinded his judgment--he was my dupe! I could not reverence--I could not
love one who was my dupe. But I cannot tell you how shocked I was at myself
when I felt my love for him decrease every time I saw him.

"I thought myself a monster; I had grown use to every thing but that--that
I could not endure; it was a darkness of the mind--a coldness; it was as if
the sun had gone out of the universe; it was more--it was worse--it was
as if I was alone in the world. Home was a desert to me. I went out every
evening; sometimes, but rarely, Clarendon accompanied me: he had become
more retired; his spirits had declined with mine; and though he was glad I
should go out and amuse myself, yet he was always exact as to the hours of
my return. I was often late--later than I ought to have been, and I made a
multitude of paltry excuses; this it was, I believe, which first shook his
faith in my truth; but I was soon detected in a more decided failure.

"You know I never had the least taste for play of any kind: you may
remember I used to be scolded for never minding what I was about at ecarte:
in short, I never had the least love for it--it wearied me; but now that my
spirits were gone, it was a sort of intoxication in which I cannot say I
indulged--for it was no indulgence, but to which I had recourse. Louisa
Castlefort, you know, was always fond of play--got into her first
difficulties by that means--she led me on. I lost a good deal of money to
her, and did not care about it as long as I could pay; but presently it
came to a time when I could not pay without applying to the general: I
applied to him, but under false pretences--to pay this bill or that, or to
buy something, which I never bought: this occurred so often and to such
extent, that he suspected--he discovered how it went; he told me so. He
spoke in that low, suppressed, that terrible voice which I had heard once
before; I said, I know not what, in deprecation of his anger. 'I am not
angry, Cecilia,' said he. I caught his hand, and would have detained him;
he withdrew that band, and, looking at me, exclaimed, 'Beautiful creature!
half those charms would I give for _truth!_' He left the room, and there
was contempt in his look.

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