Book: Helen

M >> Maria Edgeworth >> Helen




"All my love--all my reverence, returned for him in an instant; but what
could I say? He never recurred to the subject; and now, when I saw the
struggle in his mind, my passion for him returned in all its force.

"People who flattered me often, you know, said I was fascinating, and I
determined to use my powers of fascination to regain my husband's heart;
how little I knew that heart! I dressed to please him--oh! I never dressed
myself with such care in my most coquettish days;--I gave a splendid ball;
I dressed to please him--he used to be delighted with my dancing: he had
said, no matter what, but I wanted to make him say it--feel it again; he
neither said nor felt it. I saw him standing looking at me, and at the
close of the dance I heard from him one sigh. I was more in love with him
than when first we were married, and he saw it, but that did not restore me
to his confidence--his esteem; nothing could have done that, but--what I
had not. One step in dissimulation led to another.

"After Lord Beltravers returned from Paris on Lady Blanche's marriage, I
used to meet him continually at Louisa Castlefort's. As for play, that was
over with me for ever, but I went to Louisa's continually, because it was
the gayest house I could go to; I used to meet Lord Beltravers there, and
he pretended to pay me a vast deal of attention, to which I was utterly
indifferent, but his object was to push his sister into society again by my
means. He took advantage of that unfortunate note which I had received from
Madame de St. Cymon, when she was at Old Forest; he wanted me to admit
her among my acquaintance; he urged it in every possible way, and was
excessively vexed that it would not do: not that he cared for her; he often
spoke of her in a way that shocked me, but it hurt his pride that she
should be excluded from the society to which her rank entitled her. I had
met her at Louisa's once or twice; but when I found that for her brother's
sake she was always to be invited, I resolved to go there no more, and I
made a merit of this with Clarendon. He was pleased; he said, 'That is
well, that is right, my dear Cecilia.' And he went out more with me. One
night at the Opera, the Comtesse de St. Cymon was in the box opposite to
us, no lady with her, only some gentlemen. She watched me; I did all I
could to avoid her eye, but at an unlucky moment she caught mine, bent
forward, and had the assurance to bow. The general snatched the opera-glass
from my hand, made sure who it was, and then said to me,

"'How does that woman dare to claim your notice, Lady Cecilia? I am afraid
there must have been some encouragement on your part.'

"'None,' said I, 'nor ever shall be; you see I take no notice.'

"'But you must have taken notice, or this could never be?'

"'No indeed!' persisted I. 'Helen! I really forgot at the moment that first
unfortunate note. An instant afterwards I recollected it, and the visit
about the cameos, but that was not my fault. I had, to be sure, dropped
a card in return at her door, and I ought to have mentioned that, but I
really did not recollect it till the words had passed my lips, and then
it was too late, and I did not like to go back and spoil my case by an
exception. The general did not look quite satisfied; he did not receive my
assertions as implicitly as formerly. He left the box afterwards to speak
to some one, and while he was gone in came Lord Beltravers. After some
preliminary nothings, he went directly to the point; and said in an assured
manner, 'I believe you do not know my sister at this distance. She has been
endeavouring to catch your eye.'

"'The Comtesse de St. Cymon does me too much honour,' said I with a
slight inclination of the head, and elevation of the eyebrow, which spoke
sufficiently plainly.

"Unabashed, and with a most provoking, almost sneering look, he replied,
'Madame de St. Cymon had wished to say a few words to your ladyship on your
own account; am I to understand this cannot be?'

"'On my own account?' said I, 'I do not in the least understand your
lordship.' 'I am not sure,' said he, 'that I perfectly comprehend it. But I
know that you sometimes drive to Kensington, and sometimes take a turn
in the gardens there. My sister lives at Kensington, and could not she,
without infringing etiquette, meet you in your walk, and have the honour
of a few words with you? Something she wants to say to you,' and here he
lowered his voice, 'about a locket, and Colonel D'Aubigny.'

"Excessively frightened, and hearing some one at the door, I answered, 'I
do not know, I believe I shall drive to Kensington to-morrow.' He bowed
delighted, and relieved me from his presence that instant. The moment
afterwards General Clarendon came in. He asked me, 'Was not that Lord
Beltravers whom I met?'

"'Yes,' said I; 'he came to reproach me for not noticing his sister, and I
answered him in such a manner as to make him clear that there was no hope.'

"'You did right,' said he, 'if you did so.' My mind was in such confusion
that I could not quite command my countenance, and I put up my fan as if
the lights hurt me. "'Cecilia,' said he, 'take care what you are about.
Remember, it is not my request only, but my command to my wife' (he laid
solemn stress on the words) 'that she should have no communication with
this woman.'

"'My dear Clarendon, I have not the least wish.'

"'I do not ask what your wishes may be; I require only your obedience.'

"Never have I heard such austere words from him. I turned to the stage, and
I was glad to seize the first minute I could to get away. But what was to
be done? If I did not go to Kensington, there was this locket, and I knew
not what, standing out against me. I knew that this wretched woman had
had Colonel D'Aubigny in her train abroad, and supposed that he
must--treacherous profligate as he was--have given the locket to her, and
now I was so afraid of its coming to Clarendon's eyes or ears!--and yet why
should I have feared his knowing about it? Colonel D'Aubigny stole it, just
as he stole the picture. I had got it for you, do you recollect?"

"Perfectly," said Helen, "and your mother missed it."

"Yes," continued Lady Cecilia. "O that I had had the sense to do nothing
about it! But I was so afraid of its somehow bringing everything to
light: my cowardice--my conscience--my consciousness of that first fatal
falsehood before my marriage, has haunted me at the most critical moments:
it has risen against me, and stood like an evil spirit threatening me from
the right path.

"I went to Kensington, trusting to my own good fortune, which had so often
stood me in stead; but Madame de St. Cymon was too cunning for me, and so
interested, so mean, she actually bargained for giving up the locket. She
hinted that she knew Colonel D'Aubigny had never been your lover, and ended
by saying she had not the locket with her; and though I made her understand
that the general would never allow me to receive her at my own house, yet
she 'hoped I could manage an introduction for her to some of my friends,
and that she would bring the locket on Monday, if I would in the mean time
try, at least with Lady Emily Greville and Mrs. Holdernesse.'

"I felt her meanness, and yet I was almost as mean myself, for I agreed to
do what I could. Monday came, Clarendon saw me as I was going out, and,
as he handed me into the carriage, he asked me where I was going. To
Kensington I said, and added--oh! Helen, I am ashamed to tell you, I
added,--I am going to see my child. And there I found Madame de St. Cymon,
and I had to tell her of my failure with Lady Emily and Mrs. Holdernesse. I
softened their refusal as much as I could, but I might have spared myself
the trouble, for she only retorted by something about English prudery. At
this moment a shower of rain came on, and she insisted upon my taking her
home; 'Come in,' said she, when the carnage stopped at her door: 'if you
will come in, I will give it to you now, and you need not have the trouble
of calling again.' I had the folly to yield, though I saw that it was a
trick to decoy me into her house, and to make it pass for a visit. It all
flashed upon me, and yet I could not resist, for I thought I must obtain
the locket at all hazards. I resolved to get it from her before I left the
house, and then I thought all would be finished.

"She looked triumphant as she followed me into her saloon, and gave a
malicious smile, which seemed to say, 'You see you are visiting me after
all.' After some nonsensical conversation, meant to detain me, I pressed
for the locket, and she produced it: it was indeed the very one that had
been made for you--But just at that instant, while she still held it in her
band, the door suddenly opened, and Clarendon stood opposite to me!

"I heard Madame de St. Cymon's voice, but of what she said, I have no idea.
I heard nothing but the single word 'rain' and with scarcely strength to
articulate, I attempted to follow up that excuse. Clarendon's look of
contempt!--But he commanded himself, advanced calmly to me, and said, 'I
came to Kensington with these letters; they have just arrived by express.
Lady Davenant is in England--she is ill.' He gave me the packet, and left
the room, and I heard the sound of his horses' feet the next instant as
he rode off. I broke from Madame de St. Cymon, forgetting the locket and
everything. I asked my servants which way the general had gone? 'To Town.'
I perceived that he must have been going to look for me at the nurse's, and
had seen the carriage at Madame de St. Cymon's door. I hastened after him,
and then I recollected that I had left the locket on the table at Madame de
St. Cymon's, that locket for which I had hazarded--lost--everything! The
moment I readied home, I ran to Clarendon's room; he was not there, and oh!
Helen, I have not seen him since!

"From some orders which he left about horses, I suppose he went to meet my
mother. I dared not follow him. She had desired me to wait for her arrival
at her own house. All yesterday, all last night, Helen, what I have
suffered! I could not bear it any longer, and then I thought of coming to
meet you. I thought I must see you before my mother arrived--my mother! but
Clarendon will not have met her till to-day. Oh, Helen! you feel all that I
fear--all that I foresee."

Lady Cecilia sank back, and Helen, overwhelmed with all she had heard,
could for some time only pity her in silence; and at last could only
suggest that the general would not have time for any private communication
with Lady Davenant, as her woman would be in the carriage with her, and the
general was on horseback.

It was late in the day before they reached town. As they came near
Grosvenor Square, Cockburn inquired whether they were to drive home, or to
Lady Davenant's?

"To my mother's, certainly, and as fast as you can."

Lady Davenant had not arrived, but there were packages in the hall, her
courier, and her servants, who said that General Clarendon was with her,
but not in the carriage; he had sent them on. No message for Lady Cecilia,
but that Lady Davenant would be in town this night.

To night--some hours still of suspense! As long as there were arrangements
to be made, anything to do or to think of but that meeting of which they
dared not think, it was endurable, but too soon all was settled; nothing
to be done, but to wait and watch, to hear the carriages roll past, and
listen, and start, and look at each other, and sink back disappointed.
Lady Cecilia walked from the sofa to the window, and looked out, and back
again---continually, continually, till at last Helen begged her to sit
down. She sat down before an old piano-forte of her mother's, on which her
eyes fixed; it was one on which she had often played with Helen when they
were children. "Happy, innocent days," said she; "I never shall we be so
happy again, Helen! But I cannot think of it;" she rose hastily, and threw
herself on the sofa.

A servant, who had been watching at the hall-door, came in--"The carriage,
my lady! Lady Davenant is coming."

Lady Cecilia started up; they ran down stairs; the carriage stopped, and in
the imperfect light they saw the figure of Lady Davenant, scarcely altered,
leaning upon General Clarendon's arm. The first sound of her voice was
feebler, softer, than formerly--quite tender, when she said, as she
embraced them both by turns, "My dear children!"

"You have accomplished your journey, Lady Davenant, better than you
expected," said the general.

Something struck her in the tone of his voice. She turned quickly, saw her
daughter lay her hand upon his arm, and saw that arm withdrawn!

They all entered the saloon--it was a blaze of light; Lady Davenant,
shading her eyes with her hand, looked round at the countenances, which she
had not yet seen. Lady Cecilia shrank back. The penetrating eyes turned
from her, glanced at Helen, and fixed upon the general.

"What is all this?" cried she.

Helen threw her arms round Lady Davenant. "Let us think of you first, and
only--be calm."

Lady Davenant broke from her, and pressing forwards exclaimed, "I must see
my daughter--if I have still a daughter! Cecilia!"

The general moved. Lady Cecilia, who had sunk upon a chair behind him,
attempted to rise. Lady Davenant stood opposite to her; the light was now
full upon her face and figure; and her mother saw how it was changed! and
looking back at Helen, she said in a low, awful tone, "I see it; the black
spot has spread!"

Scarcely had Lady Davenant pronounced these words, when she was seized with
violent spasms. The general had but just time to save her from falling; he
could not leave her. All was terror! Even her own woman, so long used to
these attacks, said it was the worst she had ever seen, and for some time
evidently feared it would terminate fatally. At last slowly she came to
herself, but perfectly in possession of her intellects, she sat up, looked
round, saw the agony in her daughter's countenance, and holding out her
hand to her, said, "Cecilia, if there is anything that I ought to know, it
should be said now." Cecilia caught her mother's hand, and threw herself
upon her knees. "Helen, Helen, stay!" cried she, "do not go, Clarendon!"

He stood leaning against the chimney-piece, motionless, while Cecilia, in a
faltering voice, began; her voice gaining strength, she went on, and poured
out all--even from the very beginning, that first suppression of the truth,
that first cowardice, then all that followed from that one falsehood--all
--even to the last degradation, when in the power, in the presence of that
bad woman, her husband found and left her. She shuddered as she came to the
thought of that look of his, and not daring, not having once dared while
she spoke, to turn towards him, her eyes fixed upon her mother's; but as
she finished speaking, her head sank, she laid her face on the sofa beside
her; she felt her mother's arm thrown over her and she sobbed convulsively.

There was silence.

"I have still a daughter!" were the first words that broke the silence.
"Not such as I might have had, but that is my own fault."

"Oh mother!"

"I have still a daughter," repeated Lady Davenant. "There is," continued
she, turning to General Clarendon, "there is a redeeming power in truth.
She may yet be more worthy to be your wife than she has ever yet been!"

"Never!" exclaimed the general. His countenance was rigid as iron; then
suddenly it relaxed, and going up to Helen, he said,

"I have done you injustice, Miss Stanley. I have been misled. I have done
you injustice, and by Heaven! I will do you public justice, cost me what it
will. Beauclerc will be in England in a few days, at the altar I will
give you to him publicly; in the face of all the world, will I mark my
approbation of his choice; publicly will I repair the wrong I have done
you. I will see his happiness and yours before I leave England for ever!"

Lady Cecilia started up: "Clarendon!" was all she could say.

"Yes, Lady Cecilia Clarendon," said he, all the stern fixedness of his face
returning at once--"Yes, Lady Cecilia Clarendon, we separate, now and for
ever."

Then turning from her, he addressed Lady Davenant. "I shall be ordered on
some foreign service. Your daughter, Lady Davenant, will remain with you,
while I am still in England, unless you wish otherwise----"

"Leave my daughter with me, my dear general, till my death," said Lady
Davenant. She spoke calmly, but the general, after a respectful--an
affectionate pressure of the hand she held out to him, said, "That may be
far distant, I trust in God, and we shall at all events meet again the day
of Helen's marriage."

"And if that day is to be a happy day to me," cried Helen, "to me or to
your own beloved ward, General Clarendon, it must be happy to Cecilia!"

"As happy as she has left it in my power to make her. When I am gone, my
fortune----"

"Name it not as happiness for my daughter," interrupted Lady Davenant, "or
you do her injustice, General Clarendon."

"I name it but to do her justice," said he. "It is all that she has left
it in my power to give;" and then his long suppressed passion suddenly
bursting forth, he turned to Cecilia. "All I can give to one so
false--false from the first moment to the last--false to me--to me! who so
devotedly, fondly, blindly loved her!" He rushed out of the room.

Then Lady Davenant, taking her daughter in her arms, said, "My child,
return to me!"

She sank back exhausted. Mrs. Elliott was summoned, she wished them all out
of the room, and said so; but Lady Davenant would have her daughter stay
beside her, and with Cecilia's hand in hers, she fell into a profound
slumber.




CHAPTER XIV.


On awaking in the morning, after some long-expected event has happened, we
feel in doubt whether it has really occurred, or whether it is all a dream.
Then comes the awful sense of waking truth, and the fear that what has been
done, or said, is irremediable, and then the astonishment that it really is
done. "It is over!" Helen repeated to herself, repeated aloud, before she
could well bring herself from that state of half belief, before she could
recover her stunned faculties.

Characters which she thought she perfectly understood, had each appeared,
in these new circumstances, different from what she had expected. From
Cecilia she had scarcely hoped, even at the last moment, for such perfect
truth in her confession. From Lady Davenant not so much indulgence, not
all that tenderness for her daughter. From the general, less violence of
expression, more feeling for Cecilia; he had not allowed the merit of her
candour, her courage at the last. It was a perfectly voluntary confession,
all that concerned Colonel D'Aubigny, and the letters could never have been
known to the general by any other means. Disappointed love, confidence
duped, and his pride of honour, had made him forget himself in anger, even
to cruelty. Helen thought he would feel this hereafter, fancied he must
feel it even now, but that, though he might relent, he would not recede;
though he might regret that he had made the determination, he would
certainly abide by it; that which he had resolved to do, would certainly be
done,--the separation between him and Cecilia would take place. And though
all was clear and bright in Helen's own prospects, the general's esteem
restored, his approbation to be publicly marked, Beauclerc to be convinced
of her perfect innocence! Beauclerc, freed from all fear and danger,
returning all love and joy; yet she could not be happy--it was all mixed
with bitterness, anguish for Cecilia.

She had so often so forcibly urged her to this confession! and now it was
made, did Helen regret that it was made? No, independently of her own
cleared character, she was satisfied, even for Cecilia's sake, for it was
right, whatever were the consequences; it was right, and in the confusion
and discordance of her thoughts and feelings, this was the only fixed
point. To this conclusion she had come, but had not been able farther to
settle her mind, when she was told that Lady Davenant was now awake, and
wished to see her.

Lady Davenant, renovated by sleep, appeared to Helen, even when she saw her
by daylight, scarcely altered in her looks. There was the same life, and
energy, and elasticity, and strength, Helen hoped, not only of mind, but of
body, and quick as that hope rose, as she stood beside her bed, and looked
upon her, Lady Davenant marked it, and said, "You are mistaken, my dear
Helen, I shall not last long; I am now to consider how I am to make the
most of the little life that remains. How to repair as far as may be, as
far as can be, in my last days, the errors of my youth! You know, Helen,
what I mean, and it is now no time to waste words, therefore I shall not
begin by wasting upon you, Helen, any reproaches. Foolish, generous, weak
creature that you are, and as the best of human beings will ever be--I must
be content with you as you are; and so," continued she, in a playful tone,
"we must love one another, perhaps all the better, for not being too
perfect. And indeed, my poor child, you have been well punished already,
and the worst of criminals need not be punished twice. Of the propensity to
sacrifice your own happiness for others you will never be cured, but you
will, I trust, in future, when I am gone never to return, be true to
yourself. Now as to my daughter--"

Lady Davenant then went over with Helen every circumstance in Cecilia's
confession, and showed how, in the midst of the shock she had felt at the
disclosure of so much falsehood, hope for her daughter's future truth had
risen in her mind even from the courage, and fulness, and exactness of her
confession. "And it is not," continued she, "a sudden reformation; I
have no belief in sudden reformations. I think I see that this change in
Cecilia's mind has been some time working out by her own experience of the
misery, the folly, the degradation of deceit."

Helen earnestly confirmed this from her own observations, and from the
expressions which had burst forth in the fulness of Cecilia's heart and
strength of her conviction, when she told her all that had passed in her
mind.

"That is well!" pursued Lady Davenant; "but principles cannot be
depended upon till confirmed by habit; and Cecilia's nature is so
variable--impressions on her are easily, even deeply made, but all in sand;
they may shift with the next tide--may be blown away by the next wind."

"Oh no," exclaimed Helen, "there is no danger of that. I see the impression
deepening every hour, from your kindness and--" Helen hesitated, "And
besides--"

"_Besides_," said Lady Davenant, "usually comes as the _arriere-ban_
of weak reasons: you mean to say that the sight of my sufferings must
strengthen, must confirm all her principles--her taste for truth. Yes,"
continued she, in her most firm tone, "Cecilia's being with me during my
remaining days will be painful but salutary to her. She sees, as you do,
that all the falsehood meant to save me has been in vain; that at last the
shock has only hastened my end: it must be so, Helen. Look at it steadily,
in the best point of view--the evil you cannot avert; take the good and be
thankful for it."

And Cecilia--how did she feel? Wretched she was, but still in her
wretchedness there was within her a relieved conscience and the sustaining
power of truth; and she had now the support of her mother's affection, and
the consolation of feeling that she had at last done Helen justice! To her
really generous, affectionate disposition, there was in the return of her
feelings to their natural course, an indescribable sense of relief. Broken,
crushed, as were all her own hopes, her sympathy, even in the depths of her
misery, now went pure, free from any windings of deceit, direct to Helen's
happy prospects, in which she shared with all the eagerness of her warm
heart.

Beauclerc arrived, found the general at home expecting him, and in his
guardian's countenance and voice he saw and heard only what was natural to
the man. The general was prepared, and Beauclerc was himself in too great
impatience to hear the facts, to attend much to the manner in which things
were told.

"Lady Davenant has returned ill; her daughter is with her, and Helen----"

"And Helen----"

"And you may be happy, Beauclerc, if there be truth in woman," said the
general. "Go to her--you will find I can do justice. Go, and return when
you can tell me that your wedding-day is fixed. And, Beauclerc," he called
after him, "let it be as soon as possible."

"The only unnecessary advice my dear guardian has ever given me,"
Beauclerc, laughing, replied.

The general's prepared composure had not calculated upon this laugh, this
slight jest; his features gave way. Beauclerc, struck with a sudden change
in the general's countenance, released his hand from the congratulatory
shake in which its power failed. The general turned away as if to shun
inquiry, and Beauclerc, however astonished, respected his feelings, and
said no more. He hastened to Lady Davenant with all a lover's speed--with
all a lover's joy saw the first expression in Helen's eyes; and with all a
friend's sorrow for Lady Davenant and for the general, heard all that was
to be told of Lady Cecilia's affairs: her mother undertook the explanation,
Cecilia herself did not appear.

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