Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  ‘He either fears his fate too much,

  Or his deserts are small,

  Who fears to put it to the touch,

  To win or lose it all.’

  “He put it to the test, and won it all. General Clarendon, indeed, is a man likely to win and keep the love of woman, for this, among other good reasons, that love and honour being with him inseparable, the idol he adores must keep herself at the height to which he has raised her, or cease to receive his adoration. She must be no common vulgar idol for every passing worshipper.” As Lady Davenant paused, Helen looked up, hesitated, and said: “I hope that General Clarendon is not disposed to jealousy.”

  “No: he’s too proud to be jealous,” replied Lady Davenant.

  Are proud men never jealous? thought Helen.

  “I mean,” continued Lady Davenant, “that General Clarendon is too proud to be jealous of his wife. For aught I know, he might have felt jealousy of Cecilia before she was his, for then she was but a woman, like another; but once HIS — once having set his judgment on the cast, both the virtues and the defects of his character join in security for his perfect confidence in the wife ‘his choice and passion both approve.’ From temper and principle he is unchangeable. I acknowledge that I think the general is a little inclined perhaps to obstinacy; but, as Burke says, though obstinacy is certainly a vice, it happens that the whole line of the great and masculine virtues, constancy, fidelity, fortitude, magnanimity, are closely allied to this disagreeable quality, of which we have so just an abhorrence.

  “It is most peculiarly happy for Cecilia that she has a husband of this firm character, one on whom she can rely — one to whom she may, she must, look up, if not always, yet upon all important occasions where decision is necessary, or integrity required. It is between her and her general as it should be in marriage, each has the compensating qualities to those which the other possesses: General Clarendon is inferior to Cecilia in wit, but superior in judgment; inferior in literature, superior in knowledge of the world; inferior to my daughter altogether in abilities, in what is called genius, but far superior in that ruling power, strength of mind. Strength of mind is an attaching as well as a ruling power: all human creatures, women especially, become attached to those who have power over their minds. Yes, Helen, I am satisfied with their marriage, and with your congratulations: yours are the sort I like. Vulgar people — by vulgar people I mean all who think vulgarly — very great vulgar people have congratulated me upon this establishment of my daughter’s fortune and future rank (a dukedom in view), all that could be wished in worldly estimation. But I rejoice in it as the security for my daughter’s character and happiness. Thank you again, my dear young friend, for your sympathy; you can understand me, you can feel with me.”

  Sympathy, intelligent, quick, warm, unwearied, unweariable, such as Helen’s, is really a charming accomplishment in a friend; the only obligation a proud person, is never too proud to receive; and it was most gratifying to Helen to be allowed to sympathise with Lady Davenant — one who, in general, never spoke of herself, or unveiled her private feelings, even to those who lived with her on terms of intimacy. Helen felt responsible for the confidence granted to her thus upon credit, and a strong ambition was excited in her mind to justify the high opinion her superior friend had formed of her. She determined to become all that she was believed to be; as the flame of a taper suddenly rises towards what is held over it, her spirit mounted to the point to which her friend pointed.

  CHAPTER V.

  Helen’s perfect happiness at Clarendon Park was not of long duration. People who have not been by nature blessed or cursed with nice feelings, or who have well rubbed off their delicacy in roughing through the world, can be quite happy, or at least happy enough without ascertaining whether they are really esteemed or liked by those with whom they live. Many, and some of high degree, when well sheltered and fed, and provided with all the necessaries, and surrounded by all the luxuries of life, and with appearances tolerably well kept up by outward manner, care little or nought about the inside sentiments.

  But Helen was neither of the case-hardened philosophic, or the naturally obtuse-feeling class; she belonged to the over-anxious. Surrounded at Clarendon Park with all the splendour of life, and with the immediate expectation of seeing and being seen by the first society in England; with the certainty also of being tenderly loved and highly esteemed by two of the persons she was living with, yet a doubt about the third began to make her miserable. Whether General Clarendon really liked her or not, was a question that hung upon her mind sometimes as a dead weight — then vibrating backwards and forwards, she often called to mind, and endeavoured to believe, what Cecilia the first day told her, that this reserved manner was natural to him with strangers, and would wear off. But to her the icy coldness did not thaw. So she felt, or so she fancied, and which it was she could not decide. She had never before lived with any one about whose liking for her she could doubt, therefore, as she said to herself, “I know I am a bad judge.” She feared to open her mind to Cecilia. Lady Davenant would be the safest person to consult; yet Helen, with all her young delicacy fresh about her, scrupled, and could not screw her courage to the sticking-place. Every morning going to Lady Davenant’s room, she half resolved and yet came away without speaking. At last, one morning, she began: —

  “You said something the other day, my dear Lady Davenant, about a visit from Miss Clarendon. Perhaps — I am afraid — in short I think, — I fear, the general does not like my being here; and I thought, perhaps, he was displeased at his sister’s not being here, — that he thought Cecilia’s having asked me prevented his sister’s coming; but then you told me he was not of a jealous temper, did not you?”

  “Distinguez,” said Lady Davenant; “distinguons, as the old French metaphysicians used to say, distinguons, there be various kinds of jealousy, as of love. The old romancers make a distinction between amour and amour par amours. Whatever that mean, I beg leave to take a distinction full as intelligible, I trust, between jalousie par amour and jalousie par amitié. Now, to apply; when I told you that our general was not subject to jealousy, I should have distinguished, and said, jalousie par amour — jealousy in love, but I will not ensure him against jalousie par amitié — jealousy in friendship — of friends and relations, I mean. Me-thinks I have seen symptoms of this in the general, he does not like my influence over Cecilia, nor yours, my dear.”

  “I understand it all,” exclaimed Helen, “and I was right from the very first; I saw he disliked me, and he ever will and must dislike and detest me — I see it in every look, hear it in every word, in every tone.”

  “Now, my dear Helen, if you are riding off on your imagination, I wish you a pleasant ride, and till you come back again I will write my letter,” said Lady Davenant, taking up a pen.

  Helen begged pardon, and protested she was not going to ride off upon any imagination, — she had no imagination now — she entreated Lady Davenant to go on, for she was very anxious to know the whole truth, whatever it might be. Lady Davenant laid down her pen, and told her all she knew. In the first place, that Cecilia did not like Miss Clarendon, who, though a very estimable person, had a sort of uncompromising sincerity, joined with a brusquerie of manner which Cecilia could not endure. How her daughter had managed matters to refuse the sister without offending the brother, Lady Davenant said she did not know; that was Cecilia’s secret, and probably it lay in her own charming manner of doing things, aided by the whole affair having occurred a few days before marriage, when nothing could be taken ill of the bride elect. “The general, as Cecilia told me, desired that she would write to invite you, Helen; she did so, and I am very glad of it. This is all I know of this mighty matter.”

  But Helen could not endure the idea of being there, contrary to the general’s wishes, in the place of the sister he loved. Oh, how very, very unfortunate she was to have all her hopes blighted, destroyed — and Cecilia’s kindness all in vain. Dear, dear Cecilia! — but for th
e whole world Helen would not be so selfish — she would not run the hazard of making mischief. She would never use her influence over Cecilia in opposition to the general. Oh, how little he knew of her character, if he thought it possible.

  Helen had now come to tears. Then the keen sense of injustice turned to indignation; and the tears wiped away, and pride prevailing, colouring she exclaimed, “That she knew what she ought to do, she knew what she would do — she would not stay where the master of the house did not wish for her. Orphan though she was, she could not accept of protection or obligation from any human being who neither liked or esteemed her. She would shorten her visit at Clarendon Park — make it as short as his heart could desire, — she would never be the cause of any disagreement — poor, dear, kind Cecilia! She would write directly to Mrs. Collingwood.” At the close of these last incoherent sentences, Helen was awe-struck by the absolute composed immovability and silence of Lady Davenant. Helen stood rebuked before her.

  “Instead of writing to Mrs. Collingwood, had not you better go at once?” said her ladyship, speaking in a voice so calm, and in a tone so slightly ironical, that it might have passed for earnest on any but an acutely feeling ear—”Shall I ring, and order your carriage?” putting her hand on the bell as she spoke, and resting it there, she continued—”It would be so spirited to be off instantly; so wise, so polite, so considerate towards dear Cecilia — so dignified towards the general, and so kind towards me, who am going to a far country, Helen, and may perhaps not see you ever again.”

  “Forgive me!” cried Helen; “I never could go while you were here.”

  “I did not know what you might think proper when you seemed to have lost your senses.”

  “I have recovered them,” said Helen; “I will do whatever you please — whatever you think best.”

  “It must not be what I please, my dear child, nor what I think best, but what you judge for yourself to be best; else what will become of you when I am in Russia? It must be some higher and more stable principle of action that must govern you. It must not be the mere wish to please this or that friend; — the defect of your character, Helen, remember I tell you, is this — inordinate desire to be loved, this impatience of not being loved — that which but a moment ago made you ready to abandon two of the best friends you have upon earth, because you imagine, or you suspect, or you fear, that a third person, almost a stranger, does not like before he has had time to know you.”

  “I was very foolish,” said Helen; “but now I will be wise, I will do whatever is — right. Surely you would not have me live here if I were convinced that the master of the house did not wish it?”

  “Certainly not — certainly not,” repeated Lady Davenant; “but let us see our way before us; never gallop, my dear, much less leap; never move, till you see your way; — once it is ascertained that General Clarendon does not wish you to be here, nor approve of you for the chosen companion of his wife, I, as your best friend, would say, begone, and speed you on your way; then as much pride, as much spirit as you will; but those who are conscious of possessing real spirit, should never be — seldom are — in a hurry to show it; that kind of ostentatious haste is undignified in man, and ungraceful in woman.”

  Helen promised that she would be patience itself: “But tell me exactly,” said she, “what you would have me do.”

  “Nothing,” said Lady Davenant.

  “Nothing! that is easy at least,” said Helen, smiling.

  “No, not so easy as you imagine; it requires sometimes no small share of strength of mind.”

  “Strength of mind!” said Helen, “I am afraid I have not any.”

  “Acquire it then, my dear,” said her friend.

  “But can I?”

  “Certainly; strength of mind, like strength of body, is improved by exercise.”

  “If I had any to begin with—” said Helen.

  “You have some, Helen, a great deal in one particular, else why should I have any more regard for you, or more hope of you, than of any other well-dressed, well-taught beauty, any of the tribe of young ladies who pass before me without ever fixing my mind’s eye for one moment?”

  “But in what particular, my dear Lady Davenant, do you mean?” said Helen, anxiously; “I am afraid you are mistaken; in what do you think I ever showed strength of mind? Tell me, and I will tell you the truth.”

  “That you will, and there is the point that I mean. Ever since I have known you, you have always, as at this moment, coward as you are, been brave enough to speak the truth; and truth I believe to be the only real lasting foundation for friendship; in all but truth there is a principle of decay and dissolution. Now good bye, my dear; — stay, one word more — there is a line in some classic poet, which says ‘the suspicion of ill-will never fails to produce it’ — Remember this in your intercourse with General Clarendon; show no suspicion of his bearing you ill-will, and to show none, you must feel none. Put absolutely out of your head all that you may have heard or imagined about Miss Clarendon, or her brother’s prejudices on her account.”

  “I will — I will indeed,” said Helen, and so they parted. A few words have sometimes a material influence on events in human life. Perhaps even among those who hold in general that advice never does good, there is no individual who cannot recollect some few words — some conversation which has altered the future colour of their lives.

  Helen’s over-anxiety concerning General Clarendon’s opinion of her, being now balanced by the higher interest Lady Davenant had excited, she met him with new-born courage; and Lady Cecilia, not that she suspected it was necessary, but merely by way of prevention, threw in little douceurs of flattery, on the general’s part, repeated sundry pretty compliments, and really kind things which he had said to her of Helen. These always pleased Helen at the moment, but she could never make what she was told he said of her quite agree with what he said to her: indeed, he said so very little, that no absolute discrepancy could be detected between the words spoken and the words reported to have been said; but still the looks did not agree with the opinions, or the cordiality implied.

  One morning Lady Cecilia told her that the general wished that she would ride out with them, “and you must come, indeed you must, and try his pretty Zelica; he wishes it of all things, he told me so last night.”

  The general chancing to come in as she spoke, Lady Cecilia appealed to him with a look that almost called upon him to enforce her request; but he only said that if Miss Stanley would do him the honour, he should certainly be happy, if Zelica would not be too much for her; but he could not take it upon him to advise. Then looking for some paper of which he came in search, and passing her with the most polite and deferential manner possible, he left the room.

  Half vexed, half smiling, Helen looked at Cecilia, and asked whether all she had told her was not a little—”plus belle que la vérité.”

  Lady Cecilia, blushing slightly, poured out rapid protestations that all she had ever repeated to Helen of the general’s sayings was perfect truth—”I will not swear to the words — because in the first place it is not pretty to swear, and next, because I can never recollect anybody’s words, or my own, five minutes after they have been said.”

  Partly by playfulness, and partly by protestations, Lady Cecilia half convinced Helen; but from this time she refrained from repeating compliments which, true or false, did no good, and things went on better; observing this, she left them to their natural course, upon all such occasions the best way.

  And now visitors began to appear, and some officers of the general’s staff arrived. Clarendon Park happened to be in the district which General Clarendon commanded, so that he was able usually to reside there. It was in what is called a good neighbourhood, and there was much visiting, and many entertainments.

  One day at dinner, Helen was seated between the general and a fine young guardsman, who, as far as his deep sense of his own merit, and his fashionable indifference to young ladies would permit, had made some demon
strations of a desire to attract her notice. He was piqued when, in the midst of something he had wonderfully exerted himself to say, he observed that her attention was distracted by a gentleman opposite, who had just returned from the Continent, and who, among other pieces of news, marriages and deaths of English abroad, mentioned that “poor D’Aubigny” was at last dead.

  Helen looked first at Cecilia, who, as she saw, heard what was said with perfect composure; and then at Lady Davenant, who had meantime glanced imperceptibly at her daughter, and then upon Helen, whose eyes she met — and Helen coloured merely from association, because she had coloured before-provoking! yet impossible to help it. All passed in less time than it can be told, and Helen had left the guardsman in the midst of his sentence, discomfited, and his eyes were now upon her; and in confusion she turned from him, and there were the general’s eyes but he was only inviting her to taste some particular wine, which he thought she would like, and which she willingly accepted, and praised, though she assuredly did not know in the least what manner of taste it had. The general now exerted himself to occupy the guardsman in a conversation about promotion, and drew all observation from Helen. Yet not the slightest indication of having seen, heard, or understood, appeared in his countenance, not the least curiosity or interest about Colonel D’Aubigny. Of one point Helen was however intuitively certain, that he had noticed that confusion which he had so ably, so coolly covered. One ingenuous look from her thanked him, and his look in return was most gratifying; she could not tell how it was, but it appeared more as if he understood and liked her than any look she had ever seen from him before. They were both more at their ease. Next day, he certainly justified all Cecilia’s former assurances, by the urgency with which he desired to have her of the riding party. He put her on horseback himself, bade the aide-de-camp ride on with Lady Cecilia — three several times set the bridle right in Miss Stanley’s hand, assuring her that she need not be afraid, that Zelica was the gentlest creature possible, and he kept his fiery horse, Fleetfoot, to a pace that suited her during the whole time they were out. Helen took courage, and her ride did her a vast deal of good.