Good-natured Lord Davenant observed, “When a young man in London, writing to his friends in the country, names two days for leaving town, and adds an ‘if possible’ his friends should never expect him till the last of the two named.”
The last of the two days arrived — Thursday. The aide-de-camp asked if Mr. Beauclerc was expected to-day. “Yes, I expect to see him to-day,” the general answered.
“I hope, but do not expect,” said Lady Davenant, “for, as learned authority tells me, ‘to expect is to hope with some degree of certainty’—”
The general left the room repeating, “I expect him to-day, Cecilia.”
The day passed, however, and he came not — the night came. The general ordered that the gate should be kept open, and that a servant should sit up. The servant sat up all night, cursing Mr. Beauclerc. And in the morning he replied with malicious alacrity to the first question his master asked, “No, Sir, Mr. Beauclerc is not come.”
At breakfast, the general, after buttering his bread in silence for some minutes, confessed that he loved punctuality. It might be a military prejudice; — it might be too professional, martinet perhaps, — but still he owned he did love punctuality. He considered it as a part of politeness, a proper attention to the convenience and feelings of others; indispensable between strangers it is usually felt to be, and he did not know why intimate friends should deem themselves privileged to dispense with it.
His eyes met Helen’s as he finished these words, and smiling, he complimented her upon her constant punctuality. It was a voluntary grace in a lady, but an imperative duty in a man — and a young man.
“You are fond of this young man, I see general,” said Lord Davenant.
“But not of his fault.”
Lady Cecilia said something about forgiving a first fault.
“Never!” said Lady Davenant. “Lord Collingwood’s rule was — never forgive a first fault, and you will not have a second. You love Beauclerc, I see, as Lord Davenant says.”
“Love him!” resumed the general; “with all his faults and follies, I love him as if he were my brother.”
At which words Lady Cecilia, with a scarcely perceptible smile, cast a furtive glance at Helen.
The general called for his horses, and, followed by his aide-de-camp, departed, saying that he should be back at luncheon-time, when he hoped to find Beauclerc. In the same hope, Lady Davenant ordered her pony-phaeton earlier than usual; Lady Cecilia further hoped most earnestly that Beauclerc would come this day, for the next the house would be full of company, and she really wished to have him one day at least to themselves, and she gave a most significant glance at Helen.
“The first move often secures the game against the best players,” said she.
Helen blushed, because she could not help understanding; she was ashamed, vexed with Cecilia, yet pleased by her kindness, and half amused by her arch look and tone.
They were neither of them aware that Lady Davenant had heard the words that passed, or seen the looks; but immediately afterwards, when they were leaving the breakfast-room, Lady Davenant came between the two friends, laid her hand upon her daughter’s arm, and said,
“Before you make any move in a dangerous game, listen to the voice of old experience.”
Lady Cecilia startled, looked up, but as if she did not comprehend.
“Cupid’s bow, my dear,” continued her mother, “is, as the Asiatics tell us, strung with bees, which are apt to sting — sometimes fatally — those who meddle with it.”
Lady Cecilia still looked with an innocent air, and still as if she could not comprehend.
“To speak more plainly, then, Cecilia,” said her mother, “build no matrimonial castles in the air; standing or falling they do mischief — mischief either to the builder, or to those for whom they may be built.”
“Certainly if they fall they disappoint one,” said Lady Cecilia, “but if they stand?”
Seeing that she made no impression on her daughter, Lady Davenant turned to Helen, and gravely said, —
“My dear Helen, do not let my daughter inspire you with false, and perhaps vain imaginations, certainly premature, therefore unbecoming.”
Helen shrunk back, yet instantly looked up, and her look was ingenuously grateful.
“But, mamma,” said Lady Cecilia, “I declare I do not understand what all this is about.”
“About Mr. Granville Beauclerc,” said her mother.
“How can you, dear mamma, pronounce his name so tout an long?”
“Pardon my indelicacy, my dear; delicacy is a good thing, but truth a better. I have seen the happiness of many young women sacrificed by such false delicacy, and by the fear of giving a moment’s present pain, which it is sometimes the duty of a true friend to give.”
“Certainly, certainly, mamma, only not necessary now; and I am so sorry you have said all this to poor dear Helen.”
“If you have said nothing to her, Cecilia, I acknowledge I have said too much.”
“I said — I did nothing,” cried Lady Cecilia; “I built no castles — never built a regular castle in my life; never had a regular plan in my existence; never mentioned his name, except about another person—”
An appealing look to Helen was however protested.
“To the best of my recollection, at least,” Lady Cecilia immediately added.
“Helen seems to be blushing for your want of recollection, Cecilia.”
“I am sure I do not know why you blush, Helen. I am certain I never did say a word distinctly.”
“Not distinctly certainly,” said Helen in a low voice. “It was my fault if I understood — —”
“Always true, you are,” said Lady Davenant.
“I protest I said nothing but the truth,” cried Lady Cecilia hastily.
“But not the whole truth, Cecilia,” said her mother.
“I did, upon my word, mamma,” persisted Lady Cecilia, repeating “upon my word.”
“Upon your word, Cecilia! that is either a vulgar expletive or a most serious asseveration.”
She spoke with a grave tone, and with her severe look, and Helen dared not raise her eyes; Lady Cecilia now coloured deeply.
“Shame! Nature’s hasty conscience,” said Lady Davenant. “Heaven preserve it!”
“Oh, mother!” cried Lady Cecilia, laying her hand on her mother’s, “surely you do not think seriously — surely you are not angry — I cannot bear to see you displeased,” said she, looking up imploringly in her mother’s face, and softly, urgently pressing her hand. No pressure was returned; that hand was slowly and with austere composure withdrawn, and her mother walked away down the corridor to her own room. Lady Cecilia stood still, and the tears came into her eyes.
“My dear friend, I am exceedingly sorry,” said Helen. She could not believe that Cecilia meant to say what was not true, yet she felt that she had been to blame in not telling all, and her mother in saying too much.
Lady Cecilia, her tears dispersed, stood looking at the impression which her mother’s signet-ring had left in the palm of her hand. It was at that moment a disagreeable recollection that the motto of that ring was “Truth.” Rubbing the impress from her hand, she said, half speaking to herself, and half to Helen—”I am sure I did not mean anything wrong; and I am sure nothing can be more true than that I never formed a regular plan in my life. After all, I am sure that so much has been said about nothing, that I do not understand anything: I never do, when mamma goes on in that way, making mountains of molehills, which she always does with me, and did ever since I was a child; but she really forgets that I am not a child. Now, it is well the general was not by; he would never have borne to see his wife so treated. But I would not, for the world, be the cause of any disagreement. Oh! Helen, my mother does not know how I love her, let her be ever so severe to me! But she never loved me; she cannot help it. I believe she does her best to love me — my poor, dear mother!”
Helen seized this opportunity to repeat the warm e
xpressions she had heard so lately from Lady Davenant, and melting they sunk into Cecilia’s heart. She kissed Helen again and again, for a dear, good peacemaker, as she always was — and “I’m resolved” — but in the midst of her good resolves she caught a glimpse through the glass door opening on the park, of the general, and a fine horse they were ringing, and she hurried out: all light of heart she went, as though
“Or shake the downy blowball from her stalk.”
CHAPTER VII
Since Lord Davenant’s arrival, Lady Davenant’s time was so much taken up with him, that Helen could not have many opportunities of conversing with her, and she was the more anxious to seize every one that occurred. She always watched for the time when Lady Davenant went out in her pony phaeton, for then she had her delightfully to herself, the carriage holding only two.
It was at the door, and Lady Davenant was crossing the hall followed by Helen, when Cecilia came in with a look, unusual in her, of being much discomfited.
“Another put off from Mr. Beauclerc! He will not be here to-day. I give him up.”
Lady Davenant stopped short, and asked whether Cecilia had told him that probably she should soon be gone?
“To be sure I did, mamma.”
“And what reason does he give for his delay?”
“None, mamma, none — not the least apology. He says, very cavalierly indeed, that he is the worst man in the world at making excuses — shall attempt none.”
“There he is right” said Lady Davenant. “Those who are good at excuses, as Franklin justly observed, are apt to be good for nothing else.”
The general came up the steps at this moment, rolling a note between his fingers, and looking displeased. Lady Davenant inquired if he could tell her the cause of Mr. Beauclerc’s delay. He could not.
Lady Cecilia exclaimed—”Very extraordinary! Provoking! Insufferable! Intolerable!”
“It is Mr. Beauclerc’s own affair,” said Lady Davenant, wrapping her shawl round her; and, taking the general’s arm, she walked on to her carriage. Seating herself, and gathering up the reins, she repeated—”Mr. Beauclerc’s own affair, completely.”
The lash of her whip was caught somewhere, and, while the groom was disentangling it, she reiterated—”That will do: let the horses go:” — and with half-suppressed impatience thanked Helen, who was endeavouring to arrange some ill-disposed cloak—”Thank you, thank you, my dear: it’s all very well. Sit down, Helen.”
She drove off rapidly, through the beautiful park scenery But the ancient oaks, standing alone, casting vast shadows, the distant massive woods of magnificent extent and of soft and varied foliage; the secluded glades, all were lost upon her. Looking straight between her horses’ ears, she drove on in absolute silence.
Helen’s idea of Mr. Beauclerc’s importance increased wonderfully. What must he be whose coming or not coming could so move all the world, or those who were all the world to her? And, left to her own cogitations, she was picturing to herself what manner of man he might be, when suddenly Lady Davenant turned, and asked what she was thinking of?
“I beg your pardon for startling you so, my dear; I am aware that it is a dreadfully imprudent, impertinent question — one which, indeed, I seldom ask. Few interest me sufficiently to make me care of what they think: from fewer still could I expect to hear the truth. Nay — nothing upon compulsion, Helen. Only say plainly, if you would rather not tell me. That answer I should prefer to the ingenious formula of evasion, the solecism in metaphysics, which Cecilia used the other day, when unwittingly I asked her of what she was thinking—’Of a great many different things, mamma.’”
Helen, still more alarmed by Lady Davenant’s speech than by her question, and aware of the conclusions which might be drawn from her answer, nevertheless bravely replied that she had been thinking of Mr. Beauclerc, of what he might be whose coming or not coming was of such consequence. As she spoke the expression of Lady Davenant’s countenance changed.
“Thank you, my dear child, you are truth itself, and truly do I love you therefore. It’s well that you did not ask me of what I was thinking, for I am not sure that I could have answered so directly.”
“But I could never have presumed to ask such a question of you,” said Helen, “there is such a difference.”
“Yes,” replied Lady Davenant; “there is such a difference as age and authority require to be made, but nevertheless, such as is not quite consistent with the equal rights of friendship. You have told me the subject of your day-dream, my love, and if you please, I will tell you the subject of mine. I was rapt into times long past: I was living over again some early scenes — some which are connected, and which connect me, in a curious manner, with this young man, Mr. Granville Beauclerc.”
She seemed to speak with some difficulty, and yet to be resolved to go on. “Helen, I have a mind,” continued she, “to tell you what, in the language of affected autobiographers, I might call ‘some passages of my life.’”
Helen’s eyes brightened, as she eagerly thanked her: but hearing a half-suppressed sigh, she added—”Not if it is painful to you though, my dear Lady Davenant.”
“Painful it must be,” she replied, “but it may be useful to you; and a weak friend is that who can do only what is pleasurable. You have often trusted me with those little inmost feelings of the heart, which, however innocent, we shrink from exposing to any but the friends we most love; it is unjust and absurd of those advancing in years to expect of the young that confidence should come all and only on their side: the human heart, at whatever age, opens only to the heart that opens in return.”
Lady Davenant paused again, and then said,—”It is a general opinion, that nobody is the better for advice.”
“I am sure I do not think so,” said Helen.
“I am glad you do not; nor do I. Much depends upon the way in which it is offered. General maxims, drawn from experience, are, to the young at least, but as remarks — moral sentences — mere dead letter, and take no hold of the mind. ‘I have felt’ must come before ‘I think,’ especially in speaking to a young friend, and, though I am accused of being so fond of generalising that I never come to particulars, I can and will: therefore, my dear, I will tell you some particulars of my life, in which, take notice, there are no adventures. Mine has been a life of passion — of feeling, at least, — not of incidents: nothing, my dear, to excite or to gratify curiosity.”
“But, independent of all curiosity about events,” said Helen, “there is such an interest in knowing what has been really felt and thought in their former lives by those we know and love.”
“I shall sink in your esteem,” said Lady Davenant—”so be it.”
“I need not begin, as most people do, with ‘I was born’—” but, interrupting herself, she said, “this heat is too much for me.”
They turned into a long shady drive through the woods. Lady Davenant drew up the reins, and her ponies walked slowly on the grassy road; then, turning to Helen, she said: —
“It would have been well for me if any friend had, when I was of your age, put me on my guard against my own heart: but my too indulgent, too sanguine mother, led me into the very danger against which she should have warned me — she misled me, though without being aware of it. Our minds, our very natures differed strangely.
“She was a castle-builder — yes, now you know, my dear, why I spoke so strongly, and, as you thought, so severely this morning. My mother was a castle-builder of the ordinary sort: a worldly plan of a castle was hers, and little care had she about the knight within; yet she had sufficient tact to know that it must be the idea of the preux chevalier that would lure her daughter into the castle. Prudent for herself, imprudent for me, and yet she loved me — all she did was for love of me. She managed with so much address, that I had no suspicion of my being the subject of any speculation — otherwise, probably, my imagination might have revolted, my self-will have struggled, my pride have interfered, or my delicacy might have been alarmed, bu
t nothing of all that happened; I was only too ready, too glad to believe all that I was told, all that appeared in that spring-time of hope and love. I was very romantic, not in the modern fashionable young-lady sense of the word, with the mixed ideas of a shepherdess’s hat and the paraphernalia of a peeress — love in a cottage, and a fashionable house in town. No; mine was honest, pure, real romantic love — absurd if you will; it was love nursed by imagination more than by hope. I had early, in my secret soul, as perhaps you have at this instant in yours, a pattern of perfection — something chivalrous, noble, something that is no longer to be seen now-a-days — the more delightful to imagine, the moral sublime and beautiful; more than human, yet with the extreme of human tenderness. Mine was to be a demigod whom I could worship, a husband to whom I could always look up, with whom I could always sympathise, and to whom I could devote myself with all a woman’s self-devotion. I had then a vast idea — as I think you have now, Helen — of self-devotion; you would devote yourself to your friends, but I could not shape any of my friends into a fit object. So after my own imagination I made one, dwelt upon it, doated on it, and at last threw this bright image of my own fancy full upon the being to whom I thought I was most happily destined — destined by duty, chosen by affection. The words ‘I love you’ once pronounced, I gave my whole heart in return, gave it, sanctified, as I felt, by religion. I had high religious sentiments; a vow once passed the lips, a look, a single look of appeal to Heaven, was as much for me as if pronounced at the altar, and before thousands to witness. Some time was to elapse before the celebration of our marriage. Protracted engagements are unwise, yet I should not say so; this gave me time to open my eyes — my bewitched eyes: still, some months I passed in a trance of beatification, with visions of duties all performed — benevolence universal, and gratitude, and high success, and crowns of laurel, for my hero, for he was military; it all joined well in my fancy. All the pictured tales of vast heroic deeds were to be his. Living, I was to live in the radiance of his honour; or dying, to die with him, and then to be most blessed.
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