Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Lady Davenant said she had done quite right. The general was no present-maker, and this exception in his favour could I not lead to any future inconvenience. “But Cecilia,” continued she, “is too much addicted to trinket giving, which ends often disagreeably even between friends, or at all events fosters a foolish taste, and moreover associates it with feelings of affection in a way particularly deceitful and dangerous to such a little, tender-hearted person as I am speaking to, whose common sense would too easily give way to the pleasure of pleasing or fear of offending a friend. Kiss me, and don’t contradict me, for your conscience tells you that what I say is true.”

  The sapphires, the ruby brooch, and all her unsettled accounts, came across Helen’s mind; and if the light had shone upon her face at that moment, her embarrassment must have been seen; but Lady Davenant, as she finished the last words, laid her head upon the pillow, and she turned and settled herself comfortably to go to sleep. Helen retired with a disordered conscience; and the first thing she did in the morning was to look in the red case in which the sapphires came, to see if there was any note of their price; she recollected having seen some little bit of card — it was found on the dressing-table. When she beheld the price, fear took away her breath — it was nearly half her whole year’s income; still she could pay it. But the ruby brooch that had not yet arrived — what would that cost? She hurried to her accounts; she had let them run on for months unlooked at, but she thought she must know the principal articles of expense in dress by her actual possessions. There was a heap of little crumpled bills which, with Felicie’s griffonage, Helen had thrown into her table-drawer. In vain did she attempt to decipher the figures, like apothecaries’ marks, linked to quarters and three-quarters, and yards, of gauzes, silks, and muslins, altogether inextricably puzzling. They might have been at any other moment laughable, but now they were quite terrible to Helen; the only thing she could make clearly out was the total; she was astonished when she saw to how much little nothings can amount, an astonishment felt often by the most experienced — how much more by Helen, all unused to the arithmetic of economy! At this instant her maid came in smiling with a packet, as if sure of being the bearer of the very thing her young lady most wished for; it was the brooch — the very last thing in the world she desired to see. With a trembling hand she opened the parcel, looked at the note of the price, and sank upon her chair half stupified, with her eyes fixed upon the sum. She sat she knew not how long, till, roused by the opening of Cecilia’s door, she hastened to put away the papers. “Let me see them, my dear, don’t put away those papers,” cried Cecilia; “Felicie tells me that you have been at these horrid accounts these two hours, and — you look — my dear Helen, you must let me see how much it is!” She drew the total from beneath Helen’s hand. It was astounding even to Cecilia, as appeared by her first unguarded look of surprise. But, recovering herself immediately, she in a playfully scolding tone told Helen that all this evil came upon her in consequence of her secret machinations. “You set about to counteract me, wrote for things that I might not get them for you, you see what has come of it! As to these bills, they are all from tradespeople who cannot be in a hurry to be paid; and as to the things Felicie has got for you, she can wait, is not she a waiting-woman by profession? Now, where is the ruby-brooch? Have you never looked at it? — I hope it is pretty — I am sure it is handsome,” cried she as she opened the case. “Yes; I like it prodigiously, I will take it off your hands, my dear; will that do?”

  “No, Cecilia, I cannot let you do that, for you have one the same, I know, and you cannot want another — no, no.”

  “You speak like an angel, my dear, but you do not look like one,” said Cecilia. “So woe-begone, so pale a creature, never did I see! do look at yourself in the glass; but you are too wretched to plague. Seriously, I want this brooch, and mine it must be — it is mine: I have a use for it, I assure you.”

  “Well, if you have a use for it, really,” said Helen, “I should indeed be very glad — —”

  “Be glad then, it is mine,” said Cecilia; “and now it is yours, my dear Helen, now, not a word! pray, if you love me!”

  Helen could not accept of it; she thanked Cecilia with all her heart, she felt her kindness — her generosity, but even the hitherto irresistible words, “If you love me,” were urged in vain. If she had not been in actual need of money, she might have been over-persuaded, but now her spirit of independence strengthened her resolution, and she persisted in her refusal. Lady Davenant’s bell rang, and Helen, slowly rising, took up the miserable accounts, and said, “Now I must go — —”

  “Where!” said Cecilia; “you look as if you had heard a knell that summoned you — what are you going to do?”

  “To tell all my follies to Lady Davenant.”

  “Tell your follies to nobody but me,” cried Lady Cecilia. “I have enough of my own to sympathise with you, but do not go and tell them to my mother, of all people; she, who has none of her own, how can you expect any mercy?”

  “I do not; I am content to bear all the blame I so richly deserve, but I know that after she has heard me, she will tell me what I ought to do, she will find out some way of settling it all rightly, and if that can but be, I do not care how much I suffer. So the sooner I go to her the better,” said Helen.

  “But you need not be in such a hurry; do not be like the man who said, ‘Je veux être l’enfant prodigue, je veux être l’enfant perdu.’ L’enfant prodigue, well and good, but why l’enfant perdu?”

  “My dear Cecilia, do not play with me now — do not stop me,” said Helen anxiously. “It is serious with me now, and it is as much as I can do — —”

  Cecilia let her go, but trembled for her, as she looked after her, and saw her stop at her mother’s door.

  Helen’s first knock was too low, it was unheard, she was obliged to wait; another, louder, was answered by, “Come in.” And in the presence she stood, and into the middle of things she rushed at once; the accounts, the total, lay before Lady Davenant. There it was: and the culprit, having made her confession, stood waiting for the sentence.

  The first astonished change of look, was certainly difficult to sustain. “I ought to have foreseen this,” said Lady Davenant; “my affection has deceived my judgment. Helen, I am sorry for your sake, and for my own.”

  “Oh do not speak in that dreadful calm voice, as if — do not give me up at once,” cried Helen.

  “What can I do for you? what can be done for one who has no strength of mind?” I have some, thought Helen, or I should not be here at this moment. “Of what avail, Helen, is your good heart — your good intentions, without the power to abide by them? When you can be drawn aside from the right by the first paltry temptation — by that most contemptible of passions — the passion for baubles! You tell me it was not that, what then? a few words of persuasion from any one who can smile, and fondle, and tell you that they love you; — the fear of offending Cecilia! how absurd! Is this what you both call friendship? But weaker still, Helen, I perceive that you have been led blindfold in extravagance by a prating French waiting-maid — to the brink of ruin, the very verge of dishonesty.”

  “Dishonesty! how?”

  “Ask yourself, Helen: is a person honest, who orders and takes from the owner that for which he cannot pay? Answer me, honest or dishonest.”

  “Dishonest! if I had intended not to pay. But I did intend to pay, and I will.”

  “You will! The weak have no will — never dare to say I will. Tell me how you will pay that which you owe. You have no means — no choice, except to take from the fund you have already willed to another purpose. See what good intentions, come to, Helen, when you cannot abide by them!”

  “But I can,” cried Helen; “whatever else I do, I will not touch that fund, destined for my dear uncle — I have not touched it. I could pay it in two years, and I will — I will give up my whole allowance.”

  “And what will you live upon in the mean time?”

 
“I should not have said my whole allowance, but I can do with very little, I will buy nothing new.”

  “Buy nothing — live upon nothing!” repeated Lady Davenant; “how often have I heard these words said by the most improvident, in the moment of repentance, even then as blind and uncalculating as ever! And you, Helen, talk to me of your powers of forbearance, — you, who, with the strongest motive your heart could feel, have not been able for a few short months to resist the most foolish — the most useless fancies.”

  Helen burst into tears. But Lady Davenant, unmoved, at least to all outward appearance, coldly said, “It is not feeling that you want, or that I require from you; I am not to be satisfied by words or tears.”

  “I deserve it all,” said Helen; “and I know you are not cruel. In the midst of all this, I know you are my best friend.”

  Lady Davenant was now obliged to be silent, lest her voice should betray more tenderness than her countenance chose to show.

  “Only tell me what I can do now,” continued Helen; “what can I do?”

  “What you CAN do, I will tell you, Helen. Who was the man you were dancing with last night?”

  “I danced with several; which do you mean?”

  “Your partner in the quadrille you were dancing when I came in.”

  “Lord Estridge: but you know him — he has been often here.”

  “Is he rich?” said Lady Davenant.

  “Oh yes, very rich, and very self-sufficient: he is the man Cecilia used to call ‘Le prince de mon mérite.’”

  “Did she? I do not remember. He made no impression on me, nor on you, I dare say.”

  “Not the least, indeed.”

  “No matter, he will do as well as another, since he is rich. You can marry him, and pay your present debts, and contract new, for thousands instead of hundreds: — this is what you CAN do, Helen.”

  “Do you think I can?” said Helen.

  “You can, I suppose, as well as others. You know that young ladies often marry to pay their debts?”

  “So I once heard,” said Helen, “but is it possible?”

  “Quite. You might have been told more — that they enter into regular partnerships, joint-stock companies with dress-makers and jewellers, who make their ventures and bargains on the more or less reputation of the young ladies for beauty or for fashion, supply them with finery, speculate on their probabilities of matrimonial success, and trust to being repaid after marriage. Why not pursue this plan next season in town? You must come to it like others, whose example you follow — why not begin it immediately?”

  There is nothing so reassuring to the conscience as to hear, in the midst of blame that we do deserve, suppositions of faults, imputations which we know to be unmerited — impossible. Instead of being hurt or alarmed by what Lady Davenant had said, the whole idea appeared to Helen so utterly beneath her notice, that the words made scarcely any impression on her mind, and her thoughts went earnestly back to the pressing main question—”What can I do, honestly to pay this money that I owe?” She abruptly asked Lady Davenant if she thought the jeweller could be prevailed upon to take back the sapphires and the brooch?

  “Certainly not, without a considerable loss to you,” replied Lady Davenant; but with an obvious change for the better in her countenance, she added, “Still the determination to give up the bauble is good; the means, at whatever loss, we will contrive for you, if you are determined.”

  “Determined! — oh yes.” She ran for the bracelets and brooch, and eagerly put them into Lady Davenant’s hand. And now another bright idea came into her mind: she had a carriage of her own — a very handsome carriage, almost new; she could part with it — yes, she would, though it was a present from her dear uncle — his last gift; and he had taken such pleasure in having it made perfect for her. She was very, very fond of it, but she would part with it; she saw no other means of abiding by her promise, and paying his debts and her own. This passed rapidly through her mind; and when she had expressed her determination, Lady Davenant’s manner instantly returned to all its usual kindness, and she exclaimed as she embraced her, drew her to her, and kissed her again and again—”You are my own Helen! These are deeds, Helen, not words: I am satisfied — I may be satisfied with you now!

  “And about that carriage, my dear, it shall not go to a stranger, it shall be mine. I want a travelling chaise — I will purchase it from you: I shall value it for my poor friend’s sake, and for yours, Helen. So now it is settled, and you are clear in the world again. I will never spoil you, but I will always serve you, and a greater pleasure I cannot have in this world.”

  After this happy termination of the dreaded confession, how much did Helen rejoice that she had had the courage to tell all to her friend. The pain was transient — the confidence permanent.

  As Helen was going into her own room, she saw Cecilia flying up stairs towards her, with an open letter in her hand, her face radiant with joy. “I always knew it would all end well! Churchill might well say that all the sand in my hour-glass was diamond sand. There, my dear Helen — there,” cried Cecilia, embracing her as she put the letter into her hand. It was from Beauclerc, his answer to Lady Cecilia’s letter, which had followed him to Naples. It was written the very instant he had read her explanation, and, warm from his heart, he poured out all the joy he felt on hearing the truth, and, in his transport of delight, he declared that he quite forgave Lady Cecilia, and would forget, as she desired, all the misery she had made him feel. Some confounded quarantine he feared might detain him, but he would certainly be at Clarendon Park in as short a time as possible. Helen’s first smile, he said, would console him for all he had suffered, and make him forget everything.

  Helen’s first smile he did not see, nor the blush which spread and rose as she read. Cecilia was delighted. “Generous, affectionate Cecilia!” thought Helen; “if she has faults, and she really has but one, who could help loving her?” Not Helen, certainly, or she would have been the most ungrateful of human beings. Besides her sympathy in Helen’s happiness, Cecilia was especially rejoiced at this letter, coming, as it did, the very day after her mother’s return; for though she had written to Lady Davenant on Beauclerc’s departure, and told her that he was gone only on Lord Beltravers’ account, yet she dreaded that, when it came to speaking, her mother’s penetration would discover that something extraordinary had happened. Now all was easy. Beauclerc was coming back: he had finished his friend’s business, and, before he returned to Clarendon Park he wished to know if he might appear there as the acknowledged admirer of Miss Stanley — if he might with any chance of success pay his addresses to her. Secure that her mother would never ask to see the letter, considering it either as a private communication to his guardian, or as a love letter to Helen, Cecilia gave this version of it to Lady Davenant; and how she settled it with the general, Helen never knew, but it seemed all smooth and right.

  And now, the regatta being at an end, the archery meetings over, and no hope of further gaiety for this season at Clarendon Park, the Castleforts and Lady Katrine departed. Lady Katrine’s last satisfaction was the hard haughty look with which she took leave of Miss Stanley — a look expressing, as well as the bitter smile and cold form of good breeding could express it, unconquered, unconquerable hate.

  CHAPTER VIII

  There is no better test of the strength of affection than the ready turning of the mind to the little concerns of a friend, when preoccupied with important interests of our own. This was a proof of friendship, which Lady Davenant had lately given to Helen, for, at the time when she had entered with so much readiness and zeal into Helen’s little difficulties and debts, great political affairs and important interests of Lord Davenant’s were in suspense, and pressed heavily upon her mind. What might be the nature of these political embarrassments had not been explained. Lady Davenant had only hinted at them. She said, “she knew from the terror exhibited by the inferior creatures in office that some change in administration was expected, as beasts
are said to howl and tremble before storm, or earthquake, or any great convulsion of nature takes place.”

  Since Lady Davenant’s return from town, where Lord Davenant still remained, nothing had been said of the embassy to Russia but that it was delayed. Lady Cecilia, who was quick, and, where she was not herself concerned, usually right, in interpreting the signs of her mother’s discomfiture, guessed that Lord Davenant had been circumvented by some diplomatist of inferior talents, and she said to Helen, “When an ass kicks you never tell it, is a maxim which mamma heard from some friend, and she always acts upon it; but a kick, whether given by ass or not, leaves a bruise, which sometimes tells in spite of ourselves, and my mother should remember another maxim of that friend’s, that the faults and follies of the great are the delight and comfort of the little. Now, my mother, though she is so well suited, from her superior abilities and strength of mind, and all that, to be the wife of a great political leader, yet in some respects she is the most unfit person upon earth for the situation; for, though she feels the necessity of conciliating, she cannot unbend with her inferiors, that is, with half the world. As Catalani said of singing, it is much more difficult to descend than to ascend well. Shockingly mamma shows in her manner sometimes how tired she is of the stupid, and how she despises the mean; and all the underlings think she can undo them with papa, for it has gone abroad that she governs, while in fact, though papa asks her advice, to be sure, because she is so wise, she never does interfere in the least; but, now it has once got into the world’s obstinate head that she does, it cannot be put out again, and mamma is the last person upon earth to take her own part, or condescend to explain and set things right. She is always thinking of papa’s glory and the good of the public, but the public will never thank him and much less her; so there she is a martyr, without her crown; now, if I were to make a martyr of myself, which, Heaven forbid! I would at least take right good care to secure my crown, and to have my full glory round my head, and set on becomingly. But seriously, my dear Helen,” continued Lady Cecilia, “I am unhappy about papa and mamma, I assure you. I have seen little clouds of discontent long gathering, lowering, and blackening, and I know they will burst over their heads in some tremendous storm at last.”