“Good Heavens! I cannot remember any more,” cried the aide-de-camp.
“Then go off, and say and do all that before you come back again,” said Lady Cecilia.
“What amazing presence of mind you have!” said Helen. “How can you say so much, and think of every thing!”
The aide-de-camp performed all her behests to admiration, and was rewarded by promotion to the high office of turner-over general of the leaves of the music books, an office requiring, as her ladyship remarked to Miss Holdernesse, prompt eye and ear, and all his distinguished gallantry. By such compliments she fixed him to the piano-forte, while his curiosity and all his feelings, being subordinate to his vanity, were prevented from straying to Miss Stanley and her harp-stringing, a work still doing — still to do.
All the arrangement succeeded as Lady Cecilia’s arrangements usually did. Helen heard the eternal buzz of conversation and the clang of instruments, and then the harmony of music, all as in a dream, or as at the theatre, when the thoughts are absent or the feelings preoccupied; and in this dreamy state she performed the operation of putting in the harp-strings quite well: and when she was at last called upon by Cecilia, who gave her due notice and time, she sat and played automatically, without soul or spirit — but so do so many others. It passed “charmingly,” till a door softly opened behind her, and she saw the shadow on the wall, and some one stood, and passed from behind her. There was an end of her playing; however, from her just dread of making a scene, she commanded herself so powerfully, that, except her timidity, nothing was observed by the company, and that timidity was pitied by the good-natured Mrs. Holdernesse, who said to her daughter, “Anne, we must not press Miss Stanley any more; she, who is always so obliging, is tired now.” She then made way for Helen to pass, who, thanking her with such a look as might be given for a life saved, quitted the harp, and the crowd, closing behind her, happily thought of her no more. She retreated to the darkest part of the room, and sat down. She did not dare to look towards what she most wished to see. Her eyes were fixed upon the face of the young lady singing, and yet she saw not one feature of that face, while she knew, without looking, or seeming to look, exactly where Beauclerc stood. He had stationed himself in a doorway into the drawing-room; there, leaning back against the wall, he stood, and never stirred. Helen was so anxious to get one clear view of the expression of his countenance, that at last she ventured to move a little, and from behind the broad back of a great man she looked: Beauclerc’s eyes met hers. How different from their expression when they were sitting on the bank together but a few short hours before! He left the doorway instantly, and placed himself where Helen could see him no more.
Of all the rest of what passed this evening she knew nothing; she felt only a sort of astonishment at everybody’s gaiety, and a sense of the time being intolerably long. She thought that all these people never would go away — that their carriages never would be announced. But before it came to that time, General Clarendon insisted upon Lady Cecilia’s retiring. “I must,” said he, “play the tyrant, Cecilia; you have done too much to-day — Mrs. Holdernesse shall hold your place.” He carried Cecilia off, and Helen thought, or fancied, that he looked about for her. Glad to escape, she followed close behind. The general did not offer his arm or appear to notice her. When she came to the door leading to the staircase, there was Beauclerc, standing with folded arms, as in the music-room; he just bowed his head, and wished Lady Cecilia a good night, and waited, without a word, for Helen to pass, or not to pass, as she thought fit. She saw by his look that he expected explanation; but till she knew what Cecilia meant to do, how could she explain? To say nothing — to bear to be suspected, — was all she could do, without betraying her friend. That word betray — that thought ruled her. She passed him: “Good night” she could not then say. He bowed as she passed, and she heard no “Good night” — no sound. And there was the general in the hall to be passed also, before she could reach the staircase up which Cecilia was going. When he saw Helen with a look of surprise — as it seemed to her, of disapproving surprise — he said, “Are you gone, Miss Stanley?” The look, the tone, struck cold to her heart. He continued—”Though I drove Cecilia away, I did not mean to drive you away too. It is early.”
“Is it? I thought it was very late.”
“No — and if you can, I hope you will return.” There was a meaning in his eye, which she well understood.
“Thank you,” said she; “if I can certainly — —”
“I hope you can and will.”
“Oh! thank you; but I must first — —” see Cecilia, she was going to say, but, afraid of implicating her, she changed the sentence to—”I must first consider — —”
“Consider! what the devil!” thought he, and his countenance was instantly angrily suited to the thought. Helen hesitated. “Do not let me detain — distress you farther, Miss Stanley, unavailingly; and since I shall not have the pleasure of seeing you again this evening,” concluded he, in a constrained voice, “I have the honour to wish you a good night.” He returned to the music-room.
CHAPTER II.
Helen instantly went to Cecilia’s room; Felicie was with her. Helen expected Lady Cecilia would dismiss her instantly; but mademoiselle was chattering. Helen had sometimes thought Cecilia let her talk too much, but to-night it was insufferable. Helen was too impatient, too anxious to bear it. “Cecilia, my dear, I want to speak to you alone, as soon as you can, in my own room.”
“As soon as possible,” Cecilia answered in a voice not natural. And she came, but not as soon as possible — shut the door behind her, showing that she had not dismissed Felicie, and, with hair dishevelled, as if hastening back to her room, said, “I am in a hurry; the general ordered me to make haste, and not to be an hour undressing.
“I will not keep you a moment,” said Helen. “I am in as great a hurry as you can be. Beauclerc is waiting for me.”
“Waiting for you at this time of night! Oh! my dear, he cannot be standing there with his arms folded all this time.”
Helen repeated what the general had said, and ended with, “I am determined to return.”
“No no,” Lady Cecilia said. The general could not advise her going back at this time of night. And with rapidity and confusion, she poured out a multitude of dissuasive arguments, some contradicting the others. “At this time of night! The world is not gone, and Beauclerc is in the midst of them by this time, you may be sure. You don’t think he is standing alone there all this time. You could not speak to him before all the world — don’t attempt it. You would only expose yourself. You would make a scene at last — undo all, and come to disgrace, and ruin me and yourself. I know you would, Helen. And if you were to send for him — into the library — alone! the servants would know it — and the company gone! And after all, for you, my dear, to make the first advance to reconciliation! If he is angry — I don’t think that would be quite — dignified; quite like you, Helen.”
“The general thinks it right, and I am sure he would not advise any thing improper — undignified. It does not signify, Cecilia, I am determined — I will go.” Trembling, she grew absolutely desperate from fear. “I am afraid you have forgot your promise, Cecilia; you said that if I could bear it for one hour, it would be over. Did you not promise me that if any difficulty came between me and — —” She stopped short. She had felt indignant; but when she looked at Cecilia, and saw her tears, she could not go on. “Oh Helen!” cried Cecilia, “I do not ask you to pity me. You cannot know what I suffer — you are innocent — and I have done so wrong! You cannot pity me.”
“I do, I do,” cried Helen, “from the bottom of my heart. Only trust me, dear Cecilia; let me go down — —”
Lady Cecilia sprang between her and the door. “Hear Me! hear me, Helen! Do not go to-night, and, cost what it will — cost me what it may, since it has come to this between you, I will confess all this night — I will tell all to the general, and clear you with him and with Granville. What mo
re can you ask? — what more can I do, Helen? And will you go?”
“No no, my dear Cecilia. Since you promise me this, I will not go now.”
“Be satisfied then, and rest — for me there is no rest;” so saying Cecilia slowly left the room.
Helen could not sleep: this was the second wretched night she had passed in that most miserable of all uncertainty — whether she was right or wrong.
In the morning, to Helen’s astonishment, Cecilia’s first words were about a dream—”Oh, my dear Helen, I have had such a dream! I do not usually mind dreams in the least, but I must own to you that this has made an impression! My dear, I can hardly tell it; I can scarcely bear to think of it. I thought that Clarendon and I were sitting together, and my hand was on his shoulder; and I had worked myself up — I was just going to speak. He was winding up his watch, and I leaned forward to see his face better. He looked up-and it was not him: it was Colonel D’Aubigny come to life. The door opened, Clarendon appeared — his eyes were upon me; but I do not know what came afterwards; all was confusion and fighting. And then I was with that nurse my mother recommended, and an infant in her arms. I was going to take the child, when Clarendon snatched it, and threw it into the flames. Oh! I awoke with a scream!”
“How glad you must have been,” said Helen, “to awake and find it was only a dream!”
“But when I screamed,” continued Cecilia, “Clarendon started up, and asked if I was in pain. ‘Not of body,’ I said; — and then — oh, Helen! then I thought I would begin. ‘Not of body,’ I said, ‘but of mind;’ then I added, ‘I was thinking of Helen and Beauclerc,’ Clarendon said, ‘So was I; but there is no use in thinking of it; we can do no good.’—’Then,’ I said, ‘suppose, Clarendon — only suppose that Helen, without saying any thing, were to let this matter pass off with Beauclerc?’ — Clarendon answered, ‘It would not pass off with Beauclerc.’—’But,’ said I, ‘I do not mean without any explanation at all. Only suppose that Helen did not enter into any particulars, do not you think, Clarendon, that things would go on well enough?’—’No,’ he said decidedly, ‘no.’—’Do you mean,’ said I, ‘that things would not go on at all?’—’I do not say, not at all,’ he answered; ‘but well they would not go on.’”
“I am sure the general is right,” said Helen.
“Then,” continued Lady Cecilia, “then I put the question differently. I wanted to feel my way, to try whether I could possibly venture upon my own confession. ‘Consider it this way, Clarendon,’ I said. ‘Take it for granted that Helen did somehow arrange that Beauclerc were to be satisfied without any formal explanation.’—’Formal!’ said he,—’I will not say formal,’ said I; ‘but without a full explanation: in short, suppose that from mere timidity, Helen could not, did not, exactly tell him the whole before marriage — put it off till afterwards — then told him all candidly; do you think, Clarendon, that if you were in Beauclerc’s place (I quite stammered when I came to this) — do you think you could pardon, or forgive, or esteem, or love,’ I intended to end with, but he interrupted me with—’I do not know,’ very shortly; and added, ‘I hope this is not what Miss Stanley intends to do?’”
“Oh! what did you answer?” cried Helen.
“I said I did not know. My dear Helen, it was the only thing I could say. What would Clarendon have thought, after all my supposes, if I had said any thing else? he must have seen the truth.”
“And that he is not to see,” said Helen: “and how false he must think me!”
“No, no; for I told him,” continued Lady Cecilia, “that I was sure you wished always to tell the whole truth about everything, but that there might be circumstances where you really could not; and where I, knowing all the circumstances, could not advise it. He said, ‘Cecilia, I desire you will not advise or interfere any farther in this matter. Promise me, Cecilia!’ He spoke sternly, and I promised as fast as I could. ‘Do nothing, say nothing more about it,’ he repeated; and now, after that, could I go on, Helen?”
“No, indeed; I do not think you could. My dear Cecilia, I really think you could not,” said Helen, much moved.
“And do you forgive me, my dear, good —— .” But seeing Helen change colour, Lady Cecilia, following her eye, and looking out of the window, started up, exclaiming, “There is Beauclerc; I see him in my mother’s walk. I will go to him this minute; yes, I will trust him — I will tell him all instantly.”
Helen caught hold of her, and stopped her. Surprised, Cecilia said, “Do not stop me. I may never have the courage again if stopped now. Do not stop me, Helen.”
“I must, Cecilia. General Clarendon desired you not to interfere in the matter.”
“But this is not interfering, only interposing to prevent mischief.”
“But, Cecilia,” continued Helen eagerly, “another reason has just struck me.”
“I wish reasons would not strike you. Let me go. Oh, Helen; it is for you.”
“And it is for you I speak, Cecilia,” said Helen, as fast as she could. “If you told Beauclerc, you never could afterwards tell the general; it would be a new difficulty. You know the general could never endure your having confessed this to any man but himself — trusted Beauclerc rather than your husband.”
Cecilia stopped, and stood silent.
“My dear Cecilia,” continued Helen, “you must leave me to my own judgment now;” and, breaking from Cecilia, she left the room. She hurried out to meet Beauclerc. He stopped on seeing her, and then came forward with an air of evident deliberation.
“Do you wish to speak to me, Miss Stanley!”
“Miss Stanley!” cried Helen; “is it come to this, and without hearing me!”
“Without hearing you, Helen! Was not I ready last night to hear you? Without hearing you! Have not you kept me in torture, the worst of tortures — suspense? Why did not you speak to me last night?”
“I could not.”
“Why, why?”
“I cannot tell you,” said she.
“Then I can tell you, Helen.”
“You can!”
“And will. Helen, you could not speak to me till you had consulted — arranged — settled what was to be said — what not to be said — what told — what left untold.”
Between each half sentence he darted looks at her, defying hers to contradict — and she could not contradict by word or look. “You could not speak,” continued he passionately, “till you had well determined what was to be told — what left untold to me! To me, Helen, your confiding — devoted — accepted lover! for I protest before Heaven, had I knelt at the altar with you, Helen Stanley, not more yours, not more mine could I have deemed you — not more secure of your love and truth — your truth, for what is love without it! — not more secure of perfect felicity could I have been on earth than I was when we two sat together but yesterday evening on that bank. Your words — your looks — and still your looks — But what signify tears! — Tears, women’s tears! Oh! what is woman! — and what is man that believes in her? — weaker still?”
“Hear me! — hear me!”
“Hear you? — No, Helen, do not now ask me to hear you. — Do not force me to hear you. — Do not debase, do not sully, that perfect image of truth. — Do not sink yourself, Helen, from that height at which it was my entranced felicity to see you. Leave me one blessed, one sacred illusion. No,” cried he, with increasing vehemence, “say nothing of all you have prepared — not one arranged word conned over in your midnight and your morning consultations,” pointing back to the window of her dressing-room, where he had seen her and Lady Cecilia.
“You saw,” Helen began ——
“Yes. — Am I blind, think you? — I wish I were. Oh! that I could be again the believing, fond, happy dupe I was but yesterday evening!”
“Dupe!” repeated Helen. “But pour out all — all, dear Granville. Think — say — what you will — reproach-abuse me as you please. It is a relief — take it — for I have none to give.”
“None!�
�� cried he, his tone suddenly changing, “no relief to give! — What! have you nothing to say? — No explanation? — Why speak to me then at all?”
“To tell you so at once — to end your suspense — to tell you that I cannot explain. The midnight consultation and the morning, were not to prepare for you excuse or apology, but to decide whether I could tell you the whole; and since that cannot be, I determined not to enter into any explanation. I am glad that you do not wish to hear any.”
“Answer me one question,” said he:—”that picture-did you give it to Colonel D’Aubigny?”
“No. That is a question I can answer. No — he stole it from Cecilia’s portfolio. Ask me no more.”
“One question more—”
“No, not one more — I cannot tell you anything more.”
She was silent for a moment, he withdrew his eyes, and she went on.
“Granville! I must now put your love and esteem for me to the test. If that love be what I believe it to be; if your confidence in me is what I think it ought to be, I am now going to try it. There is a mystery which I cannot explain. I tell you this, and yet I expect you to believe that I am innocent of anything wrong but the concealment. There are circumstances which I cannot tell you.”
“But why?” interrupted Beauclerc.—”Ought there to be any circumstances which cannot be told to the man to whom you have plighted your faith? Away with this ‘cannot — this mystery!’ Did not I tell you every folly of my life — every fault? And what is this? — in itself, nothing! — concealment everything — Oh! Helen—”
She was going to say, “If it concerned only myself,” — but that would at once betray Cecilia, and she went on.—”If it were in my opinion right to tell it to you, I would. On this point, Granville, leave me to judge and act for myself. This is the test to which I put your love — put mine to any test you will, but if your confidence in me is not sufficient to endure this trial, we can never be happy together.” She spoke very low: but Beauclerc listened with such intensity that he could not only distinguish every syllable she said, but could distinctly hear the beating of her heart, which throbbed violently, in spite of all her efforts to be calm. “Can you trust me?” concluded she.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 264
