Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “Defend her!”

  “But Katrine was always jealous of her, and lately worse than ever, for getting into her place, as she says, with you; that made her hate her all the more.”

  “Let her hate on, that will never make me love Helen the less.”

  “So I told her; and besides, Miss Stanley is going to be married.”

  “To be sure; — well?”

  “And Katrine naturally hates every body that is going to be married. If you were to see the state she is in always reading the announcements of Marriages in High Life! Churchill, I do believe, had Miss Stanley’s intended match put into every paper continually, on purpose for the pleasure of plaguing Katrine; and if you could have seen her long face, when she saw it announced in the Court Gazette — good authority, you know — really it was pitiable.”

  “I don’t care, I don’t care about that — Oh pray go on to the facts about Helen.”

  “Well, but the fact is as I tell you; you wanted to know what sufficient cause for vengeance, and am not I telling you? If you would not get into such a state of excitement! — as Sir Sib says excitements should be avoided. La! my dear,” continued Lady Castlefort, looking up at her with unfeigned astonishment, “what agitation! why, if it were a matter that concerned yourself — —”

  “It concerns my friend, and that is the same thing.”

  “So one says; but — you look really, such a colour.”

  “No matter what colour I look,” cried Cecilia; “go on.”

  “Do you never read the papers?” said Lady Castlefort.

  “Sometimes,” said Lady Cecilia; “but I have not looked at a paper these three days; was there any thing particular? tell me.”

  “My dear! tell you! as if I could remember by heart all the scandalous paragraphs I read.” She looked round the room, and not seeing the papers, said, “I do not know what has become of those papers; but you can find them when you go home.”

  She mentioned the names of two papers, noted for being personal, scandalous, and scurrilous.

  “Are those the papers you mean?” cried Lady Cecilia; “the general never lets them into the house.”

  “That is a pity — that’s hard upon you, for then you never are, as you see, au courant du jour, and all your friends might be abused to death without your knowing it, if some kind person did not tell you.”

  “Do tell me, then, the substance; I don’t want the words.”

  “But the words are all. Somehow it is nothing without the words.”

  In her now excited state of communicativeness, Lady Castlefort rose and looked all about the room for the papers, saying, “They were here, they were there, all yesterday; Katrine had them showing them to Lady Masham in the morning, and to all her blue set afterwards — Lord knows what she has done with them. So tiresome looking for things! how I hate it.”

  She rang the bell and inquired from the footman if he knew what had become of the papers. Of course he did not know, could not imagine — servants never know, nor can imagine what have become of newspapers — but he would inquire. While he went to inquire, Lady Castlefort sank down again into her bergère, and again fell into admiration of Cecilia’s state of impatience.

  “How curious you are! Now I am never really curious about any thing that does not come home to myself; I have so little interest about other people.”

  This was said in all the simplicity of selfishness, not from candour, but from mere absence of shame, and utter ignorance of what others think — what others feel, which always characterises, and often betrays the selfish, even where the head is best capable of supplying the deficiencies of the heart. But Louisa Castlefort had no head to hide her want of heart; while Cecilia, who had both head and heart, looked down upon her cousin with surprise, pity, and contempt, quick succeeding each other, in a sort of parenthesis of feeling, as she moved her eyes for a moment from the door on which they had been fixed, and to which they recurred, while she stood waiting for the appearance of those newspapers. The footman entered with them. “In Mr. Landrum’s room they were, my lady.”

  Lady Cecilia did not hear a word that was said, nor did she see that the servant laid a note on the table. It was well that Louisa had that note to read, and to answer, while Cecilia looked at the paragraphs in these papers; else her start must have been seen, her exclamation must have been heard: it must have been marked, that the whole character of her emotion changed from generous sympathy with her friend, to agony of fear for herself. The instant she cast her eyes on that much-read paper, she saw the name of Colonel D’Aubigny; all the rest swam before her eyes. Lady Castlefort, without looking up from her writing, asked — What day of the month? Cecilia could not answer, but recalled to herself by the sound of the voice, she now tried to read — she scarcely read the words, but some way took the sense into her mind at a glance.

  CHAPTER VI.

  The first of these paragraphs caught the eye by its title in capital letters.

  “LA BELLE FIANCÉE.

  “Though quite unknown in the London world, this young lady cannot fail to excite some curiosity among our fashionables as the successful rival of one whom the greatest painter of the age has pronounced to be the fairest of the fair — the Lady B. F. This new Helen is, we understand, of a respectable family, niece to a late dean, distinguished for piety much and virtù more. It was reported that the niece was a great heiress, but after the proposal had been made, it was discovered that Virtù had made away with every shilling of her fortune. This made no difference in the eyes of her inamorato, who is as rich as he is generous, and who saw with the eyes of a youth ‘Of Age to-morrow.’ His guardian, a wary general, demurred — but nursery tactics prevailed. The young lady, though she had never been out, bore the victory from him of many campaigns. The day for the marriage was fixed as announced by us — But we are concerned to state that a postponement of this marriage for mysterious reasons has taken place. Delicacy forbids us to say more at present.”

  Delicacy, however, did not prevent their saying in the next paper in a paragraph headed, “MYSTERY SOLVED,” “We understand that in the course of a few days will appear the ‘Memoirs of the late Colonel D —— y; or, Reminiscences of a Rouè, well known in the Fashionable World.’ This little volume bids fair to engross the attention of the higher circles, as it contains, besides innumerable curious, personal, and secret anecdotes, the original love letters of a certain belle fiancée, now residing with a noble family in Grosvenor Square.”

  Lady Cecilia saw at once the whole dreadful danger — her own letters to Colonel D’Aubigny they must he! How could they have got them? They would be seen by her husband — published to the whole world — if the general found out they were hers, he would cast her off for ever. If they were believed to be Helen’s — Helen was undone, sacrificed to her folly, her cowardice. “Oh! if I had but told Clarendon, he would have stopped this dreadful, dreadful publication.” And what falsehoods it might contain, she did not even dare to think. All was remorse, terror, confusion — fixed to the spot like one stupified, she stood. Lady Castlefort did not see it — she had been completely engrossed with what she had been writing, she was now looking for her most sentimental seal, and not till she had pressed that seal down and examined the impression, did she look up or notice Cecilia — Then struck indeed with a sense of something unusual—”My dear,” said she, “you have no idea how odd you look — so strange, Cecilia — quite èbahie!” Giving two pulls to the bell as she spoke, and her eyes on the door, impatient for the servant, she added—”After all, Cecilia, Helen Stanley is no relation even — only a friend. Take this note—” to the footman who answered the bell; and the moment he left the room, continuing, in the same tone, to Lady Cecilia, she said—”You will have to give her up at last — that’s all; so you had better make your mind up to it.”

  When Lady Cecilia tried to speak, she felt her tongue cleave to the roof of her mouth; and when she did articulate, it was in a sort of hoarse sound. “Is the book
published?” She held the paper before Lady Castlefort’s eyes, and pointed to the name she could not utter.

  “D’Aubigny’s book — is it published, do you mean?” said Lady Castlefort. “Absolutely published, I cannot say, but it is all in print, I know. I do not understand about publishing. There’s something about presentation copies: I know Katrine was wild to have one before any body else, so she is to have the first copy, I know, and, I believe, is to have it this very morning for the people at this breakfast: it is to be the bonne bouche of the business.”

  “What has Katrine to do with it? — Oh, tell me, quick!”

  “Dear me, Cecilia, what a fuss you are in! — you make me quite nervous to look at you. You had better go down to the breakfast-room, and you will hear all about it from the fountain-head.”

  “Has Katrine the book or not?” cried Lady Cecilia.

  “Bless me! I will inquire, my dear, if you will not look so dreadful.” She rang and coolly asked—”Did that man, that bookseller, Stone, send any parcel or book this morning, do you know, for Lady Katrine?”

  “Yes, my lady; Landrum had a parcel for Lady Katrine — it is on the table, I believe.”

  “Very well.” The man left the room. Lady Cecilia darted on the brown paper parcel she had seen directed to Lady Katrine, and seized it before the amazed Louisa could prevent her. “Stop, stop!” cried she, springing forward, “stop, Cecilia; Katrine will never forgive me!”

  But Lady Cecilia seizing a penknife, cut the first knot. “Oh, Cecilia, I am undone if Katrine comes in! Make haste, make haste! I can only let you have a peep or two. We must do it up again as well as ever,” continued Lady Castlefort, while Lady Cecilia, fast as possible, went on cut, cut, cutting the packthread to bits, and she tore off the brown paper cover, then one of silver paper, that protected the silk binding. Lady Castlefort took up the outer cover and read, “To be returned before two o’clock.”—”What can that mean? Then it is only lent; not her own. Katrine will not understand this — will be outrageously disappointed. I’m sure I don’t care. But here is a note from Stone, however, which may explain it.” She opened and read—”Stone’s respects — existing circumstances make it necessary her ladyship’s copy should be returned. Will be called for at two o’clock.”

  “Cecilia, Cecilia, make haste! But Katrine does not know yet — Still she may come up.” Lady Castlefort rang and inquired, —

  “Have they done breakfast?”

  “Breakfast is over, my lady,” said the servant who answered the bell, “but Landrum thinks the gentlemen and ladies will not be up immediately, on account of one of the ladies being performing a poem.”

  “Very well, very good,” added her ladyship, as the man left the room. “Then, Cecilia, you will have time enough, for when once they begin performing, as Sylvester calls it, there is no end of it.”

  “Oh Heavens!” cried Cecilia, as she turned over the pages, “Oh Heavens! what is here? Such absolute falsehood! Shocking, shocking!” she exclaimed, as she looked on, terrified at what she saw: “Absolutely false — a forgery.”

  “Whereabouts are you?” said Lady Castlefort, approaching to read along with her.

  “Oh, do not read it,” cried Cecilia, and she hastily closed the book.

  “What signifies shutting the book, my dear,” said Louisa, “as if you could shut people’s eyes? I know what it is; I have read it.”

  “Read it!”

  “Read it! I really can read, though it seems to astonish you.”

  “But it is not published?”

  “One can read in manuscript.”

  “And did you see the manuscript?”

  “I had a glimpse. Yes — I know more than Katrine thinks I know.”

  “O tell me, Louisa; tell me all,” cried Cecilia.

  “I will, but you must never tell that I told it to you.”

  “Speak, speak,” cried Cecilia.

  “It is a long story,” said Lady Castlefort.

  “Make it short then. O tell me quick, Louisa.’”

  “There is a literary dessous des cartes,” said Lady Castlefort, a little vain of knowing a literary dessous des cartes; “Churchill being at the head of every thing of that sort, you know, the bookseller brought him the manuscript which Sir Thomas D’Aubigny had offered him, and wanted to know whether it would do or not. Mr. Churchill’s answer was, that it would never do without more pepper and salt, meaning gossip and scandal, and all that. But you are reading on, Cecilia, not listening to me.”

  “I am listening, indeed.”

  “Then never tell how I came to know every thing. Katrine’s maid has a lover, who is, as she phrases it, one of the gentlemen connected with the press. Now, my Angelique, who cannot endure Katrine’s maid, tells me that this man is only a wonder-maker, a half-crown paragraph writer. So, through Angelique, and indeed from another person—” she stopped; and then went on—”through Angelique it all came up to me.”

  “All what?” cried Cecilia; “go on, go on to the facts.”

  “I will, if you will not hurry me so. The letters were not in Miss Stanley’s handwriting.”

  “No! I am sure of that,” said Cecilia.

  “Copies were all that they pretended to be; so they may be forgeries after all, you see.”

  “But how did Katrine or Mr. Churchill come by the copies?”

  “I have a notion, but of this I am not quite sure — I have a notion, from something I was told by — in short I suspect that Carlos, Lady Davenant’s page, somehow got at them, and gave them, or had them given to the man who was to publish the book. Lady Katrine and Churchill laid their heads together; here, in this very sanctum sanctorum. They thought I knew nothing, but I knew every thing. I do not believe Horace had anything to do with it, except saying that the love-letters would be just the thing for the public if they were bad enough. I remember, too, that it was he who added the second title, ‘Reminiscences of a Rouè,’ and said something about alliteration’s artful aid. And now,” concluded Lady Castlefort, “it is coming to the grand catastrophe, as Katrine calls it. She has already told the story, and to-day she was to give all her set what she calls ocular demonstration. Cecilia, now, quick, finish; they will be here this instant. Give me the book; let me do it up this minute.”

  “No, no; let me put it up,” cried Lady Cecilia, keeping possession of the book and the brown paper. “I am a famous hand at doing up a parcel, as famous as any Bond Street shopman: your hands are not made for such work.”

  Any body but Lady Castlefort would have discerned that Lady Cecilia had some further design, and she was herself afraid it would be perceived; but taking courage from seeing what a fool she had to deal with, Lady Cecilia went on more boldly: “Louisa, I must have more packthread; this is all cut to bits.”

  “I will ring and ask for some.”

  “No, no; do not ring for the footman; he might observe that we had opened the parcel. Cannot you get a string without ringing? Look in that basket.”

  “None there, I know,” said Lady Castlefort without stirring.

  “In your own room then; Angelique has some.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know! never mind how. Go, and she will give you packthread. I must have it before Katrine comes up. So go, Louisa, go.”

  “Go,” in the imperative mood, operated, and she went; she did not know why.

  That instant Lady Cecilia drew the book out of the half-folded paper, and quick, quick, tore out page after page — every page of those letters that concerned herself or Helen, and into the fire thrust them, and as they blazed held them down bravely — had the boldness to wait till all was black: all the while she trembled, but stood it, and they were burnt, and the book in its brown paper cover was left on the table, and she down stairs, before Lady Castlefort’s dressing-room door opened, and she crossed the hall without meeting a soul except the man in waiting there. The breakfast-room was at the back of the house looking into the gardens, and her carriage at the front-d
oor had never been seen by Lady Katrine, or any of her blue set. She cleared out of the house into her carriage — and off—”To the Park,” said she. — She was off but just in time. The whole tribe came out of the breakfast room before she had turned the corner of the street. She threw herself back in the carriage and took breath, congratulating herself upon this hairbreadth ‘scape. For this hour, this minute, she had escaped! — she was reprieved!

  And now what was next to be done? This was but a momentary reprieve. Another copy would be had — no, not till to-morrow though. The sound of the words that had been read from the bookseller’s note by Lady Castlefort, though scarcely noticed at the time, recurred to her now; and there was hope something might to-day be done to prevent the publication. It might still be kept for ever from her husband’s and from Beauclerc’s knowledge. One stratagem had succeeded — others might.

  She took a drive round the Park to compose the excessive flurry of her spirits. Letting down all the glasses, she had the fresh air blowing upon her, and ere she was half round, she was able to think of what yet remained to do. Money! Oh! any money she could command she would give to prevent this publication. She was not known to the bookseller — no matter. Money is money from whatever hand. She would trust the matter to no one but herself, and she would go immediately — not a moment to be lost.—”To Stone’s, the bookseller’s.”

  Arrived. “Do not give my name; only say, a lady wants to speak to Mr. Stone.”

  The people at Mr. Stone’s did not know the livery or the carriage, but such a carriage and such a lady commanded the deference of the shopman. “Please to walk in, madam,” and by the time she had walked in, the man changed madam into your ladyship—”Mr. Stone will be with your ladyship in a moment — only in the warehouse. If your ladyship will please to walk up into the back drawing-room — there’s a fire.” The maid followed to blow it; and while the bellows wheezed and the fire did not burn, Lady Cecilia looked out of the window in eager expectation of seeing Mr. Stone returning from the warehouse with all due celerity. No Mr. Stone, however, appeared; but there was a good fire in the middle of the court-yard, as she observed to the maid who was plying the wheezing bellows; and who answered that they had had a great fire there this hour past “burning of papers.” And at that moment a man came out with his arms full of a huge pile — sheets of a book, Lady Cecilia saw — it was thrown on the fire. Then came out and stood before the fire — could she he mistaken? — impossible — it was like a dream — the general!