“But,” interrupted Cecilia, “you cannot want the book now, when you have the letters themselves;” and she attempted to draw it from his hand, for she instantly perceived the danger of the discrepancies between her marks and the letters being detected. She made a stronger effort to withdraw the book but he held it fast. “Leave it with me now, my dear; I want it; it will settle my opinion as to Helen’s truth.”
Slowly, and absolutely sickened with apprehension, Lady Cecilia withdrew. When she returned to Helen, and found how pale she was and how exhausted she seemed, she entreated her to lie down again and try to rest.
“Yes, I believe I had better rest before I see Granville,” said Helen: “where can he have been all day?”
“With some friend of his, I suppose,” said Cecilia, and she insisted on Helen’s saying no more, and keeping herself perfectly quiet. She farther suggested that she had better not appear at dinner.
“It will be only a family party, some of the general’s relations. Miss Clarendon is to be here, and she is one, you know, trying to the spirits; and she is not likely to be in her most suave humour this evening, as she has been under a course of the tooth-ache, and has been all day at the dentist’s.”
Helen readily consented to remain in her own room, though she had not so great a dread of Miss Clarendon as Lady Cecilia seemed to feel. Lady Cecilia was indeed in the greatest terror lest Miss Clarendon should have heard some of these reports about Helen and Beauclerc, and would in her blunt way ask directly what they meant, and go on with some of her point-blank questions, which Cecilia feared might be found unanswerable. However, as Miss Clarendon had only just come to town from Wales, and come only about her teeth, she hoped that no reports could have reached her; and Cecilia trusted much to her own address and presence of mind in moments of danger, in turning the conversation the way it should go.
But things were now come to a point where none of the little skilful interruptions or lucky hits, by which she had so frequently profited, could avail her farther than to delay what must be. Passion and character pursue their course unalterably, unimpeded by small external circumstances; interrupted they may be in their progress, but as the stream opposed bears against the obstacle, sweeps it away, or foams and passes by.
Before Lady Cecilia’s toilette was finished her husband was in her dressing-room; came in without knocking, — a circumstance so unusual with him, that Mademoiselle Felicie’s eyes opened to their utmost orbit, and, without waiting for word or look, she vanished, leaving the bracelet half clasped on her lady’s arm.
“Cecilia!” said the general.
He spoke in so stern a tone that she trembled from head to foot; her last falsehood about the letters — all her falsehoods, all her concealments, were, she thought, discovered; unable to support herself, she sank into his arms. He seated her, and went on in a cool, inexorable tone, “Cecilia, I am determined not to sanction by any token of my public approbation this marriage, which I no longer in my private conscience desire or approve; I will not be the person to give Miss Stanley to my ward.”
Lady Cecilia almost screamed: her selfish fears forgotten, she felt only terror for her friend. She exclaimed, “Clarendon, will you break off the marriage? Oh! Helen, what will become of her! Clarendon, what can you mean?”
“I mean that I have compared the passages that Helen marked in the book, with those copies of the letters which were given to the bookseller before the interpolations were made — the letters as Miss Stanley wrote them. The passages in the letters and the passages marked in the book do not agree.”
“Oh, but she might have forgotten, it might be accident,” cried Cecilia, overwhelmed with confusion.
“No, Cecilia,” pursued the General, in a tone which made her heart die within her—”no, Cecilia, it is not accident, it is design. I perceive that every strong expression, every word, in short, which could show her attachment to that man, has been purposely marked as not her own, and the letters themselves prove that they were her own. The truth is not in her.”
In an agitation, which prevented all power of thought, Cecilia exclaimed, “She mistook — she mistook; I could not, I am sure, recollect; she asked me if I remembered any.”
“She consulted you, then?”
“She asked my advice, — told me that — —”
“I particularly requested her,” interrupted the general, “not to ask your advice; I desired her not to speak to you on the subject — not to consult you. Deceit — double-dealing in every thing she does, I find.”
“No, no, it is my fault; every thing I say and do is wrong,” cried Lady Cecilia. “I recollect now — it was just after her fainting, when I brought the book, and when she took it to mark she really was not able. It was not that she consulted me, but I forced my counsel upon her. I looked over the letters, and said what I thought — if anybody is wrong, it is I, Clarendon. Oh, do not visit my sins upon Helen so cruelly! — do not make me the cause of her ruin, innocent creature! I assure you, if you do this, I never could forgive myself.”
The general looked at her in silence: she did not dare to meet his eyes, desperately anxious as she was to judge by his countenance what was passing within. He clasped for her that bracelet which her trembling hands were in vain attempting to close.
“Poor thing, how its heart beats!” said her husband, pressing her to him as he sat down beside her. Cecilia thought she might venture to speak.—”You know, my dear Clarendon, I never oppose — interfere with — any determination of yours when once it is fixed—”
“This is fixed,” interrupted the general.
“But after all you have done for her this very day, for which I am sure she — I am sure I thank you from my soul, would you now undo it all?”
“She is saved from public shame,” said the general; “from private contempt I cannot save her: who can save those who have not truth? But my determination is fixed; it is useless to waste words on the subject. Esther is come; I must go to her. And now, Cecilia, I conjure you, when you see Beauclerc — I have not seen him all day — I do not know where he has been — I conjure you — I command you not to interfere between him and Helen.”
“But you would not have me give her up! I should be the basest of human beings.”
“I do not know what you mean, Cecilia; you have done for her all that an honourable friend could do.”
“I am not an honourable friend,” was Cecilia’s bitter consciousness, as she pressed her hand upon her heart, which throbbed violently with contending fears.
“You have done all that an honourable friend could do; more must not be done,” continued the general. “And now recollect, Cecilia, that you are my wife as well as Miss Stanley’s friend;” and, as he said these words, he left the room.
CHAPTER VIII.
That knowing French minister, Louvois, whose power is said to have been maintained by his surpassing skill in collecting and spreading secret and swift intelligence, had in his pay various classes of unsuspected agents, dancing-masters, fencing-masters, language-masters, milliners, hairdressers and barbers — dentists, he would have added, had he lived to our times; and not all Paris could have furnished him with a person better suited to his purpose than the most fashionable London dentist of the day, St. Leger Swift. Never did Frenchman exceed him in volubility of utterance, or in gesture significant, supplying all that words might fear or fail to tell; never was he surpassed by prattling barber or privileged hunchback in ancient or modern story, Arabian or Persian; but he was not a malicious, only a coxcomb scandal-monger, triumphing in his sçavoir dire. St. Leger Swift was known to everybody — knew everybody in London that was to be or was not to be known, every creature dead or alive that ever had been, or was about to be celebrated, fashionable, or rich, or clever, or notorious, roué or murderer, about to be married or about to be hanged — for that last class of persons enjoys in our days a strange kind of heroic celebrity, of which Voltaire might well have been jealous. St, Leger was, of course, hand
and glove with all the royal family; every illustrious personage — every most illustrious personage — had in turn sat in his chair; he had had all their heads, in their turns, in his hands, and he had capital anecdotes and sayings of each, with which he charmed away the sense of pain in loyal subjects. But with scandal for the fair was he specially provided. Never did man or woman skim the surface tittle-tattle of society, or dive better, breathless, into family mysteries; none, with more careless air, could at the same time talk and listen — extract your news and give you his on dit, or tell the secret which you first reveal. There was in him and about him such an air of reckless, cordial coxcombry, it warmed the coldest, threw the most cautious off their guard, brought out family secrets as if he had been one of your family — your secret purpose as though lie had been a secular father confessor; as safe every thing told to St. Leger Swift, he would swear to you, as if known only to yourself: he would swear, and you would believe, unless peculiarly constituted, as was the lady who, this morning, took her seat in his chair —
Miss Clarendon. She was accompanied by her aunt, Mrs. Pennant.
“Ha! old lady and young lady, fresh from the country. Both, I see, persons of family — of condition,” said St. Leger to himself. On that point his practised eye could not mistake, even at first glance; and accordingly it was really doing himself a pleasure, and these ladies, as he conceived it, a pleasure, a service, and an honour, to put them, immediately on their arrival in town, au courant du jour. Whether to pull or not to pull a tooth that had offended, was the professional question before him.
Miss Clarendon threw back her head, and opened her mouth.
“Fine teeth, fine! Nothing to complain of here surely,” said St. Leger. “As fine a show of ivory as ever I beheld. ‘Pon my reputation, I know many a fine lady who would give — all but her eyes for such a set.”
“I must have this tooth out,” said Miss Clarendon, pointing to the offender.
“I see; certainly, ma’am, as you say.”
“I hope, sir, you don’t think it necessary,” said her tender-hearted aunt: “if it could be any way avoided — —”
“By all means, madam, as you say. We must do nothing without consideration.”
“I have considered, my dear aunt,” said Miss Clarendon. “I have not slept these three nights.
“But you do not consider that you caught cold getting up one night for me; and it may be only an accidental cold, my dear Esther. I should be so sorry if you were to lose a tooth. Don’t be in a hurry; once gone, you cannot get it back again.”
“Never was a truer, wiser word spoken, madam,” said St. Leger, swiftly whisking himself round, and as if looking for some essential implement. “May be a mere twinge, accidental cold, rheumatism; or may be —— My dear madam” (to the aunt), “I will trouble you; let me pass. I beg pardon — one word with you,” and with his back to the patient in the chair, while he rummaged among ivory-handled instruments on the table, he went on in a low voice to the aunt—”Is she nervous? is she nervous, eh, eh, eh?”
Mrs. Pennant looked, but did not hear, for she was a little deaf.
“Yes, yes, yes; I see how it is. A word to the wise,” replied he, with a nod of intelligence. “Every lady’s nervous now-a-days, more or less. Where the deuce did I put this thing? Yes, yes — nerves; — all the same to me; know how to manage. Make it a principle — professional, to begin always by talking away nerves. You shall see, you shall see, my dearest madam; you shall soon see — you shall hear, you shall hear how I’ll talk this young lady — your niece — out of her nerves fairly. Beg pardon, Miss —— , one instant. I am searching for — where have I put it?”
“I beg your pardon, sir: I am a little deaf,” said Mrs. Pennant.
“Deaf — hey? Ha! a little deaf. So everybody is now-a-days; even the most illustrious personages, more or less. Death and deafness common to all — mors omnibus. I have it. Now, my dear young lady, let us have another look and touch at these beautiful teeth. Your head will do very — vastly well, my dear ma’am — Miss —— um, um, um!” hoping the name would be supplied. But that Miss Clarendon did not tell.
So raising his voice to the aunt as he went on looking, or seeming to look, at the niece’s tooth, he continued rapidly—”From Wales you are, ma’am? a beautiful country Wales, ma’am. Very near being born there myself, like, ha, ha, ha! that Prince of Wales — first Prince — Caernarvon Castle — you know the historical anecdote. Never saw finer teeth, upon my reputation. Are you ladies, may I ask, for I’ve friends in both divisions — are you North or South Wales, eh, eh?”
“South, sir. Llansillen.”
“Ay, South. The most picturesque certainly. Llansillen, Llansillen; know it; know everybody ten miles round. Respectable people — all — very; most respectable people come up from Wales continually. Some of our best blood from Wales, as a great personage observed lately to me, — Thick, thick! not thicker blood than the Welsh. His late Majesty, à-propos, was pleased to say to me once—”
“But,” interrupted Miss Clarendon, “what do you say to my tooth?”
“Sound as a roach, my dear ma’am; I will insure it for a thousand pounds.”
“But that, the tooth you touch, is not the tooth I mean: pray look at this, sir?”
“Excuse me, my dear madam, a little in my light,” said he to the aunt. “May I beg the favour of your name?”
“Pennant! ah! ah! ah!” with his hands in uplifted admiration—”I thought so — Pennant. I said so to myself, for I know so many Pennants — great family resemblance — Great naturalist of that name — any relation? Oh yes — No — I thought so from the first. Yes — and can assure you, to my private certain knowledge, that man stood high on the pinnacle of favour with a certain royal personage, — for, often sitting in this very chair —
“Keep your mouth open — a little longer — little wider, my good Miss Pennant. Here’s a little something for me to do, nothing of any consequence — only touch and go — nothing to be taken away, no, no, must not lose one of these fine teeth. That most illustrious personage said one day to me, sitting in this very chair—’Swift,’ said he, ‘St. Leger Swift,’ familiarly, condescendingly, colloquially—’St. Leger Swift, my good fellow,’ said he —
“But positively, my dear Miss — um, um, if you have not patience — you must sit still — pardon me, professionally I must be peremptory. Impossible I could hurt — can’t conceive — did not touch — only making a perquisition — inquisition — say what you please, but you are nervous, ma’am; I am only taking a general survey.
“A-propos — general survey — General — a friend of mine, General Clarendon is just come to town. My ears must have played me false, but I thought my man said something like Clarendon when he showed you up.”
No answer from Miss Clarendon, who held her mouth open wide, as desired, resolved not to satisfy his curiosity, but to let him blunder on. “Be that as it may, General Clarendon’s come to town — fine teeth he has too — and a fine kettle of fish — not very elegant, but expressive still — he and his ward have made, of that marriage announced. Fine young man, though, that Beauclerc — finest young man, almost, I ever saw!”
But here Mr. St. Leger Swift, starting suddenly, withdrawing his hand from Miss Clarendon’s mouth, exclaimed, —
“My finger, ma’am! but never mind, never mind, all in the day’s work. Casualty — contingencies — no consequence. But as I was saying, Mr. Granville Beauclerc — —”
Then poured out, on the encouragement of one look of curiosity from Mrs. Pennant, all the on dits of Lady Katrine Hawksby, and all her chorus, and all the best authorities; and St. Leger Swift was ready to pledge himself to the truth of every word. He positively knew that the marriage was off, and thought, as everybody did, that the young gentleman was well off too; for besides the young lady’s great fortune turning out not a sous — and here he supplied the half-told tale by a drawn-up ugly face and shrugging gesture.
“Sho
cking! shocking! all came to an éclat — esclandre; a scene quite, last night, I am told, at my friend Lady Castlefort’s. Sad — sad — so young a lady! But to give you a general idea, love letters to come out in the Memoirs of that fashionable Roué — friend of mine too — fine fellow as ever breathed — only a little — you understand; Colonel D’Aubigny — Poor D’Atibigny, heigho! — only if the book comes out — Miss Stanley—”
Mrs. Pennant looked at her niece in benevolent anxiety; Miss Clarendon was firmly silent; but St. Leger, catching from the expression of both ladies’ countenances, that they were interested in the contrary direction to what he had anticipated, turned to the right about, and observed, —
“This may be all scandal, one of the innumerable daily false reports that are always flying about town; scandal all, I have no doubt — Your head a little to the right, if you please — And the publication will be stopped, of course, and the young lady’s friends — you are interested for her, I see; so am I — always am for the young and fair, that’s my foible; and indeed, confidentially I can inform you — If you could keep your head still, my dear madam.”
But Miss Clarendon could bear it no longer; starting from under his hand, she exclaimed, “No more, thank you — no more at present, sir: we can call another day — no more:” and added as she hastily left the room, “Better bear the toothache,” and ran down stairs. Mrs. Pennant slipped into the dentist’s hand, as he pulled the bell, a double fee; for though she did not quite think he deserved it much, yet she felt it necessary to make amends for her niece’s way of running off, which might not be thought quite civil.
“Thank you, ma’am — thank ye, ma’am — not the least occasion — don’t say a word about it — Young lady’s nervous, said so from the first. Nerves! nerves! all — open the door there — Nerves all,” were the last words, at the top of the stairs, St. Leger Swift was heard to say.
And the first words of kind Mrs. Pennant, as soon as she was in the carriage and had drawn up the glass, were, “Do you know, Esther, my dear, I am quite sorry for this poor Miss Stanley. Though I don’t know her, yet, as you described her to me, she was such a pretty, young, interesting creature! I am quite sorry.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 271
