Her history for these weeks — indeed for some months afterwards — can be only the diary of an invalid and of a convalescent. Miss Clarendon meanwhile received from her brother, punctually, once a week, bulletins of Churchill’s health; the surgical details, the fears of the formation of internal abscess, reports of continual exfoliations of bone, were judiciously suppressed, and the laconic general reported only “Much the same — not progressing — cannot be pronounced out of danger.” These bulletins were duly repeated to Helen, whenever she was able to hear them; and at last she was considered well enough to read various letters, which had arrived for her during her illness; several were from Lady Cecilia, but little in them. The first was full only of expressions of regret, and self-reproach; in the last, she said, she hoped soon to have a right to claim Helen back again. This underlined passage Helen knew alluded to the promise she had once made, that at the birth of her child all should be told; but words of promise from Cecilia had lost all value — all power to excite even hope, as she said to herself as she read the words, and sighed.
One of her letters mentioned what she would have seen in the first newspaper she had opened, that Lady Blanche Forrester was gone with her sister, the Comtesse de St. Cymon, to Paris, to join her brother Lord Beltravers. But Lady Cecilia observed, that Helen need not be alarmed by this paragraph, which she was sure was inserted on purpose to plague her. Lady Cecilia seemed to take it for granted that her rejection of Beauclerc was only a ruse d’amour, and went on with her usual hopes, now vague and more vague every letter — that things would end well sometime, somehow or other.
Helen only sighed on reading these letters, and quick as she glanced her eye over them, threw them from her on the bed; and Miss Clarendon said, “Ay! you know her now, I see!”
Helen made no reply: she was careful not to make any comment which could betray how much, or what sort of reason she had to complain of Lady Cecilia; but Miss Clarendon, confident that she had guessed pretty nearly the truth, was satisfied with her own penetration, and then, after seeming to doubt for a few moments, she put another letter into Helen’s hand, and with one of those looks of tender interest which sometimes softened her countenance, she left the room.
The letter was from Beauclerc; it appeared to have been written immediately after he had received Helen’s letter, and was as follows: —
“Not write to you, my dearest Helen! Renounce my claim to your hand! submit to be rejected by you, my affianced bride! No, never — never! Doubt! suspicion! — suspicion of you! — you, angel as you are — you, who have devoted, sacrificed yourself to others. No, Helen, my admiration, my love, my trust in you, are greater than they ever were. And do I dare to say these words to you? I, who am perhaps a murderer! I ought to imitate your generosity, I ought not to offer you a hand stained with blood: — I ought at least to leave you free till I know when I may return from banishment. I have written this at the first instant I have been able to command during my hurried journey, and as you know something of what led to this unhappy business, you shall in my next letter hear the whole; till then, adieu! GRANVILLE BEAUCLERC.”
The next day, when she thought Helen sufficiently recovered from the agitation of reading Beauclerc’s letter, aunt Pennant produced one letter more, which she had kept for the last, because she hoped it would give pleasure to her patient. Helen sat up in her bed eagerly, and stretched out her hand. The letter was directed by General Clarendon, but that was only the outer cover, they knew, for he had mentioned in his last dispatch to his sister, that the letter enclosed for Miss Stanley was from Lady Davenant. Helen tore off the cover, but the instant she saw the inner direction, she sank hack, turned, and hid her face on the pillow.
It was directed—”To Mrs. Granville Beauclerc.”
Lady Davenant had unfortunately taken it for granted, that nothing could have prevented the marriage.
Aunt Pennant blamed herself for not having foreseen, and prevented this accident, which she saw distressed poor Helen so much. But Miss Clarendon wondered that she was so shocked, and supposed she would get over it in a few minutes, or else she must be very weak. There was nothing that tended to raise her spirits much in the letter itself, to make amends for the shock the direction had given. It contained but a few lines in Lady Davenant’s own handwriting, and a postscript from Lord Davenant. She wrote only to announce their safe arrival at Petersburgh, as she was obliged to send off her letter before she had received any dispatches from England; and she concluded with, “I am sure the first will bring me the joyful news of Beauclerc’s happiness and yours, my dear child.”
Lord Davenant’s postscript added, that in truth Lady Davenant much needed such a cordial, for that her health had suffered even more than he had feared it would. He repented that he had allowed her to accompany him to such a rigorous climate.
All that could be said to allay the apprehensions this postscript might excite, was of course said in the best way by aunt Pennant. But it was plain that Helen did not recover during the whole of this day from the shock she had felt “from that foolish direction,” as Miss Clarendon said. She could not be prevailed upon to rise this day, though Miss Clarendon, after feeling her pulse, had declared that she was very well able to get up. “It was very bad for her to remain in bed.” This was true, no doubt. And Miss Clarendon remarked to her aunt that she was surprised to find Miss Stanley so weak. Her aunt replied that it was not surprising that she should be rather weak at present, after such a long illness.
“Weakness of body and mind need not go together,” said Miss Clarendon.
“Need not, perhaps,” said her aunt, “but they are apt to do so.”
“It is to be hoped the weakness of mind will go with the weakness of body, and soon,” said Miss Clarendon.
“We must do what we can to strengthen and fatten her, poor thing!” said Mrs. Pennant.
“Fatten the body, rather easier than to strengthen the mind. Strength of mind cannot be thrown in, as you would throw in the bark, or the chicken broth.”
“Only have patience with her,” said Mrs. Pennant, “and you will find that she will have strength of mind enough when she gets quite well. Only have patience.”
During Helen’s illness Miss Clarendon had been patient, but now that she was pronounced convalescent, she became eager to see her quite well. In time of need Miss Clarendon had been not only the most active and zealous, but a most gentle and — doubt it who may — soft-stepping, soft-voiced nurse; but now, when Doctor Tudor had assured them that all fever was gone, and agreed with her that the patient would soon be well, if she would only think so, Miss Clarendon deemed it high time to use something more than her milder influence, to become, if not a rugged, at least a stern nurse, and she brought out some of her rigid lore.
“I intend that you should get up in seasonable time to-day, Helen,” said she, as she entered her room.
“Do you?” said Helen in a languid voice.
“I do,” said Miss Clarendon; “and I hope you do not intend to do as you did yesterday, to lie in bed all day.”
Helen turned, sighed, and Mrs. Pennant said, “Yesterday is over, my dear Esther — no use in talking of yesterday.”
“Only to secure our doing better to-day, ma’am,” replied Miss Clarendon with prompt ability.
Helen was all submission, and she got up, and that was well. Miss Clarendon went in quest of arrow-root judiciously; and aunt Pennant stayed and nourished her patient meanwhile with “the fostering dew of praise;” and let her dress as slowly and move as languidly as she liked, though Miss Clarendon had admonished her “not to dawdle.”
As soon as she was dressed, Helen went to the window and threw up the sash for the first time to enjoy the fresh air, and to see the prospect which she was told was beautiful; and she saw that it was beautiful, and, though it was still winter, she felt that the air was balmy; and the sun shone bright, and the grass began to be green, for spring approached. But how different to her from the spring-time of form
er years! Nature the same, but all within herself how changed! And all which used to please, and to seem to her most cheerful, now came over her spirits with a sense of sadness; — she felt as if all the life of life was gone. Tears filled her eyes, large tears rolled slowly down as she stood fixed, seeming to gaze from that window at she knew not what. Aunt Pennant unperceived stood beside her, and let the tears flow unnoticed. “They will do her good; they are a great relief sometimes.” Miss Clarendon returned, and the tears were dried, but the glaze remained, and Miss Clarendon saw it, and gave a reproachful look at her aunt, as much as to say, “Why did you let her cry?” And her aunt’s look in reply was, “I could not help it, my dear.”
“Eat your arrow-root,” was all that transpired to Helen. And she tried to eat, but could not; and Miss Clarendon was not well pleased, for the arrow-root was good, and she had made it; she felt Miss Stanley’s pulse, and said that “It was as good a pulse as could be, only low and a little fluttered.”
“Do not flutter it any more, then, Esther my dear,” said Mrs. Pennant.
“What am I doing or saying, ma’am, that should flutter anybody that has common sense?”
“Some people don’t like to have their pulse felt,” said aunt Pennant.
“Those people have not common sense,” replied the niece.
“I believe I have not common sense,” said Helen.
“Sense you have enough — resolution is what you want, Helen, I tell you.”
“I know,” said Helen, “too true — —”
“True, but not too true — nothing can be too true.”
“True,” said Helen, with languid submission. Helen was not in a condition to chop logic, or ever much inclined to it; now less than ever, and least of all with Miss Clarendon, so able as she was. There is something very provoking sometimes in perfect submission, because it is unanswerable. But the langour, not the submission, afforded some cause for further remark and remonstrance.
“Helen, you are dreadfully languid to-day.”
“Sadly,” said Helen.
“If you could have eaten more arrow-root before it grew cold, you would have been better.”
“But if she could not, my dear Esther,” said aunt Pennant.
“Could not, ma’am! As if people could not eat if they pleased.”
“But if people have no appetite, my dear, I am afraid eating will not do much good.”
“I am afraid, my dear aunt, you will not do Miss Stanley much good,” said Miss Clarendon, shaking her head; “you will only spoil her.”
“I am quite spoiled, I believe,” said Helen; “you must unspoil me, Esther.”
“Not so very easy,” said Esther; “but I shall try, for I am a sincere friend.”
“I am sure of it,” said Helen.
Then what more could be said? Nothing at that time — Helen’s look was so sincerely grateful, and “gentle as a lamb,” as aunt Pennant observed; and Esther was not a wolf quite — at heart not at all.
Miss Clarendon presently remarked that Miss Stanley really did not seem glad to be better — glad to get well. Helen acknowledged that instead of being glad, she was rather sorry.
“If it had pleased Heaven, I should have been glad to die.”
“Nonsense about dying, and worse than nonsense,” cried Miss Clarendon, “when you see that it did not please Heaven that you should die—”
“I am content to live,” said Helen.
“Content! to be sure you are,” said Miss Clarendon. “Is this your thankfulness to Providence?”
“I am resigned — I am thankful — I will try to be more so — but cannot be glad.”
General Clarendon’s bulletins continued with little variation for some time; they were always to his sister — he never mentioned Beauclerc, but confined himself to the few lines or words necessary to give his promised regular accounts of Mr. Churchill’s state, the sum of which continued to be for a length of time: “Much the same.”—”Not in immediate danger.”—”Cannot be pronounced out of danger.”
Not very consolatory, Helen felt. “But while there is life, there is hope,” as aunt Pennant observed.
“Yes, and fear,” said Helen; and her hopes and fears on this subject alternated with fatiguing reiteration, and with a total incapacity of forming any judgment.
Beauclerc’s letter of explanation arrived, and other letters came from him from time to time, which, as they were only repetitions of hopes and fears as to Churchill’s recovery, and of uncertainty as to what might be his own future fate, only increased Helen’s misery; and as even their expressions of devoted attachment could not alter her own determination, while she felt how cruel her continued silence must appear, they only agitated without relieving her mind. Mrs. Pennant sympathised with and soothed her, and knew how to sooth, and how to raise, and to sustain a mind in sorrow, suffering under disappointed affection, and sunk almost to despondency; for aunt Pennant, besides her softness of manner, and her quick intelligent sympathy, had power of consolation of a higher sort, beyond any which this world can give. She was very religious, of a cheerfully religious turn of mind — of that truly Christian spirit which hopeth all things. When she was a child somebody asked her if she was bred up in the fear of the Lord. She said no, but in the love of God. And so she was, in that love which casteth out fear. And now the mildness of her piety, and the whole tone and manner of her speaking and thinking, reminded Helen of that good dear uncle by whom she had been educated. She listened with affectionate reverence, and she truly and simply said, “You do me good — I think you have done me a great deal of good — and you shall see it.” And she did see it afterwards, and Miss Clarendon thought it was her doing, and so her aunt let it pass, and was only glad the good was done.
The first day Helen went down to the drawing-room, she found there a man who looked, as she thought at first glance, like a tradesman — some person, she supposed, come on business, standing waiting for Miss Clarendon, or Mrs. Pennant. She scarcely looked at him, but passed on to the sofa, beside which was a little table set for her, and on it a beautiful work-box, which she began to examine and admire.
“Not nigh so handsome as I could have wished it, then, for you, Miss Helen — I ask pardon, Miss Stanley.”
Helen looked up, surprised at hearing herself addressed by one whom she had thought a stranger; but yet she knew the voice, and a reminiscence came across her mind of having seen him somewhere before.
“Old David Price, ma’am. Maybe you forget him, you being a child at that time. But since you grew up, you have been the saving of me and many more — —” Stepping quite close to her, he whispered that he had been paid under her goodness’s order by Mr. James, along with the other creditors that had been left.
Helen by this time recollected who the poor Welshman was — an upholsterer and cabinet-maker, who had been years before employed at the Deanery. Never having been paid at the time, a very considerable debt had accumulated, and having neither note nor bond, Price said that he had despaired of ever obtaining the amount of his earnings. He had, however, since the dean’s death, been paid in full, and had been able to retire to his native village, which happened to be near Llansillen, and most grateful he was; and as soon as he perceived that he was recognised, his gratitude became better able to express itself. Not well, however, could it make its way out for some time; between crying and laughing, and between two languages, he was at first scarcely intelligible. Whenever much moved, David Price had recourse to his native Welsh, in which he was eloquent; and Mrs. Pennant, on whom, knowing that she understood him, his eyes turned, was good enough to interpret for him. And when once fairly set a-going, there was danger that poor David’s garrulous gratitude should flow for ever. But it was all honest; not a word of flattery; and his old face was in a glow and radiant with feeling, and the joy of telling Miss Helen all, how, and about it; particularly concerning the last day when Mr. James paid him, and them, and all of them: that was a day Miss Stanley ought to have seen; pit
y she could not have witnessed it; it would have done her good to the latest hour of her life. Pity she should never see the faces of many, some poorer they might have been than himself; many richer, that would have been ruined for ever but for her. For his own part, he reckoned himself one of the happiest of them all, in being allowed to see her face to face. And he hoped, as soon as she was able to get out so far — but it was not so far — she would come to see how comfortable he was in his own house. It ended at last in his giving a shove to the work-box on the table, which, though nothing worth otherwise, he knew she could not mislike, on account it was made out of all the samples of wood the dean, her uncle, had given to him in former times.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 275
