Notwithstanding the immoderate length of his speeches, and the impossibility he seemed to find of ending his visit, Helen was not much tired. And when she was able to walk so far, Mrs. Pennant took her to see David Price, and in a most comfortable house she found him; and every one in that house, down to the youngest child, gathered round her by degrees, some more, some less shy, but all with gratitude beaming and smiling in their faces. It was delightful to Helen; for there is no human heart so engrossed by sorrow, so over whelmed by disappointment, so closed against hope of happiness, that will not open to the touch of gratitude.
CHAPTER XII.
But there was still in Helen’s inmost soul one deceitful hope. She thought she had pulled it up by the roots many times, and the last time completely; but still a little fibre lurked, and still it grew again. It was the hope that Cecilia would keep that last promise, though at the moment Helen had flung from her the possibility; yet now she took it up again, and she thought it was possible that Cecilia might be true to her word. If her child should be born alive, and if it should be a boy! It became a heart-beating suspense as the time approached, and every day the news might be expected. The post came in but three times a week at Llansillen, and every post day Miss Clarendon repeated her prophecy to her aunt, “You will see, ma’am, the child will be born in good time, and alive. You who have always been so much afraid for Lady Cecilia, will find she has not feeling enough to do her any harm.”
In due time came a note from the general. “A boy! child and mother doing well. Give me joy.”
The joy to Miss Clarendon was much increased by the triumph, in her own perfectly right opinion. Mrs. Pennant’s was pure affectionate joy for the father, and for Lady Cecilia, for whom, all sinner as she was in her niece’s eyes, this good soul had compassion. Helen’s anxiety to hear again and again every post was very natural, the aunt thought; quite superfluous, the niece deemed it: Lady Cecilia would do very well, no doubt, she prophesied again, and laughed at the tremor, the eagerness, with which Helen every day asked if there was any letter from Cecilia. At last one came, the first in her own hand-writing, and it was to Helen herself, and it extinguished all hope. Helen could only articulate, “Oh! Cecilia!” Her emotion, her disappointment, were visible, but unaccountable: she could give no reason for it to Miss Clarendon, whose wondering eye was upon her; nor even to sympathising aunt Pennant could she breathe a word without betraying Cecilia; she was silent, and there was all that day, and many succeeding days, a hopelessness of languor in her whole appearance. There was, as Miss Clarendon termed it, a “backsliding in her recovery,” which grieved aunt Pennant, and Helen had to bear imputation of caprice, and of indolence from Miss Clarendon; but even that eye immediately upon her, that eye more severe than ever, had not power to rouse her. Her soul was sunk within, nothing farther to hope; there, was a dead calm, and the stillness and loneliness of Llansillen made that calm almost awful. The life of great excitation which she had led previous to her illness, rendered her more sensible of the change, of the total want of stimulus. The walks to Price’s cottage had been repeated, but, though it was a very bright spot, the eye could not always be fixed upon it.
Bodily exertion being more easy to her now than mental, she took long walks, and came in boasting how far she had been, and looking quite exhausted. And Miss Clarendon wondered at her wandering out alone; then she tried to walk with Miss Clarendon, and she was more tired, though the walks were shorter — and that was observed, and was not agreeable either to the observer, or to the observed. Helen endeavoured to make up for it; she followed Miss Clarendon about in all her various occupations, from flower-garden to conservatory, and from conservatory to pheasantry, and to all her pretty cottages, and her schools, and she saw and admired all the good that Esther did so judiciously, and with such extraordinary, such wonderful energy.
“Nothing wonderful in it,” Miss Clarendon said: and as she ungraciously rejected praise, however sincere, and required not sympathy, Helen was reduced to be a mere silent, stupid, useless stander-by, and she could not but feel this a little awkward. She tried to interest herself for the poor people in the neighbourhood, but their language was unintelligible to her, and her’s to them, and it is hard work trying to make objects for oneself in quite a new place, and with a pre-occupying sorrow in the mind all the time. It was not only hard work to Helen, but it seemed labour in vain — bringing soil by handfulls to a barren rock, where, after all, no plant will take root. Miss Clarendon thought that labour could never be in vain.
One morning, when it must be acknowledged that Helen had been sitting too long in the same position, with her head leaning on her hand, Miss Clarendon in her abrupt voice asked, “How much longer, Helen, do you intend to sit there, doing only what is the worst thing in the world for you — thinking?”
Helen started, and said she feared she had been sitting too long idle.
“If you wish to know how long, I can tell you,” said Miss Clarendon; “just one hour and thirteen minutes.”
“By the stop watch,” said Helen, smiling.
“By my watch,” said grave Miss Clarendon; “and in the mean time look at the quantity of work I have done.”
“And done so nicely!” said Helen, looking at it with admiration.
“Oh, do not think to bribe me with admiration; I would rather see you do something yourself than hear you praise my doings.”
“If I had anybody to work for. I have so few friends now in the world who would care for anything I could do! But I will try — you shall see, my dear Esther, by and bye.”
“By and bye! no, no — now. I cannot bear to see you any longer, in this half-alive, half-dead state.”
“I know,” said Helen, “that all you say is for my good. I am sure your only object is my happiness.”
“Your happiness is not in my power or in your’s, but it is in your power to deserve to be happy, by doing what is right — by exerting yourself: — that is my object, for I see you are in danger of being lost in indolence. Now you have the truth and the whole truth.”
Many a truth would have come mended from Miss Clarendon’s tongue, if it had been uttered in a softer tone, and if she had paid a little more attention to times and seasons: but she held it the sacred duty of sincerity to tell a friend her faults as soon as seen, and without circumlocution.
The next day Helen set about a drawing. She made it an object to herself, to try to copy a view of the dear Deanery in the same style as several beautiful drawings of Miss Clarendon’s. While she looked over her portfolio, several of her old sketches recalled remembrances which made her sigh frequently; Miss Clarendon heard her, and said—”I wish you would cure yourself of that habit of sighing; it is very bad for you.”
“I know it,” said Helen.
“Despondency is not penitence,” continued Esther: “reverie is not reparation.”
She felt as desirous as ever to make Helen happy at Llansillen, but she was provoked to find it impossible to do so. Of a strong body herself, capable of great resistance, powerful reaction under disappointment or grief, she could ill make allowance for feebler health and spirits — perhaps feebler character. For great misfortunes she had great sympathy, but she could not enter into the details of lesser sorrows, especially any of the sentimental kind, which she was apt to class altogether under the head—”Sorrows of my Lord Plumcake!” an expression which had sovereignly taken her fancy, and which her aunt did not relish, or quite understand.
Mrs. Pennant was, indeed, as complete a contrast to her niece in these points, as nature and habit joined could produce. She was naturally of the most exquisitely sympathetic mimosa-sensibility, shrinking and expanding to the touch of others’ joy or woe; and instead of having by long use worn this out, she had preserved it wonderfully fresh in advanced years. But, notwithstanding the contrast and seemingly incompatible difference between this aunt and niece, the foundations of their characters both being good, sound, and true, they lived on together well, and
loved each other dearly. They had seldom differed so much on any point as in the present case, as to their treatment of their patient and their guest. Scarcely a day passed in which they did not come to some mutual remonstrance; and sometimes when she was by, which was not pleasant to her, as may be imagined. Yet perhaps even these little altercations and annoyances, though they tried Helen’s temper or grieved her heart at the moment, were of use to her upon the whole, by drawing her out of herself. Besides, these daily vicissitudes — made by human temper, manner, and character — supplied in some sort the total want of events, and broke the monotony of these tedious months.
The general’s bulletins, however, became at last more favourable: Mr. Churchill was decidedly better; his physician hoped he might soon be pronounced out of danger. The general said nothing of Beauclerc, but that he was, he believed, still at Paris. And from this time forward no more letters came from Beauclerc to Helen; as his hopes of Churchill’s recovery increased, he expected every day to be released from his banishment, and was resolved to write no more till he could say that he was free. But Helen, though she did not allow it to herself, felt this deeply: she thought that her determined silence had at last convinced him that all pursuit of her was vain; and that he submitted to her rejection: she told herself it was what should be, and yet she felt it bitterly. Lady Cecilia’s letters did not mention him, indeed they scarcely told anything; they had become short and constrained: the general, she said, advised her to go out more, and her letters often concluded in haste, with “Carriage at the door,” and all the usual excuses of a London life.
One day when Helen was sitting intently drawing, Miss Clarendon said “Helen!” so suddenly that she started and looked round; Miss Clarendon was seated on a low stool at her aunt’s feet, with one arm thrown over her great dog’s neck; he had laid his head on her lap, and resting on him, she looked up with a steadiness, a fixity of repose, which brought to Helen’s mind Raphael’s beautiful figure of Fortitude leaning on her lion; she thought she had never before seen Miss Clarendon look so handsome, so graceful, so interesting; she took care not to say so, however.
“Helen!” continued Miss Clarendon, “do you remember the time when I was at Clarendon Park and quitted it so abruptly? My reasons were good, whatever my manner was; the opinion of the world I am not apt to fear for myself, or even for my brother, but to the whispers of conscience I do listen. Helen! I was conscious that certain feelings in my mind were too strong, — in me, you would scarcely believe it — too tender. I had no reason to think that Granville Beauclerc liked me; it was therefore utterly unfit that I should think of him: I felt this, I left Clarendon Park, and from that moment I have refused myself the pleasure of his society, I have altogether ceased to think of him. This is the only way to conquer a hopeless attachment. But you, Helen, though you have commanded him never to attempt to see you again, have not been able to command your own mind. Since Mr. Churchill is so much better, you expect that he will soon be pronounced out of danger — you expect that Mr. Beauclerc will come over — come here, and be at your feet!”
“I expect nothing,” said Helen in a faltering voice, and then added resolutely, “I cannot foresee what Mr. Beauclerc may do, but of this be assured, Miss Clarendon, that until I stand as I once stood, and as I deserve to stand, in the opinion of your brother; unless, above all, I can bring proofs to Granville’s confiding heart, that I have ever been unimpeachable of conduct and of mind, and in all but one circumstance true — true as yourself, Esther — never, never, though your brother and all the world consented, never till I myself felt that I was proved to be as worthy to be his wife as I think I am, would I consent to marry him — no, not though my heart were to break.”
“I believe it,” said Mrs. Pennant; “and I wish — oh, how I wish—”
“That Lady Cecilia were hanged, as she deserves,” said Miss Clarendon: “so do I, I am sure; but that is nothing to the present purpose.”
“No, indeed,” said Helen.
“Helen!” continued Esther, “remember that Lady Blanche Forrester is at Paris.”
Helen shrank.
“Lady Cecilia tells you there is no danger; I say there is.”
“Why should you say so, my dear Esther?” said her aunt.
“Has not this friend of yours always deceived, misled you, Helen?”
“She can have no motive for deceiving me in this,” said Helen: “I believe her.”
“Believe her then!” cried Miss Clarendon; “believe her, and do not believe me, and take the consequences: I have done.”
Helen sighed, but though she might feel the want of the charm of Lady Cecilia’s suavity of manner, of her agreeable, and her agreeing temper, yet she felt the safe solidity of principle in her present friend, and admired, esteemed, and loved, without fear of change, her unblenching truth. Pretty ornaments of gold cannot be worked out of the native ore; to fashion the rude mass some alloy must be used, and when the slight filigree of captivating manner comes to be tested against the sterling worth of unalloyed sincerity, weighed in the just balance of adversity, we are glad to seize the solid gold, and leave the ornaments to those that they deceive.
The fear about Lady Blanche Forrester was, however, soon set at rest, and this time Lady Cecilia was right. A letter from her to Helen announced that Lady Blanche was married! — actually married, and not to Granville Beauclerc, but to some other English gentleman at Paris, no matter whom. Lord Beltravers and Madame de St. Cymon, disappointed, had returned to London; Lady Cecilia had seen Lord Beltravers, and heard the news from him. There could be no doubt of the truth of the intelligence, and scarcely did Helen herself rejoice in it with more sincerity than did Miss Clarendon, and Helen loved her for her candour as well as for her sympathy.
Time passed on; week after week rolled away. At last General Clarendon announced to his sister, but without one word to Helen, that Mr. Churchill was pronounced out of danger. The news had been sent to his ward, the general said, and he expected Granville would return from his banishment immediately.
Quite taken up in the first tumult of her feelings at this intelligence, Helen scarcely observed that she had no letter from Cecilia. But even aunt Pennant was obliged to confess, in reply to her niece’s observation, that this was “certainly very odd! but we shall soon hear some explanation, I hope.”
Miss Clarendon shook her head; she said that she had always thought how matters would end; she judged from her brother’s letters that he began to find out that he was not the happiest of men. Yet nothing to that effect was ever said by him; one phrase only excepted, in his letter to her on her last birth-day, which began with, “In our happy days, my dear Esther.”
Miss Clarendon said nothing to Helen upon this subject; she refrained altogether from mentioning Lady Cecilia.
Two, three post-days passed without bringing any letter to Helen. The fourth, very early in the morning, long before the usual time for the arrival of the post, Rose came into her room with a letter in her hand, saying, “From General Clarendon, ma’am. His own man, Mr. Cockburn, has just this minute arrived, ma’am — from London.” With a trembling hand, Helen tore the letter open: not one word from General Clarendon! It was only a cover, containing two notes; one from Lord Davenant to the general, the other from Lady Davenant to Helen.
Lord Davenant said that Lady Davenant’s health had declined so alarmingly after their arrival at Petersburgh, that he had insisted upon her return to England, and that as soon as the object of his mission was completed, he should immediately follow her. A vessel, he said, containing letters from England, had been lost, so that they were in total ignorance of what had occurred at home; and, indeed, it appeared from the direction of Lady Davenant’s note to Helen, written on her landing in England, that she had left Russia without knowing that the marriage had been broken off, or that Helen had quitted General Clarendon’s. She wrote—”Let me see you and Granville once more before I die. Be in London, at my own house, to meet me. I shall be the
re as soon as I can be moved.”
The initials only of her name were signed. Elliot added a postscript, saying that her lady had suffered much from an unusually long passage, and that she was not sure what day they could be in town.
There was nothing from Lady Cecilia. — Cockburn said that her ladyship had not been at home when he set out; that his master had ordered him to travel all night, to get to Llansillen as fast as possible, and to make no delay in delivering the letter to Miss Stanley.
To set out instantly, to be in town at her house to meet Lady Davenant, was, of course, Helen’s immediate determination. General Clarendon had sent his travelling carriage for her; and under the circumstances, her friends could have no wish but to speed her departure. Miss Clarendon expressed surprise at there being no letter from Lady Cecilia, and would see and question Cockburn herself; but nothing more was to be learned than what he had already told, that the packet from Lady Davenant had come by express to his master after Lady Cecilia had driven out, as it had been her custom of late, almost every day, to Kensington, to see her child. Nothing could be more natural, Mrs. Pennant thought, and she only wondered at Esther’s unconvinced look of suspicion. “Nothing, surely, can be more natural, my dear Esther.” To which Esther replied, “Very likely, ma’am.” Helen was too much hurried and too much engrossed by the one idea of Lady Davenant to think of what they said. At parting she had scarcely time even to thank her two friends for all their kindness, but they understood her feelings, and, as Miss Clarendon said, words on that point were unnecessary. Aunt Pennant embraced her again and again, and then let her go, saying, “I must not detain you, my dear.”
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