Helen by Maria Edgeworth (page 7)

mother!–of me!–you save us all.”

Believing this, Helen hastened to accomplish her purpose; resolved to go through with it, whatever it might cost; her scruples vanished, and she felt a sort of triumphant pleasure in the courage of sacrificing herself.

CHAPTER XVI.

General Clarendon was sitting in the music-room, within the library, the door open, so that he could see Helen the moment she came in, and that moment he threw down his book as he rose, and their eyes met: hers fell beneath his penetrating glance; he came forward immediately to meet her, with the utmost gentleness and kindness in his whole appearance and manner, took her hand, and, drawing her arm within his, said, in the most encouraging voice, “Consider me as your brother, Helen; you know you have allowed me so to feel for you, and so, believe me, I do feel.”

This kindness quite overcame her, and she burst into tears. He hurried her across the library, into the inner room, seated her, and when he had closed the door, stood beside her, and began, as if he had been to blame, to apologise for himself.

“You must have been surprised at my having opened letters which did not belong to me, but there was no direction, no indication that could stop me. They were simply in a cover directed to me. The purpose of whoever sent them must have been to make me read them; the ultimate purpose was, I doubt not, to ruin Lady Cecilia Clarendon in my opinion.”

“Or me,” said Helen.

“No, Miss Stanley, no, that at all events cannot be,” said the general. “Supposing the letters to be acknowledged by you, still it would be quite a different affair. But in the first place look at them, they may be forgeries. You will tell me if they are forgeries?”

And he placed the packet in her hands. Scarcely looking at the writing, she answered, “No, forgeries I am sure they are not.” The general looked again at the direction of the cover, and observed, “This is a feigned hand. Whose can it be?”

Helen was on the brink of saying that Cecilia had told her it was like the writing of Carlos. Now this cover had not, to the general’s knowledge, been seen by Cecilia, and that one answer might have betrayed all that she was to conceal, for he would instantly have asked how and when did Cecilia see it, and the cause of her fainting would have been then understood by him. Such hazards in every, even the first, least, step in falsehood; such hazard in this first moment! But she escaped this peril, and Helen answered: “It is something like the writing of the page Carlos, but I do not think all that direction is his. There seem to be two different hands. I do not know, indeed, how it is?”

“Some time or other it will come out,” said the general.

“I will keep this cover, it will lead to the direction of that boy, or of whoever it was that employed him.”

To give her further time the general went on looking at the miniature, which he held in his hand. “This is a beautiful likeness,” said he, “and not ill painted–by Cecilia, was not it?”

Helen looked at it, and answered, “Yes, by Cecilia.”

“I am glad it is safe,” said the general, “restored–Cecilia told me the history. I know that it was stolen, not given by you.”

“Given!” said Helen. “Oh no! stolen.”

“Base!” said the general.

“He was base,” answered Helen.

General Clarendon held in his hand, along with the picture, one letter separated from the rest, open; he looked at it as if embarrassed, while Helen spoke the last words, and he repeated, “Base! yes, he certainly was, or he would have destroyed these letters.”

Again Helen was on the point of saying that Colonel D’Aubigny had told Cecilia he had done so, but fortunately her agitation, in default of presence of mind, kept her silent.

“This is the first letter I opened,” said the general, “before I was aware that they were not what I should read. I saw only the first words, I thought then that I had a right to read them. When these letters met my eyes, I conceived them to hare been written by my wife. I had a right to satisfy myself respecting the nature of the correspondence; that done, I looked no farther. I bore my suspense–I waited till she awoke.”

“So she told me, Cecilia has told me all; but even if she had not, in any circumstances who could doubt your honour, General Clarendon?”

“Then trust to it, Miss Stanley, for the past, for the future, trust to it! You gratify me more than I can express–you do me justice. I wished to return these letters to you with, my own hand,” continued he, “to satisfy myself, in the first place, that there was no mistake. Of that your present candour, indeed, the first look of that ingenuous countenance, was sufficient.”

Helen felt that she blushed all over.

“Pardon me for distressing you, my dear Helen. It was a matter in which a man MUST be selfish,_ must_ in point of honour, _must_ in point of feeling, I owe to your candour not merely relief from what I could not endure and live, but relief from suspicion,–suspicion of the truth of one dearer to me than life.”

Helen sat as if she had been transfixed.

“I owe to you,” continued he, “the happiness of my whole future life.”

“Then I am happy,” cried Helen, “happy in this, at all events, whatever may become of me.”

She had not yet raised her eyes towards the general; she felt as if her first look must betray Cecilia; but she now tried to fix her eyes upon him as he looked anxiously at her, and she said, “thank you, thank you, General Clarendon! Oh, thank you for all the kindness you have shown me; but I am the more grieved, it makes me more sorry to sink quite in your esteem.”

“To sink! You do not: your candour, your truth raises you—-“

“Oh! do not say that—-“

“I do,” repeated the general, “and you may believe me. I am incapable of deceiving you–this is no matter of compliment. Between friend and friend I should count a word, a look of falsehood, treason.”

Helen’s tears stopped, and, without knowing what she did, she began hastily to gather up the packet of letters which she had let fall; the general assisted her in putting them into her bag, and she closed the strings, thanked him, and was rising, when he went on–“I beg your indulgence while I say a few words of myself.”

She sat down again immediately. “Oh! as many as you please.”

“I believe I may say I am not of a jealous temper.”

“I am sure you are not,” said Helen.

“I thank you,” said the general. “May I ask on what your opinion is founded?”

“On what has now passed, and on all that I have heard from Lady Davenant.”

He bowed. “You may have heard then, from Lady Davenant, of some unfortunate circumstances in my own and in a friend’s family which happened a short time before my marriage?”

Helen said she had.

“And of the impression these circumstances made on my mind, my consequent resolve never to marry a woman who had ever had any previous attachment?”

Helen was breathless at hearing all this repeated.

“Were you informed of these particulars?” said the general.

“Yes,” said Helen, faintly.

“I am not asking, Miss Stanley, whether you approved of my resolution; simply whether you heard of it?”

“Yes–certainly.”

“That’s well. It was on an understanding between Cecilia and myself on this point, that I married. Did you know this?”

“Yes,” said Helen.

“Some words,” continued the general, “once fell from Lady Davenant concerning this Colonel D’Aubigny which alarmed me. Cecilia satisfied me that her mother was mistaken. Cecilia solemnly assured me that she had never loved him.” The general paused.

Helen, conceiving that he waited for and required her opinion, replied, “So I always thought–so I often told Lady Davenant.” But at this moment recollecting the words at the beginning of that letter, “My dear, too dear Henry,” Helen’s voice faltered. The general saw her confusion, but attributed it to her own consciousness. “Had Lady Davenant not been mistaken,” resumed he, “that is to say had there ever been–as might have happened not unnaturally–had there ever been an attachment; in short, had Cecilia ever loved him, and told me so, I am convinced that such truth and candour would have satisfied me, would have increased–as I now feel–increased my esteem. I am at this moment convinced that, in spite of my declared resolution, I should in perfect confidence, have married.”

“Oh that Cecilia had but told him!” thought Helen.

“I should not, my dear Miss Stanley,” continued the general, “have thus taken up your time talking of myself, had I not an important purpose in view. I was desirous to do away in your mind the idea of my great strictness–not on my own account, but on yours, I wished to dispel this notion. Now you will no longer, I trust, apprehend that my esteem for you is diminished. I assure you I can make allowances.”

She was shocked at the idea of allowances, yet thanked him for his indulgence, and she could hardly refrain from again bursting into tears.

“Still by your agitation I see you are afraid of me,” said he, smiling.

“No indeed; not afraid of you, but shocked at what you must think of me.”

“I am not surprised, but sorry to see that the alarm I gave my poor Cecilia this morning has passed from her mind into yours. To her I must have appeared harsh: I _was_ severe; but when I thought I had been deceived, duped, can you wonder?”

Helen turned her eyes away.

“My dear Miss Stanley, why will not you distinguish? the cases are essentially different. Nine out of ten of the young ladies who marry in these countries do not marry the first object of their fancy, and whenever there is, as there will be, I am sure, in your case, perfect candour, I do not apprehend the slightest danger to the happiness of either party. On the contrary, I should foretell an increase of esteem and love. Beauclerc has often—-“

Beauclerc’s voice was at this instant heard in the hall.

“Compose yourself, my dear Miss Stanley–this way,” said the general, opening a door into the conservatory, for he heard Beauclerc’s step now in the library. The general followed Helen as she left the room, and touching the bag that contained the letters, said,

“Remember, whatever may be your hurry, lock this up first.”

“Thank you,” answered she; “I will, I will!” and she hastened on, and in a moment she was safe across the hall and upstairs, without meeting any one, and in her own room, and the bag locked up in her cabinet. Lady Davenant’s bell rang as she went to her apartment; she looked in at Cecilia, who started up in her bed.

“All is over,” said Helen, “all is well. I have the letters locked up; I cannot stay.”

Helen disengaged herself almost forcibly from Cecilia’s embrace, and she was in Lady Davenant’s room in another minute. She bade her good morning as composedly as she could, she thought quite as usual. But that was impossible: so much the better, for it would not have been natural this last morning of Lady Davenant’s stay, when nothing was as usual externally or internally. All was preparation for departure–her maids packing–Lady Davenant, making some last arrangements–in the midst of which she stopped to notice Helen–pressed her in her arms, and after looking once in her face, said, “My poor child! it must be so.”

Elliott interrupted, asking some question, purposely to draw off her attention; and while she turned about to give some orders to another servant, Elliott said to Miss Stanley, “My Lady was not well last night; she must be kept from all that can agitate her, as much as possible.”

Helen at that instant rejoiced that she had done what she had. She agreed with Elliott, she said, that all emotion which could be avoided should; and upon this principle busied herself, and was glad to employ herself in whatever she could to assist the preparations, avoiding all conversation with Lady Davenant.

“You are right, my love–quite right,” said Lady Davenant. “The best way is always to employ one’s self always to the last. Yes, put up those drawings carefully, in this portfolio, Elliott; take silver paper, Helen.”

They were Helen’s own drawings, so all went on, and all was safe–even when Cecilia was spoken of; while the silver paper went over the drawings, Helen answered that she had seen her. “She was not well, but still not seriously ill, though–“

“Yes,” said Lady Davenant; “only the general is too anxious about her–very naturally. He sent me word just now,” continued she, “that he has forbidden her to get up before breakfast. I will go and see her now; dear Cecilia! I hope she will do well–every way–I feel sure of it, Helen–sure as you do yourself, my dear–But what is the matter?”

“Nothing!” said Helen. That was not quite true; but she could not help it–“Nothing!” repeated she. “Only I am anxious, my dear Lady Davenant,” continued poor Helen blundering, unaccustomed to evasions–“only I am very anxious you should go soon to Cecilia; I know she is awake now, and you will be hurried after breakfast.”

Elliott looked reproachfully at Miss Stanley, for she thought it much better for her lady to be engaged in more indifferent matters till after breakfast, when she would have but a few minutes to spend with her daughter; so Helen, correcting herself, added–“But, perhaps I’m wrong, so do not let me interrupt you in whatever you are doing.”

“My dear child,” said Lady Davenant; “you do not know what you are saying or doing yourself this morning.”

But no suspicion was excited in her mind, as she accounted for Helen’s perturbation by the sorrow of their approaching separation, and by the hurry of her spirits at Beauclerc’s arrival the day before. And then came the meeting the general at breakfast, which Helen dreaded; but so composed, so impenetrable was he that she could hardly believe that anything could have occurred that morning to agitate him.

Lady Davenant, after being with her daughter, came to take leave of Helen, and said gravely, “Helen! remember what I said of Cecilia’s truth, my trust is in you. Remember, if I never see you again, by all the love and esteem I bear you, and all which you feel for me, remember this my last request–prayer–adjuration to you, support, save Cecilia!”

At that moment the general came to announce that the carriage was ready; promptly he led her away, handed her in and the order to “drive on,” was given. Lady Davenant’s last look, her last anxious smile, was upon Helen and Beauclerc as they stood beside each other on the steps, and she was gone.

Helen was so excessively agitated that Beauclerc did not attempt to detain her from hurrying to her own room, where she sat down, and endeavoured to compose herself. She repeated Lady Davenant’s last words, “Support, save Cecilia,” and, unlocking the cabinet in which she had deposited the fatal letters, she seized the bag that contained them, and went immediately to Cecilia. She was in her dressing-room, and the general sitting beside her on the sofa, upon which she was resting. He was sitting directly opposite to Helen as she entered; she started at the sight of him: his eye instantly fell upon the bag, and she felt her face suddenly flush. He took out his watch, said he had an appointment, and was gone before Helen raised her eyes.

“My dearest friend, come to me, come close to me,” cried Cecilia, and throwing her arms round Helen, she said, “Oh, I am the happiest creature now!”

“Are you?” said Helen.

“Yes, that I am, and I thank you for it; how much I thank you, Helen, it is impossible to express, and better I love you than anything upon earth but Clarendon himself, my best friend, my generous Helen. Oh, Clarendon has been so kind, so very kind! so sorry for having alarmed me! He is a noble, charming creature. I love him a thousand times better than I ever did, am happier than I ever was! and all this I owe to you, dearest Helen. But I cannot get your eyes from that bag,–what have you there?”

“The letters,” said Helen.

“The letters!” exclaimed Cecilia, springing up, “give them to me,” seizing and opening the bag. “Oh that dreadful perfume! Helen open the window, and bolt the door, my dear–both doors.”

While Helen was doing so, Cecilia struck one little quick blow on a taper-lighter; it flared, and when Helen turned, one of the letters was in flames, and Cecilia continued feeding the flame with them as fast as ever it could devour.

“Burn! burn! there, there!” cried she, “I would not look at any one of them again for the world; I know no more what is in them than if I had never written them, except those horrid, horrid words Clarendon saw and showed me. I cannot bear to think of it. There now,” continued she, as they burned, “no one can ever know anything more about the matter: how glad I am to see them burning!–burnt! safe! The smell will go off in a minute or two. It is going,–yes, gone! is not it? Now we may breathe freely. But you look as if you did not know whether you were glad or sorry, Helen.”

“I believe it was right; the general advised me to lock, them up,” said Helen, “but then–“

“Did he? how thoughtful of him! But better to burn them at once; I am sure it was not my fault that they were not long ago destroyed. I was assured by that abominable man–but no matter, we will never think of him again. It is done now–no, not completely yet,” said she, looking close at the half white, half black burnt paper, in which words, and whole lines still appeared in shrunken but yet quite legible characters. “One cannot be too careful,” and she trampled on the burnt paper, and scattered the cinders. Helen was anxious to speak, she had something important to say, but hesitated; she saw that Cecilia’s thoughts were so far from what she wanted to speak of that she could not instantly say it; she could not bear to overturn all Cecilia’s present happiness, and yet, said to herself, I must–I must–or what may happen hereafter? Then forcing herself to speak, she began, “Your mother is safe now, Cecilia.”

“Oh yes, and thank you, thank you for that–“

“Then now, Cecilia–your promise.”

“My promise!” Lady Cecilia’s eyes opened in unfeigned astonishment. “What promise?–Oh, I recollect, I promised–did I?”

“My dear Cecilia, surely you cannot have forgotten.”

“How was it?”

“You know the reason I consented was to prevent the danger of any shock to Lady Davenant.”

“Well, I know, but what did I promise?”

The words had in reality passed Lady Cecilia’s lips at the time without her at all considering them as a promise, only as a means of persuasion to bring Helen to her point.

“What did I promise?” repeated she. “You said, ‘As soon as my mother is safe, as soon as she is gone, I will tell my husband all,’–Cecilia, you cannot forget what you promised.”

“Oh, no, now I remember it perfectly, but I did not mean so soon. I never imagined you would claim it so soon: but some time I certainly will tell him all.”

“Do not put it off, dearest Cecilia. It must be done–let it be done to-day.”

“To-day!” Lady Cecilia almost screamed.

“I will tell you why,” said Helen.

“To-day!” repeated Lady Cecilia.

“If we let the present _now_ pass,” continued Helen, “we shall lose both the power and the opportunity, believe me.”

“I have not the power, Helen, and I do not know what you mean by the opportunity,” said Cecilia.

“We have a reason now to give General Clarendon–a true good reason, for what we have done.”

“Reason!” cried Lady Cecilia, “what can you mean?”

“That it was to prevent danger to your mother, and now she is safe; and if you tell him directly, he will see this was, really so.”

“That is true; but I cannot–wait till to-morrow, at least.”

“Every day will make it more difficult. The deception will be greater, and less pardonable. If we delay, it will become deliberate falsehood, a sort of conspiracy between us,” said Helen.

“Conspiracy! Oh, Helen, do not use such a shocking word, when it is really nothing at all.”

“Then why not tell it?” urged Helen.

“Because, though it is nothing at all in reality, yet Clarendon would think it dreadful–though I have done nothing really wrong.”

“So I say–so I know,” cried Helen; therefore—-“

“Therefore let me take my own time,” said Cecilia. “How can you urge me so, hurrying me so terribly, and when I am but just recovered from one misery, and when you had made me so happy, and when I was thanking you with all my heart.”

Helen was much moved, but answered as steadily as she could. “It seems cruel, but indeed I am not cruel.”

“When you had raised me up,” continued Cecilia, “to dash me down again, and leave me worse than ever!” “Not worse–no, surely not worse, when your mother in safe.”

“Yes, safe, thank you–but oh, Helen, have you no feeling for your own Cecilia?”

“The greatest,” answered Helen; and her tears said the rest.

“You, Helen! I never could have thought you would have urged me so!”

“O Cecilia! if you knew the pain it was to me to make you unhappy again,–but I assure you it is for your own sake. Dearest Cecilia, let me tell you all that General Clarendon said about it, and then you will know my reasons.” She repeated as quickly as she could, all that had passed between her and the general, and when she came to this declaration that, if Cecilia had told him plainly the fact before, he would have married with perfect confidence, and, as he believed, with increased esteem and love: Cecilia started up from the sofa on which she had thrown herself, and exclaimed,

“O that I had but known this at the time, and I _would_ have told him.”

“It is still time,” said Helen.

“Time now?–impossible. His look this morning. Oh! that look!”

“But what is one look, my dear Cecilia, compared with a whole life of confidence and happiness?”

“A life of happiness! never, never for me; in that way at least, never.”

“In that way and no other, Cecilia, believe me. I am certain you never could endure to go on concealing this, living with him you love so, yet deceiving him.”

“Deceiving! do not call it deceiving, it is only suppressing a fact that would give him pain; and when he can have no suspicion, why give him that pain? I am afraid of nothing now but this timidity of yours–this going back. Just before you came in, Clarendon was saying how much he admired your truth and candour, how much he is obliged to you for saving him from endless misery; he said so to me, that was what made me so completely happy. I saw that it was all right for you as well as me, that you had not sunk, that you had risen in his esteem.”

“But I must sink, Cecilia, in his esteem, and now it hangs upon a single point–upon my doing what I cannot do.” Then she repeated what the general had said about that perfect openness which he was sure there would be in this case between her and Beauclerc. “You see what the general expects that I should do.”

“Yes,” said Cecilia; and then indeed she looked much disturbed. “I am very sorry that this notion of your telling Beauclerc came into Clarendon’s head–very, very sorry, for he will not forget it. And yet, after all,” continued she, he will never ask you point blank, ‘Have you told Beauclerc?’–and still more impossible that he should ask Beauclerc about it.”

“Cecilia!” said Helen, “if it were only for myself I would say no more; there is nothing I would not endure–that I would not sacrifice–even my utmost happiness.”–She stopped, and blushed deeply.

“Oh, my dearest Helen! do you think I could let you ever hazard that? If I thought there was the least chance of injuring you with Granville!–I would do any thing–I would throw myself at Clarendon’s feet this instant.”

“This instant–I wish he was here,” cried Helen.

“Good Heavens! do you?” cried Lady Cecilia, looking at the door with terror–she thought she heard his step.

“Yes, if you would but tell him–O let me call him!”

“Oh no, no! Spare me–spare me, I cannot speak now. I could not utter the words; I should not know what words to use. Tell him if you will, I cannot.”

“May I tell him?” said Helen, eagerly.

“No, no–that would be worse; if anybody tells him it must be myself.”

“Then you will now–when he comes in?”

“He is coming!” cried Cecilia.

General Clarendon came to the door–it was bolted.

“In a few minutes,” said Helen. Lady Cecilia did not speak, but listened, as in agony, to his receding footsteps.

“In a few minutes, Helen, did you say?–then there is nothing for me now, but to die–I wish I could die–I wish I was dead.”

Helen felt she was cruel, she began to doubt her own motives; she thought she had been selfish in urging Cecilia too strongly; and, going to her kindly, she said, “Take your own time, my dear Cecilia: only tell him–tell him soon.” “I will, I will indeed, when I can–but now I am quite exhausted.”

“You are indeed,” said Helen, “how cruel I have been!–how pale you are!”

Lady Cecilia lay down on the sofa, and Helen covered her with a soft India shawl, trembling so much herself that she could hardly stand.

“Thank you, thank you, dear, kind Helen; tell him I am going to sleep, and I am sure I hope I shall.”

Helen closed the shutters–she had now done all she could; she feared she had done too much; and as she left the room, she said to herself,–“Oh, Lady Davenant! if you could see–if you knew–what it cost me!”

END OF VOLUME THE SECOND

VOLUME THE THIRD.

CHAPTER I.

The overwrought state of Helen’s feelings was relieved by a walk with Beauclerc, not in the dressed part of the park, but in what was generally undiscovered country: a dingle, a bosky dell, which he had found out in his rambles, and which, though so little distant from the busy hum of men, had a wonderful air of romantic seclusion and stillness–the stillness of evening. The sun had not set; its rich, red light yet lingered on the still remaining autumn tints upon the trees. The birds hopped fearlessly from bough to bough, as if this sweet spot were all their own. The cattle were quietly grazing below, or slowly winding their way to the watering-place. By degrees, the sounds of evening faded away upon the ear; a faint chirrup here and there from the few birds not yet gone to roost, and now only the humming of the flies over the water were to be heard.

It was perfect repose, and Beauclerc and Helen sat down on the bank to enjoy it together. The sympathy of the woman he loved, especially in his enjoyment of the beauties of nature, was to Beauclerc an absolute necessary of life. Nor would he have been contented with that show taste for the picturesque, which is, as he knew, merely one of a modern young lady’s many accomplishments. Helen’s taste was natural, and he was glad to feel it so true, and for him here alone expressed with such peculiar heightened feeling, as if she had in all nature now a new sense of delight. He had brought her here, in hopes that she would be struck with this spot, not only because it was beautiful in itself, and his discovery, but because it was like another bushy dell and bosky bourne, of which he had been from childhood fond, in another place, of which he hoped she would soon be mistress. “Soon! very soon, Helen!” he repeated, in a tone which could not be heard by her with indifference. He said that some of his friends in London told him that the report of their intended union had been spread everywhere–(by Lady Katrine Hawksby probably, as Cecilia, when Lady Castlefort departed, had confided to her, to settle her mind about Beauclerc, that he was coming over as Miss Stanley’s acknowledged lover). And since the report had been so spread, the sooner the marriage took place the better; at least, it was a plea which Beauclerc failed not to urge, and Helen’s delicacy failed not to feel.

She sighed–she smiled. The day was named–and the moment she consented to be his, nothing could be thought of but him. Yet, even while he poured out all his soul–while he enjoyed the satisfaction there is in perfect unreservedness of confidence, Helen felt a pang mix with her pleasure. She felt there was one thing _she_ could _not_ tell him: he who had told her every thing–all his faults, and follies. “Oh! why,” thought she, “why cannot I tell him every thing? I, who have no secrets of my own–why should I be forced to keep the secrets of another?” In confusion, scarcely finished, these ideas came across her mind, and she sighed deeply. Beauclerc asked why, and she could not tell him! She was silent; and he did not reiterate the indiscreet question. He was sure she thought of Lady Davenant; and he now spoke of the regret he felt that she could not be present at their marriage, and Lord Davenant too! Beauclerc said he had hoped that Lord Davenant, who loved Helen as if she were his own daughter, would have been the person to act as her father at the ceremony. But the general, his friend and her’s, would now, Beauclerc said, give her to him; and would, he was sure, take pleasure in thus publicly marking his approbation of his ward’s choice.

They rose, and going on down the path to the river’s side, they reached a little cove where he had moored his boat, and they returned home by water–the moon just visible, the air so still; all so placid, so delightful, and Beauclerc so happy, that she could not but be happy; yes–quite happy too. They reached the shore just as the lamps were lighting in the house. As they went in, they met the general, who said, “In good time;” and he smiled on Helen as she passed.

“It is all settled,” whispered Beauclerc to him; “and you are to give her away.”

“With pleasure,” said the general.

As Helen went up-stairs, she said to herself, “I understand the general’s smile; he thinks I have followed his advice; he thinks I have told all–and I–I can only be silent.”

There was a great dinner party, but the general, not thinking Cecilia quite equal to it, had engaged Mrs. Holdernesse, a relation of his own, to do the honours of the day.

Lady Cecilia came into the drawing-room in the evening; but, after paying her compliments to the company, she gladly followed the general’s advice, and retired to the music-room: Helen went with her, and Beauclerc followed. Lady Cecilia sat down to play at ecarte with him, and Helen tuned her harp. The general came in for a few minutes, he said, to escape from two young ladies, who had talked him half dead about craniology. He stood leaning on the mantelpiece, and looking over the game. Lady Cecilia wanted counters, and she begged Beauclerc to look for some which she believed he would find in the drawer of a table that was behind him. Beauclerc opened the drawer, but no sooner had he done so, than, in admiration of something he discovered there, he exclaimed, “Beautiful! beautiful! and how like!” It was the miniature of Helen, and besides the miniature, further back in the drawer, Lady Cecilia saw–how quick is the eye of guilty fear!–could it be?–yes–one of the fatal letters–_the_ letter! Nothing but the picture had yet been seen by the general or by Beauclerc: Lady Cecilia stretched behind her husband, whose eyes were upon the miniature, and closed the drawer. It was all she could do, it was impossible for her to reach the letter.

Beauclerc, holding the picture to the light, repeated, “Beautiful! who did it? whom is it for? General, look! do you know it?”

“Yes, to be sure,” replied the general; “Miss Stanley.”

“You have seen it before?”

“Yes,” said the general, coldly. “It is very like. Who did it?”

“I did it,” cried Lady Cecilia, who now recovered her voice.

“You, my dear Lady Cecilia! Whom for? for me? is it for me?”

“For you? It may be, hereafter, perhaps.”

“Oh thank you, my dear Lady Cecilia!” cried Beauclerc.

“If you behave well, perhaps,” added she.

The general heard in his wife’s tremulous tone, and saw in her half confusion, half attempt at playfulness, only an amiable anxiety to save her friend, and to give her time to recover from her dismay. He at once perceived that Helen had not followed the course he had suggested; that she had not told Beauclerc, and did not intend that he should be told the whole truth. The general looked extremely grave; Beauclerc gave a glance round the room. “Here is some mystery,” said he, now first seeing Helen’s disconcerted countenance. Then he turned on the general a look of eager inquiry. “Some mystery, certainly,” said he, “with which I am not to be made acquainted?”

“If there be any mystery,” said the general, “with which you are not to be made acquainted, I am neither the adviser nor abettor. Neither in jest nor earnest am I ever an adviser of mystery.”

While her husband thus spoke, Lady Cecilia made another attempt to possess herself of the letter. This time she rose decidedly, and, putting aside the little ecarte table which was in her way, pressed forward to the drawer, saying something about “counters.” Her Cachemere caught on Helen’s harp, and, in her eager spring forward, it would have been overset, but that the general felt, turned, and caught it.

“What are you about, my dear Cecilia?–what do you want?”

“Nothing, nothing, thank you, my dear; nothing now.”

Then she did not dare to open the drawer, or to let him open it, and anxiously drew away his attention by pointing to a footstool which she seemed to want.

“Could not you ask me for it, my dear, without disturbing yourself? What are men made for?”

Beauclerc, after a sort of absent effort to join in quest of the footstool, had returned eagerly to the picture, and looking at it more closely, he saw the letters C.D. written in small characters in one corner; and, just as his eye turned to the other corner, Lady Cecilia, recollecting what initials were there, started up and snatched it from his hand. “Oh, Granville!” cried she, “you must not look at this picture any more till I have done something to it.” Beauclerc was trying to catch another look at it, when Cecilia cried out, “Take it, Helen! take it!” and she held it up on high, but as she held it, though she turned the face from him, she forgot, quite forgot that Colonel D’Aubigny had written his name on the back of the picture; and there it was in distinct characters such as could be plainly read at that height, “_For_ Henry D’Aubigny.” Beauclerc saw, and gave one glance at Helen. He made no further attempt to reach the picture. Lady Cecilia, not aware of what he had seen, repeated, “Helen! Helen! why don’t you take it?–now! now!”

Helen could not stir. The general took the picture from his wife’s hand, gave it to Miss Stanley, without looking at her, and said to Lady Cecilia, “Pray keep yourself quiet, Cecilia. You have done enough, too much to-day; sit down,” said he, rolling her arm-chair close, and seating her. “Keep yourself quiet, I beg.”–“I beg,” in the tone of “I insist.”

She sat down, but catching a view of Beauclerc was alarmed by his aspect–and Helen! her head was bent down behind the harp. Lady Cecilia did not know yet distinctly what had happened. The general pressed her to lean back on the cushions which he was piling up behind her. Beauclerc made a step towards Helen, but checking himself, he turned to the ecarte table. “Those counters, after all, that we were looking for–” As he spoke he pulled open the drawer. The general with his back to him was standing before Lady Cecilia, she could not see what Beauclerc was doing, but she heard the drawer open, and cried out. “Not there, Beauclerc; no counters there–you need not look there.” But before she spoke, he had given a sudden pull to the drawer, which brought it quite out, and all the contents fell upon the floor, and there was the fatal letter, open, and the words “_My dear, too dear Henry_” instantly met his eyes; he looked no farther, but in that single glance the writing seemed to him to be Lady Cecilia’s, and quick his eye turned upon her. She kept perfectly quiet, and appeared to him perfectly composed. His eye then darted in search of Helen; she had sunk upon a seat behind the harp. Through the harp-strings he caught a glimpse of her face, all pale–crimsoned it grew as he advanced: she rose instantly, took up the letter, and, without speaking or looking at any one, tore it to pieces. Beauclerc in motionless astonishment. Lady Cecilia breathed again. The general’s countenance expressed “I interfere no farther.” He left the room; and Beauclerc, without another look at Helen, followed him.

For some moments after Lady Cecilia and Helen were left alone, there was a dead silence. Lady Cecilia sat with her eyes fixed upon the door through which her husband and Beauclerc had passed. She thought that Beauclerc might return; but when she found that he did not, she went to Helen, who had covered her face with her hands.

“My dearest friend,” said Lady Cecilia, “thank you! thank you!–you did the best that was possible!”

“O Cecilia!” exclaimed Helen, “to what have you exposed me?”

“How did it all happen?” continued Cecilia. “Why was not that letter burnt with the rest? How came it there? Can you tell me?”

“I do not know,” said Helen, “I cannot recollect.” But after some effort, she remembered that in the morning, while the general had been talking to her, she had in her confusion, when she took the packet, laid the picture and that letter beside her on the arm of the chair. She had, in her hurry of putting the other letters into her bag, forgotten this and the picture, and she supposed that they had fallen between the, chair and the wall, and that they had been found and put into the table-drawer by one of the servants.

Helen was hastening out of the room, Cecilia detained her. “Do not go, my dear, for that would look as if you were guilty, and you know you are innocent. At the first sound of your harp Beauclerc will return–only command yourself for one hour or two.”

“Yes, it will only be for an hour or two,” said Helen, brightening with hope. “You will tell the general to-night Do you think Granville will come back? Where is the harp key?–I dropped it–here it is.” She began to tune the harp. Crack went one string–then another. “That is lucky,” said Lady Cecilia, “it will give you something to do, my love, if the people come in.”

The aide-de-camp entered. “I thought I heard harp-strings going,” said he.

“Several!–yes,” said Lady Cecilia, standing full in his way.

“Inauspicious sounds for us! had omens for my embassy.–Mrs. Holdernesse sent me.”

“I know,” said Lady Cecilia, “and you will have the goodness to tell her that Miss Stanley’s harp is unstrung.”

“Can I be of any use, Miss Stanley?” said he, moving towards the harp.

“No, no,” cried Lady Cecilia, “you are in my service,–attend to me.”

“Dear me, Lady Cecilia! I did not hear what you said.”

“That is what I complain of–hear me now.”

“I am all attention, I am sure. What are your commands?”

She gave him as many as his head could hold. A long message to Mrs. Holdernesse, and to Miss Holdernesse and Miss Anna about their music-books, which had been left in the carriage, and were to be sent for, and duets to be played, and glees, for the major and Lady Anne Ruthven,

“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 more 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.

“I can,” cried he. “I can–I do! By Heaven I do! I think you an angel, and legions of devils could not convince me of the contrary. I trust your word–I trust that heavenly countenance–I trust entirely—-” He offered, and she took his offered hand. “I trust entirely. Not one question more shall I ask–not a suspicion shall I have: you put me to the test, you shall find me stand it.”

“Can you?” said she; “you know how much I ask. I acknowledge a mystery, and yet I ask you to believe that I am not wrong.”

“I know,” said she; “you shall see.” And both in happiness once more, they returned to the house.

“I love her a thousand times better than ever,” thought Beauclerc, “for the independence of mind she shows in thus braving my opinion, daring to set all upon the cast–something noble in this! I am to form my own judgment of her, and I will, independently of what any other human being may say or think. The general, with his strict, narrow, conventional notions, has not an idea of the kind of woman I like, or of what Helen really is. He sees in Helen only the discreet proper-behaved young lady, adapted, so nicely adapted to her place in society, to nitch and notch in, and to be of no sort of value out of it. Give me a being able to stand alone, to think and feel, decide and act, for herself. Were Helen only what the general thinks her, she would not be for me; while she is what I think her, I love–I adore!” And when he saw his guardian, Beauclerc declared that, though Helen had entered into no explanations, he was perfectly satisfied.

The general answered, “I am glad you _are_ satisfied.” Beauclerc perceived that the general was not; and in spite of all that he had just been saying to himself, this provoked and disgusted him. His theory of his own mind, if not quite false, was still a little at variance with his practice. His guardian’s opinion swayed him powerfully, whenever he believed that it was not designed to influence him; when the opinion was repressed, he could not rest without drawing it out. “Then, you think, general,” said he, “that some explanation ought to have been made?”

“No matter what I think, Granville, the affair is yours. If you are satisfied, that is all that is necessary.”

Then even, because left on their own point of suspension to vibrate freely, the diamond-scales of Beauclerc’s mind began to move, from some nice, unseen cause of variation. “But,” said he, “General Clarendon, no one can judge without knowing facts.”

“So I apprehend,” said the general.

“I may be of too easy faith,” replied Beauclerc.–[No reply.] “This is a point of honour.”–[No denial.] “My dear general, if there be anything which weighs with you, and which you know and I do not, I think, as my friend and my guardian, you ought to tell it to me.”

“Pardon me,” said the general, turning away from Beauclerc as he spoke, and striking first one heel of his boot against the scraper at the hall-door, then the other–“pardon me, Granville, I cannot admit you to be a better judge than I am myself of what I ought to do or not to do.”

The tone was dry and proud, but Beauclerc’s provoked imagination conceived it to be also mysterious; the scales of his mind vibrated again, but he had said he would trust–trust entirely, and he would: yet he could not succeed in banishing all doubt, till an idea started into his head–“That writing was Lady Cecilia’s! I thought so at the first moment, and I let it go again. It is hers, and Helen is keeping her secret:–but could Lady Cecilia be so ungenerous–so treacherous?” However, he had declared he would ask no questions; he was a man of honour, and he would ask none–none even of himself–a resolution which he found it surprisingly easy to keep when the doubt concerned only Lady Cecilia. Whenever the thought crossed his mind, he said to himself, “I will ask nothing–suspect nobody; but if it is Lady Cecilia’s affair, it is all the more generous in Helen.” And so, secure in this explanation, though he never allowed to himself that he admitted it, his trust in Helen was easy and complete, and his passion for her increased every hour.

But Lady Cecilia was disturbed even by the perfect confidence and happiness of Beauclerc’s manner towards Helen. She could not but fear that he had guessed the truth; and it seemed as if everything which happened tended to confirm him in his suspicions; for, whenever the mind is strongly interested on any subject, something alluding to it seems wonderfully, yet accidentally, to occur in everything that we read, or hear in common conversation, and so it now happened; things were continually said by persons wholly unconcerned, which seemed to bear upon her secret. Lady Cecilia frequently felt this with pangs of confusion, shame, and remorse; and, though Beauclerc did not watch, or play the spy upon her countenance, he could not help sometimes observing the flitting colour–the guilty changes of countenance–the assumed composure: that mind, once so artless, began to be degraded–her spirits sank; she felt that she “had lost the sunshine of a soul without a mystery!”

The day fixed for the marriage approached; Lady Cecilia had undertaken the superintendence of the _trousseau_, and Felicie was in anxious expectation of its arrival. Helen had written to the Collingwoods to announce the intended event, asking for the good bishop’s sanction, as her guardian, and regretting that he could not perform the ceremony. She had received from Lady Davenant a few lines, written just before she sailed, warm with all the enthusiasm of her ardent heart, and full of expectation that Helen’s lot would be one of the happiest this world could afford. All seemed indeed to smile upon her prospects, and the only clouds which dimmed the sunshine were Cecilia’s insincerity, and her feeling that the general thought her acting unhandsomely and unwisely towards his ward; but she consoled herself with the thought that he could not judge of what he did not know, that she did not deserve his displeasure, that Granville was satisfied, and if he was, why should not General Clarendon be so too? Much more serious, however, was the pain she felt on Cecilia’s account. She reproached herself with betraying the trust Lady Davenant had reposed in her. That dreadful prophecy seemed now accomplishing: Cecilia’s natural generosity, that for which Helen had ever most loved and admired her, the brightest, fairest parts of her character, seemed failing now; what could be more selfish than Cecilia’s present conduct towards herself, more treacherous to her noble minded, her confiding husband! The openness, the perfect unreserve between the two friends, was no longer what it had been. Helen, however, felt the constraint between them the less as she was almost constantly with Beauclerc, and in her young happiness she hoped all would be right. Cecilia would tell the general, and they would be as intimate, as affectionate, as they had ever been.

One morning General Clarendon, stopping Cecilia as she was coming down to breakfast, announced that he was obliged to set off instantly for London, on business which could not be delayed, and that she must settle with Miss Stanley whether they would accompany him or remain at Clarendon Park. He did not know, he said, how long he might be detained.

Cecilia was astonished, and excessively curious; she tried her utmost address to discover what was the nature of his business, in vain. All that remained was to do as he required without more words. He left the room, and Cecilia decided at once that they had better accompany him. She dreaded some delay; she thought that, if the general went alone to town, he might be detained Heaven knows how long; and though the marriage must be postponed at all events, yet if they went with the general, the ceremony might be performed in town as well as at Clarendon Park; and she with some difficulty convinced Helen of this. Beauclerc feared nothing but delay. They were to go. Lady Cecilia announced their decision to the general, who immediately set off, and the others in a few hours followed him.

CHAPTER III.

“In my youth, and through the prime of manhood, I never entered London without feelings of hope and pleasure. It was to me the grand theatre of intellectual activity, the field for every species of enterprise and exertion, the metropolis of the world, of business, thought, and action. There, I was sure to find friends and companions, to hear the voice of encouragement and praise. There, society of the most refined sort offered daily its banquets to the mind, and new objects of interest and ambition were constantly exciting attention either in politics, literature, or science.”

These feelings, so well described by a man of genius, have probably been felt more or less by most young men who have within them any consciousness of talent, or any of that enthusiasm, that eager desire to have or to give sympathy, which, especially in youth, characterises noble natures. But after even one or two seasons in a great metropolis these feelings often change long before they are altered by age. Granville Beauclerc had already persuaded himself that he now detested, as much as he had at first been delighted with, a London life. From his metaphysical habits of mind, and from the sensibility of his temper, he had been too soon disgusted by that sort of general politeness which, as he said, takes up the time and place of real friendship; and as for the intellectual pleasures, they were, he said, too superficial for him; and his notions of independence, too, were at this time quite incompatible with the conventional life of a great capital. His present wish was to live all the year round in the country, with the woman he loved, and in the society of a few chosen friends. Helen quite agreed with him in his taste for the country; she had scarcely ever known any other life, and yet had always been happy; and whatever youthful curiosity had been awakened in her mind as to the pleasures of London, had been now absorbed by stronger and more tender feelings. Her fate in life, she felt, was fixed, and wherever the man she loved wished to reside, that, she felt, must be her choice. With these feelings they arrived at General Clarendon’s delightful house in town.

Helen’s apartment, and Cecilia’s, were on different floors, and had no communication with each other. It was of little consequence, as their stay in town was to be but short, yet Helen could not help observing that Cecilia did not express any regret at it, as formerly she would have done; it seemed a symptom of declining affection, of which, every the slightest indication was marked and keenly felt by Helen, the more so because she had anticipated that such must be the consequence of all that had passed between them, and there was now no remedy.

Among the first morning visitors admitted were Lady Castlefort and Lady Katrine Hawksby. They did not, as it struck Cecilia, seem surprised to see that Miss Stanley was Miss Stanley still, though the day for the marriage had been announced in all the papers as fixed; but they did seem now full of curiosity to know how it had come to pass, and there was rather too apparent a hope that something was going wrong. Their first inquisitive look was met by Lady Cecilia’s careless glance in reply, which said better than words could express, “Nothing the matter, do not flatter yourselves.” Then her expertness at general answers which give no information, completely baffled the two curious impertinents. They could only learn that the day for the marriage was not fixed, that it could not be definitively named till some business should be settled by the general. Law business they supposed, of course. Lady Cecilia “knew nothing about it. Lawyers are such provoking wretches, with their fast bind fast find. Such an unconscionable length of time as they do take for their parchment doings, heeding nought of that little impatient flapper Cupid.”

Certain that Lady Cecilia was only playing with their curiosity, yet unable to circumvent her, Lady Katrine changed the conversation, and Lady Castlefort preferred a prayer, which was, she said, the chief object of her visit, that Lady Cecilia and Miss Stanley would come to her on Monday; she was to have a few friends–a very small party, and independently of the pleasure she should have in seeing them, it would be advantageous perhaps to Miss Stanley, as Lady Castlefort, in her softest voice, added, “For from the marriage being postponed even for a few days, people might talk, and Mr. Beauclerc and Miss Stanley appearing together would prevent anybody’s thinking there was any little–Nothing so proper now as for a young lady to appear with her _futur_; so I shall expect you, my dear Cecilia, and Miss Stanley,”–and so saying, she departed. Helen’s objections were all overruled, and when the engagement was made known to Beauclerc, he shrugged, and shrank, and submitted; observing, “that all men, and all women, must from the moment they come within the precincts of London life, give up their time and their will to an imaginary necessity of going when we do not like it, where we do not wish, to see those whom we have no desire to see, and who do not care if they were never to see us again, except for the sake of their own reputation of playing well their own parts in the grand farce of mock civility” Helen was sorry to have joined in making an engagement for him which he seemed so much to dislike. But Lady Cecilia, laughing, maintained that half his reluctance was affectation, and the other half a lover-like spirit of monopoly, in which he should not be indulged, and instead of pretending to be indifferent to what the world might think, he ought to be proud to show Helen as a proof of his taste.

In dressing Helen this night, Felicie, excited by her lady’s exhortations, displayed her utmost skill. Mademoiselle Felicie had a certain _petite metaphysique de toilette_, of which she was justly vain. She could talk, and as much to the purpose as most people of “le genre classique,” and “le genre romantique,” of the different styles of dress that suit different styles of face; and while “she worked and wondered at the work she made,” she threw out from time to time her ideas on the subject to form the taste of Helen’s little maid. Rose, who, in mute attention, held the light and assiduously presented pins. “Not your pin so fast one after de other Miss Rose–Tenez! tenez!” cried mademoiselle. “You tink in England alway too much of your pin in your dress, too little of our taste–too little of our elegance, too much of your what you call _tidiness_, or God know what! But never you mind dat so much, Miss Rose; and you not prim up your little mouth, but listen to me. Never you put in one pin before you ask yourself, Miss Rose, what for I do it? In every toilette that has taste there is above all–tenez–a character–a sentiment to be support; suppose your lady is to be superbe, or she will rather be elegante, or charmante, or interessante, or distinguee–well, dat is all ver’ well, and you dress to that idee, one or oder–well, very well–but none of your wat you call _odd_. No, no, never, Miss Rose–dat is not style noble; ’twill only become de petit minois of your English originale. I wash my hand of dat always.” The toilette superbe mademoiselle held to be the easiest of all those which she had named with favour, it may be accomplished by any common hands; but _head_ is requisite to reach the toilette distinguee. The toilette superbe requires only cost–a toilette distinguee demands care. There was a happiness as well as care in Felicie’s genius for dress, which, ever keeping the height of fashion in view, never lost sight of nature, adapting, selecting, combining to form a perfect whole, in which art itself concealed appeared only, as she expressed it, in the sublime of simplicity. In the midst of all her talking, however, she went on with the essential business, and as she finished, pronounced “Precepte commence, exemple acheve.”

When they arrived at Lady Castlefort’s, Lady Cecilia was surprised to find a line of carriages, and noise, and crowds of footmen. How was this? She had understood that it was to be one of those really small parties, those select reunions of some few of the high and mighty families who chance to be in town before Christmas.–“But how is this?” Lady Cecilia repeated to herself as she entered the hall, amazed to find it blazing with light, a crowd on the stairs, and in the anteroom a crowd, as she soon felt, of an unusual sort. It was not the soft crush of aristocracy, they found hard unaccustomed citizen elbows,–strange round-shouldered, square-backed men and women, so over-dressed, so bejewelled, so coarse–shocking to see, impossible to avoid; not one figure, one face, Lady Cecilia had ever seen before; till at last, from the midst of the throng emerged a fair form–a being as it seemed of other mould, certainly of different caste. It was one of Cecilia’s former intimates–Lady Emily Greville, whom she had not seen since her return from abroad. Joyfully they met, and stopped and talked; she was hastening away, Lady Emily said, “after having been an hour on duty; Lady Castlefort had made it a point with her to stay after dinner, she had dined there, and had stayed, and now guard was relieved.”

“But who are all these people? What is all this, my dear Lady Emily?” asked Cecilia.

“Do not you know? Louisa has trapped you into coming then, to-night without telling you how it is?” “Not a word did she tell me, I expected to meet only our own world.”

“A very different world you perceive this! A sort of farce this is to the ‘Double Distress,’ a comedy;–in short, one of Lord Castlefort’s brothers is going to stand for the City, and citizens and citoyennes must be propitiated. When an election is in the case all other things give place: and, besides, he has just married the daughter of some amazing merchant, worth I don’t know how many plums; so _le petit Bossu_, who is proud of his brother, for he is reckoned the genius of the family! made it a point with Louisa to do this. She put up her eyebrows, and stood out as long as she could, but Lord Castlefort had his way, for he holds the purse you know,–and so she was forced to make a party for these Goths and Vandals, and of course she thought it best to do it directly, out of season, you know, when nobody will see it–and she consulted me whether it should be large or small; I advised a large party, by all means, as crowded as possible.”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” said Cecilia; “to hide the shame in the multitude; vastly well, very fair all this, except the trapping us into it, who have nothing to do with it.”

“Nothing to do with it! pardon me,” cried Lady Emily. “It could not have been done without us. Entrapping us!–do not you understand that we are the baits to the traps? Bringing those animals here, wild beasts or tame, only to meet one another, would have been ‘doing business no how.’ We are what they are ‘come for to see,’ or to have it to say that they have seen the Exclusives, Exquisites, or Transcendentals, or whatever else they call us.”

“Lady Emily Greville’s carriage!” was now called in the anteroom.

“I must go, but first make me known to your friend Miss Stanley, you see I know her by instinct;” but “Lady Emily Greville’s carriage!” now resounded reiteratedly, and gentlemen with cloaks stood waiting, and as she put hers on, Lady Emily stooped forward and whispered,

“I do not believe one word of what they say of her,” and she was off, and Lady Cecilia stood for an instant looking after her, and considering what she could mean by those last words. Concluding, however, that she had not heard aright, or had missed some intervening name, and that these words, in short, could not possibly apply to Helen, Lady Cecilia turned to her, they resumed their way onward, and at length they reached the grand reception-room.

In the middle of that brilliantly lighted saloon, immediately under the centre chandelier, was ample verge and space enough reserved for the _elite_ of the world; circle it was not, nor square, nor form regularly defined, yet the bounds were guarded. There was no way of getting to the further end of the saloon, or to the apartments open in the distance beyond it, except by passing through this enclosed space, in which one fair entrance was practicable, and one ample exit full in view on the opposite side. Several gentlemen of fashionable bearing held the outposts of this privileged place, at back of sofa, or side of fauteuil, stationary, or wandering near. Some chosen few were within; two caryatides gentlemen leaned one on each side of the fireplace, and in the centre of the rug stood a remarkably handsome man, of fine figure, perfectly dressed, his whole air exquisitely scornful, excruciatingly miserable, and loftily abstract. ‘Twas wonderful, ’twas strange, ’twas passing strange! how one so lost to all sublunary concerns, so far above the follies of inferior mortals, as he looked, came here–so extremely well-dressed too! How happened it? so nauseating the whole, as he seemed, so wishing that the business of the world were done! With half-closed dreamy eyelids he looked silent down upon two ladies who sat opposite to him, rallying, abusing, and admiring him to his vanity’s content. They gave him his choice of three names, l’Ennuye, le Frondeur, or le Blase. L’Ennuye? he shook his head; too common; he would have none of it. Le Frondeur? no; too much trouble; he shrugged his abhorrence. Le Blase? he allowed, might be too true. But would they hazard a substantive verb? He would give them four-and-twenty hours to consider, and he would take twenty-four himself to decide. They should have his definitive to-morrow, and he was sliding away, but Lady Castlefort, as he passed her, cried, “Going, Lord Beltravers, going are you?” in an accent of surprise and disappointment; and she whispered, “I am hard at work here, acting receiver general to these city worthies; and you do not pity me–cruel!” and she looked up with languishing eyes, that so begged for sympathy. He threw upon her one look of commiseration, reproachful. “Pity you, yes! But why will you do these things? and why did you bring me here to do this horrid sort of work?” and he vanished.

Lady Cecilia Clarendon and Miss Stanley now appeared in the _offing_, and now reached the straits: Lady Castlefort rose with vivacity extraordinary, and went forward several steps. “Dear Cecilia! Miss Stanley, so good! Mr. Beauclerc, so happy! the general could not? so sorry!” Then with hand pressed on hers, “Miss Stanley, so kind of you to come. Lady Grace, give me leave–Miss Stanley–Lady Grace Bland,” and in a whisper, “Lord Beltravers’ aunt.”

Lady Grace, with a haughty drawback motion, and a supercilious arching of her brows, was “happy to have the honour.” Honour nasally prolonged, and some guttural sounds followed, but further words, if words they were, which she syllabled between snuffling and mumbling, were utterly unintelligible; and Helen, without being “very happy,” or happy at all, only returned bend for bend.

Lady Cecilia then presented her to a group of sister graces standing near the sofas of mammas and chaperons–not each a different grace, but similar each, indeed upon the very same identical pattern air of young-lady fashion–well-bred, and apparently well-natured. No sooner was Miss Stanley made known to them by Lady Cecilia, than, smiling just enough, not a muscle too much, they moved; the ranks opened softly, but sufficiently, and Helen was in the group; amongst them, but not _of_ them–and of this she became immediately sensible, though without knowing how or why. One of these daughters had had expectations last season from having been frequently Mr. Beauclerc’s partner, and the mother was now fanning herself opposite to him. But Helen knew nought of this: to her all was apparently soft, smooth, and smiling. While, whenever any of the unprivileged multitude, the city monsters, passed near this high-born, high-bred group, they looked as though the rights of pride were infringed, and, smiling scorn, they dropped from half-closed lips such syllables of withering contempt, as they thought these vulgar victims merited: careless if they heard or not, rather rejoicing to see the sufferers wince beneath the wounds which they inflicted in their pride and pomp of sway. “Pride!” thought Helen, “was it pride?” If pride it was, how unlike what she had been taught to consider the proper pride of aristocracy; how unlike that noble sort which she had seen, admired, and loved! Helen fancied what Lady Davenant would have thought, how ignoble; how mean, how vulgar she would have considered these sneers and scoffs from the nobly to the lowly born. How unworthy of their rank and station in society! They who ought to be the first in courtesy, because the first in place.

As these thoughts passed rapidly in Helen’s mind, she involuntarily looked towards Beauclerc; but she was so encompassed by her present companions that she could not discover him. Had she been able to see his countenance, she would have read in it at once how exactly he was at that instant feeling with her. More indignant than herself, for his high chivalrous devotion to the fair could ill endure the readiness with which the gentlemen, attendants at ottoman or sofa, lent their aid to mock and to embarrass every passing party of the city tribe, mothers and their hapless daughter-train.

At this instant Lady Bearcroft, who, if she had not good breeding, certainly had good-nature, came up to Beauclerc, and whispered earnestly, and with an expression of strong interest in her countenance, “As you love her, do not heed one word you hear anybody say this night, for it’s all on purpose to vex you; and I am certain as you are it’s all false–all envy. And there she goes, Envy herself in the black jaundice,” continued she, looking at Lady Katrine Hawksby, who passed at that instant.

“Good Heavens!” cried Beauclerc, “what can—-“

“No, no,” interrupted Lady Bearcroft, “no, no, do not ask–better not; best you should know no more–only keep your temper whatever happens. Go you up the hill, like the man in the tale, and let the black stones bawl themselves hoarse–dumb. Go you on, and seize your pretty singing thinking bird–the sooner the better. So fare you well.”

And she disappeared in the crowd. Beauclerc, to whom she was perfectly unknown, (though she had made him out,) totally at a loss to imagine what interest she could take in Helen or in him, or what she could possibly mean, rather inclined to suppose she was a mad women, and he forgot everything else as he saw Helen with Lady Cecilia emerging from the bevy of young ladies and approaching him. They stopped to speak to some acquaintance, and he tried to look at Helen as if he were an indifferent spectator, and to fancy what he should think of her if he saw her now for the first time. He thought that he should be struck not only with her beauty, but with her graceful air–her ingenuous countenance, so expressive of the freshness of natural sensibility. She was exquisitely well dressed too, and that, as Felicie observed, goes for much, even with your most sensible men. Altogether he was charmed, whether considering her as with the eyes of an unbiased stranger or with his own. And all he heard confirmed, and, although he would not have allowed it, strengthened his feelings. He heard it said that, though there were some as handsome women in the room, there were none so interesting; and some of the young men added, “As lovely as Lady Blanche, but with more expression.” A citizen, with whom Beauclerc could have shaken hands on the spot, said, “There’s one of the highbreds, now, that’s well-bred too.” In the height of the rapture of his feelings he overtook Lady Cecilia, who telling him that they were going on to another room, delivered Helen to his care, and herself taking the arm of some ready gentleman, they proceeded as fast as they could through the crowd to the, other end of the room.

This was the first time Helen had ever seen Lady Cecilia in public, where certainly she appeared to great advantage. Not thinking about herself, but ever willing to be pleased; so bright, so gay, she was sunshine which seemed to spread its beams wherever she turned. And she had something to say to everybody, or to answer quick to whatever they said or looked, happy always in the _apropos_ of the moment. Little there might be, perhaps, in what she said, but there was all that was wanted, just what did for the occasion. In others there often appeared a distress for something to say, or a dead dullness of countenance opposite to you. From others, a too fast hazarded broadside of questions and answers–glads and sorrys in chain-shots that did no execution, because there was no good aim–congratulations and condolences playing at cross purposes–These were mistakes, misfortunes, which could never occur in Lady Cecilia’s natural grace and acquired tact of manner. Helen was amused, as she followed her, in watching the readiness with which she knew how to exchange the necessary counters in the commerce of society: she was amused, till her attention was distracted by hearing, as she and Beauclerc passed, the whispered words–“_I promessi sposi_–look–_La belle fiancee_.” These words were repeated as they went on, and Lady Cecilia heard some one say, “I thought it was broken off; that was all slander then?” She recollected Lady Emily’s words, and, terrified lest Helen should hear more of–she knew not what, she began to talk to her as fast as she could, while they were stopped in the door-way by a crowd. She succeeded for the moment with Helen; she had not heard the last speech, and she could not, as long as Lady Cecilia spoke, hear more; but Beauclerc again distinguished the words “_Belle fiancee_;” and as he turned to discover the speaker, a fat matron near him asked, “Who is it?” and the daughter answered, “It is that handsome girl, with the white rose in her hair.”–“Hush!” said the brother, on whose arm she leaned; “Handsome is that handsome does.”

Handsome does! thought Beauclerc: and the mysterious warning of his unknown friend recurred to him. He was astonished, alarmed, furious; but the whispering party had passed on, and just then Lady Cecilia descrying Mr. Churchill in the distance, she made towards him. Conversation sure to be had in abundance from him. He discerned them from afar, and was happily prepared both with a ready bit of wit and with a proper greeting. His meeting with Lady Cecilia was, of course, just the same as ever. He took it up where he left off at Clarendon Park; no difference, no hiatus. His bow to Beauclerc and Helen, to Helen and Beauclerc, joined in one little sweep of a congratulatory motion, was incomparable: it said everything that a bow could say, and more. It implied such a happy freedom from envy or jealousy; such a polite acquiescence in the decrees of fate; such a philosophic indifference; such a cool sarcastic superiority to the event; and he began to Lady Cecilia with one of his prepared impromptus: “At the instant your ladyship came up, I am afraid I started, actually in a trance, I do believe. Methought I was–where do you think? In the temple of Jaggernaut.”

“Why?” said Lady Cecilia smiling.

“Methought,” continued Horace, “that I was in the temple of Jaggernaut–that one strange day in the year, when ill castes meet, when all distinction of castes and ranks is forgotten–the abomination of mixing them all together permitted, for their sins no doubt–high caste and low, from the abandoned Paria to the Brahmin prince, from their Billingsgate and Farringilon Without, suppose, up to their St. James’s, Street and Grosvenor Square, mingle, mingle, ye who mingle may, white spirits and grey, black spirits and blue. Now, pray look around: is not this Jaggernaut night with Lady Castlefort?”

“And you,” said Lady Cecilia; “are not you the great Jaggernaut himself, driving over all in your triumphant chariot of sarcasm, and crushing all the victims in your way?”

This took place with Horace; it put him in spirits, in train, and he fired away at Lady Castlefort, whom he had been flattering _a loutrance_ five minutes before.

“I so admire that acting of sacrifice in your _belle cousine_ to-night! Pasta herself could not do it better. There is a look of ‘Oh, ye just gods! what a victim am I!’ and with those upturned eyes so charming! Well, and seriously it is a sad sacrifice. Fathers have flinty hearts by parental prescription; but husbands–_petit Bossus_ especially–should have mercy for their own sakes; they should not strain their marital power too far.”

“But,” said Lady Cecilia, “it is curious, that one born and bred such an ultra exclusive as Louisa Castlefort, should be obliged after her marriage immediately to open her doors and turn ultra liberale, or an universal suffragist–all in consequence of these _mesalliances_.”

“True, true,” said Churchill, with a solemn, pathetic shake of the head. “Gentlemen and noblemen should consider before they make these low matches to save their studs, or their souls, or their entailed estates. Whatever be the necessity, there can be no apology for outraging all _bienseance_. Necessity has no law, but it should have some decency. Think of, bringing upon a foolish elder brother–But we won’t be personal.”

“No, don’t pray, Horace,” said Lady Cecilia, moving on. “But think, only think, my dear Lady Cecilia; think what it must be to be ‘_How-d’ye-doed_,’ and to be ‘dear sistered’ by such bodies as these in public.”

“Sad! sad!” said Lady Cecilia.

“The old French nobility,” continued Churchill, “used to call these low money-matches, ‘mettre du fumier sur nos terres.'” “Dirty work at best,” said Lady Cecilia.

“But still,” said Horace, “it might be done with decency if not with majesty.”

“But in the midst of all this,” said Lady Cecilia, “I want some ice very much for myself, and for Helen more.”

“I have a notion we shall find some here,” replied he, “if you will come on this way–in this _sanctum sanctorum_ of Lady Katrine’s.”

He led them on to a little inner apartment, where, as he said, Lady Katrine Hawksby and her set do always scandal take, and sometimes tea.–“Tea and ponch,” continued he, “you know, in London now is quite _a la Francaise_, and it is astonishing to me, who am but a man, what strong punch ladies can take.”

“Only when it is iced,” said Lady Cecilia, smiling.

“Be it so,” said he,–“very refreshing ice, and more refreshing scandal, and here we have both in perfection. Scandal, hot and hot, and ice, cold and cold.”

By this time they had reached the entrance to what he called Lady Katrine’s _sanctum sanctorum_, where she had gathered round the iced punch and tea-table a select party, whom she had drawn together with the promise of the other half of a half-published report,–a report in which “_I promessi Sposi_” and “_La belle fiancee_” were implicated!

“Stop here one moment,” cried Churchill, “one moment longer. Let us see before we are seen. Look in, look in pray, at this group. Lady Katrine herself on the sofa, finger up–holding forth; and the deaf old woman stretching forward to hear, while the other, with the untasted punch, sits suspended in curiosity. ‘What can it be?’ she says, or seems to say. Now, now, see the pretty one’s hands and eyes uplifted, and the ugly one, with that look of horror, is exclaiming, ‘You don’t say so, my dear Lady Katrine!’ Admirable creatures! Cant and scandal personified! I wish Wilkie were here–worth any money to him.”

“And he should call it ‘The scandal party,'” said Lady Cecilia. “He told me he never could venture upon a subject unless he could give it a good name.”

At this moment Lady Katrine, having finished her story, rose, and awaking from the abstraction of malice, she looked up and saw Helen and Lady Cecilia, and, as she came forward, Churchill whispered between them, “Now–now we are going comfortably to enjoy, no doubt, Madame de Sevigne’s pleasure ‘de mal dire du prochain,’ at the right hour too.”

Churchill left them there. Lady Katrine welcoming her victims–her unsuspicious victims–he slid off to the friends round the tea-table to learn from “Cant” what “Scandal” had been telling. Beauclerc was gone to inquire for the carriage. The instant Helen appeared, all eyes were fixed upon her, and “Belle fiancee” was murmured round, and, Cecilia heard–“He’s much to be pitied.”

At this moment Lord Castlefort went up to Helen; she had always been a favourite of his; he was grateful to her for her constant kindness to him, and, peevish though the little man might be, he had a good heart, and he showed it now by instantly taking Helen out of the midst of the starers, and begging her opinion upon a favourite picture of his, a Madonna.–Was it a Raffaelle, or was it not? He and Mr. Churchill, he said, were at issue about it. In short, no matter what he said, it engrossed Helen’s attention, so that she could not hear any thing that passed, and could not be seen by the starers; and he detained her in conversation till Beauclerc came to say–“The carriage is ready, Lady Cecilia is impatient.” Lord Castlefort opened a door that led at once to the staircase, so that they had not to recross all the rooms, but got out immediately. The smallest service merits thanks, and Helen thanked Lord Castlefort by a look which he appreciated.

Even in the few words which Beauclerc had said as he announced the carriage, she had perceived that he was agitated, and, as he attended her in silence down the stairs, his look was grave and pre-occupied; she saw he was displeased, and she thought he was displeased with her. When he had put them into the carriage, he wished them good night.

“Are not you coming with us?” cried Lady Cecilia.

“No, he thanked her, he had rather walk, and,” he added–“I shall not see you at breakfast–I am engaged.”

“Home!” said Lady Cecilia, drawing up the glass with a jerk.

Helen looked out anxiously. Beauclerc had turned away, but she caught one more glance of his face as the lamp flared upon it–she saw, and she was sure that—-“Something is very much the matter–I am certain of it.” “Nonsense, my dear Helen,” said Lady Cecilia; “the matter is, that he is tired to death, as I am sure I am.”

“There’s more than that,” said Helen, “he is angry,”–and she sighed.

“Now, Helen, do not torment yourself about nothing,” said Cecilia, who, not being sure whether Beauclerc had heard anything, had not looked at his countenance or remarked his tone; her mind was occupied with what had passed while Helen was looking at the Madonna. Lady Cecilia had tried to make out the meaning of these extraordinary starings and whisperings–Lady Katrine would not tell her any thing distinctly, but said, “Strange reports–so sorry it had got into the papers, those vile libellous papers; of course she did not believe–of Miss Stanley. After all, nothing very bad–a little awkward only–might be hushed up. Better not talk of it to-night; but I will try, Cecilia, in the morning, to find those paragraphs for you.” Lady Cecilia determined to go as early as possible in the morning, and make out the whole; and, had she plainly told this to Helen, it would have been better for all parties: but she continued to talk of the people they had seen, to hide her thoughts from Helen, who all the time felt as in a feverish dream, watching the lights of the carriage flit by like fiery eyes, while she thought only of the strange words she had heard and why they should have made Beauclerc angry with her.

At last they were at home. As they went in, Lady Cecilia inquired if the general had come in?–Yes, he had been at home for some time, and was in bed. This was a relief. Helen was glad not to see any one, or to be obliged to say anything more that night. Lady Cecilia bade her “be a good child, and go to sleep.” How much Helen slept may be left to the judgment of those who have any imagination.

CHAPTER IV

“_Miladi a une migranie affreuse_ this morning,” said Felicie, addressing herself on the stairs to Rose. “_Mille amities de sa part_ to your young lady, Miss Rose, and _miladi_ recommend to her to follow a good example, and to take her breakfast in her bed, and then to take one good sleep till you shall hear _midi sonne_.”

Miss Stanley, however, was up and dressed at the time when this message was brought to her, and a few minutes afterwards a footman came to the door, to give notice that the general was in the breakfast-room, waiting to know whether Miss Stanley was coming down or not. The idea of a _tete-a-tete_ breakfast with him was not now quite so agreeable as it would have been to her formerly, but she went down. The general was standing with his back to the fire, newspapers hanging from his hand, his look ominously grave. After “Good mornings” had been exchanged with awful solemnity, Helen ventured to hope that there was no bad public news.

“No public news whatever,” said the general.

Next, she was sorry to hear that Cecilia had “such a bad headache.”

“Tired last night,” said the general.

“It was, indeed, a tiresome, disagreeable party,” said Helen, hoping this would lead to how so? or why? but the general drily answered, “Not the London season,” and went on eating his breakfast in silence.

Such a constraint and awe came upon her, that she felt it would be taking too great a liberty, in his present mood, to put sugar and cream into his tea, as she was wont in happier times. She set sugar-bowl and cream before him, and whether he understood, or noticed not her feelings, she could not guess. He sugared, and creamed, and drank, and thought, and spoke not. Helen put out of his way a supernumerary cup, to which he had already given a push, and she said, “Mr. Beauclerc does not breakfast with us.”

“So I suppose,” said the general, “as he is not here.”

“He said he was engaged to breakfast.”

“With some of his friends, I suppose,” said the general.

There the dialogue came to a full stop, and breakfast, uncomfortably on her part, and with a preoccupied air on his, went on in absolute silence. At length the general signified to the servant who was in waiting, by a nod, and a look towards the door, that his further attendance was dispensed with. At another time Helen would have felt such a dismissal as a relief, for she disliked, and recollected that her uncle particularly disliked, the fashion of having servants waiting at a family breakfast, which he justly deemed unsuited to our good old English domestic habits; but somehow it happened that at this moment she was rather sorry when the servant left the room. He returned however in a moment, with something which he fancied to be yet wanting; the general, after glancing at whatever he had brought, said, “That will do, Cockburn; we want nothing more.”

Cockburn placed a screen between him and the fire; the general put it aside, and, looking at him, said sternly–“Cockburn, no intelligence must ever go from my house to any newspapers.”

Cockburn bowed–“None shall, Sir, if I can prevent it; none ever did from me, general.”

“None must ever go from anyone in my family–look to it.”

Cockburn bowed again respectfully, but with a look of reservation of right of remonstrance, answered by a look from his master, of “No more must be said.” Yet Cockburn was a favourite; he had lived in the family from the time he was a boy. He moved hastily towards the door, and having turned the handle, rested upon it and said, “general, I cannot answer for others.”

“Then, Cockburn, I must find somebody who can.”

Cockburn disappeared, but after closing the door the veteran opened it again, stood, and said stoutly, though seemingly with some impediment in his throat–“General Clarendon, do me the justice to give me full powers.”

“Whatever you require: say, such are your orders from me, and that you have full power to dismiss whoever disobeys.” Cockburn bowed, and withdrew satisfied.

Another silence, when the general hastily finishing his breakfast, took up the newspaper, and said, “I wished to have spared you the pain of seeing these, Miss Stanley, but it must be done now. There have appeared in certain papers, paragraphs alluding to Beauclerc and to you; these scandalous papers I never allow to enter my house, but I was informed that there were such paragraphs, and I was obliged to examine into them. I am sorry to find that they have some of them been copied into my paper to-day.”

He laid the newspaper before her. The first words which struck her eye were the dreaded whispers of last night; the paragraph was as follows:

“In a few days will be published the Memoirs of the late Colonel D’—-, comprising anecdotes, and original love-letters; which will explain the mysterious allusions lately made in certain papers to ‘_La belle Fiancee_,’ and ‘_I promessi sposi_.”

“What!” exclaimed Helen; “the letters! published!”

The general had turned from her as she read, and had gone to his writing-desk, which was at the furthest end of the room; he unlocked it, and took from it a small volume, and turning over the leaves as he slowly approached Helen, he folded down some pages, laid the volume on the table before her, and then said, “Before you look into these scandalous memoirs, Miss Stanley, let me assure you, that nothing but the necessity of being empowered by you to say what is truth and what is falsehood, could determine me to give you this shock.”

She was scarcely able to put forward her hand; yet took the book, opened it, looked at it, saw letters which she knew could not be Cecilia’s, but turning another leaf, she pushed it from her with horror. It was the letter–beginning with “My dear–too dear Henry.”

“In print!” cried she; “In print! published!”

“Not published yet, that I hope to be able to prevent,” said the general.

Whether she heard, whether she could hear him, he was not certain, her head was bent down, her hands clasping her forehead. He waited some minutes, then sitting down beside her, with a voice of gentleness and of commiseration, yet of steady determination, he went on:–“I _must_ speak, and you _must_ hear me, Helen, for your own sake, and for Beauclerc’s sake.”

“Speak,” cried she, “I hear.”

“Hear then the words of a friend, who will be true to you through life–through life and death, if you will be but true to yourself, Helen Stanley–a friend who loves you as he loves Beauclerc; but he must do more, he must esteem you as he esteems Beauclerc, incapable of any thing that is false.”

Helen listened with her breath suspended, not a word in reply.

“Then I ask—-” She put her hand upon his arm, as if to stop him; she had a foreboding that he was going to ask something that she could not, without betraying Cecilia, answer.

“If you are not yet sufficiently collected, I will wait; take your own time–My question is simple–I ask you to tell me whether _all_ these letters are your’s or not?”

“No,” cried Helen, “these letters are not mine.”

“Not all,” said the general: “this first one I know to be yours, because I saw it in your handwriting; but I am certain all cannot be yours: now will you show me which are and which are not.”

“I will take them to my own room, and consider and examine.”

“Why not look at them here, Miss Stanley?”

She wanted to see Cecilia, she knew she could never answer the question without consulting her, but that she could not say; still she had no other resource, so, conquering her trembling, she rose and said, “I would rather go to—-“

“Not to Cecilia,” said he; “to that I object: what can Cecilia do for you? what can she advise, but what I advise, that the plain truth should be