“Mamma is always right; with her—’coming events’ really and truly ‘cast their shadows before.’ I do believe she has the fatal gift, the coming ill to know!”
“Ill!” said Helen; “what ill is coming?”
“After all, however, it may not be an ill,” said Lady Cecilia; “it may be all for the best; yet I am shockingly disappointed, though I declare I never formed any—”
“Oh, my dear Cecilia, do tell me at once what it is you mean.”
“I mean, that Granville Beauclerc, like all men of genius, has acted like the greatest fool.”
“What has he done?”
“He is absolutely — you must look upon him in future — as a married man.”
Helen was delighted. Cecilia could form no farther schemes on her account, and she felt relieved from all her awkwardness.
“Dearest Helen, this is well at all events,” cried Cecilia, seeing her cleared countenance. “This comforts me; you are at ease; and, if I have caused you one uncomfortable evening, I am sure you are consoled for it by the reflection that my mother was right, and I, as usual, wrong. But, Helen,” continued she earnestly, “remember that this is not to be known; remember you must not breathe the least hint of what I have told you to mamma or the general.”
Something more than astonishment appeared in Helen’s countenance. “And is it possible that Mr. Beauclerc does not tell them, — does not trust his guardian and such a friend as your mother?” said Helen.
“He will tell them, he will tell them — but not yet; perhaps not till — he is not to see his fiancée — they have for some reason agreed to be separated for some time — I do not know exactly, but surely every body may choose their own opportunity for telling their own secrets. In fact, Helen, the lady, I understand, made it a point with him that nothing should be said of it yet — to any one.”
“But he told it to you?”
“No, indeed, he did not tell it; I found it out, and he could not deny it; but he charged me to keep it secret, and I would not have told it to any body living but yourself; and to you, after all I said about him, I felt it was necessary — thought I was bound — in short, I thought it would set things to rights, and put you at your ease at once.”
And then, with more earnestness, she again pressed upon Helen a promise of secrecy, especially towards Lady Davenant. Helen submitted. Cecilia embraced her affectionately, and left the room. Quite tired, and quite happy, Helen was in bed and asleep in a few minutes.
Not the slightest suspicion crossed her mind that all her friend had been telling her was not perfectly true. To a more practised, a less confiding, person the perplexity of Lady Cecilia’s prefaces, and some contradictions or inconsistencies, might have suggested doubts; hut Helen’s general confidence in her friend’s truth had never yet been seriously shaken. Lady Davenant she had always thought prejudiced on this point, and too severe. If there had been in early childhood a bad habit of inaccuracy in Cecilia, Helen thought it long since cured; and so perhaps it was, till she formed a friendship abroad with one who had no respect for truth.
But of this Helen knew nothing; and, in fact, till now Lady Cecilia’s aberrations had been always trifling, almost imperceptible, errors, such as only her mother’s strictness or Miss Clarendon’s scrupulosity could detect. Nor would Cecilia have ventured upon a decided, an important, false assertion, except for a kind purpose. Never in her life had she told a falsehood to injure any human creature, or one that she could foresee might, by any possibility do harm to any living being. But here was a friend, a very dear friend, in an awkward embarrassment, and brought into it by her means; and by a little innocent stretching of the truth she could at once, she fancied, set all to rights. The moment the idea came into her head, upon the spur of the occasion, she resolved to execute it directly. It was settled between the drawing-room door and her dressing-room. And when thus executed successfully, with happy sophistry she justified it to herself. “After all,” said she to herself, “though it was not absolutely true, it was ben trovato, it was as near the truth, perhaps, as possible. Beauclerc’s best friends really feared that he was falling in love with the lady in question. It was very likely, and too likely, it might end in his marrying this Lady Blanche Forrester. And, on every account, and every way, it was for the best that Helen should consider him as a married man. This would restore Helen by one magical stroke to herself, and release her from that wretched state in which she could neither please nor be pleased.” And as far as this good effect upon Helen was concerned, Lady Cecilia’s plan was judicious; it succeeded admirably.
Wonderful! how a few words spoken, a single idea taken, out of or put into the mind, can make such a difference, not only in the mental feelings, but in the whole bodily appearance, and in the actual powers of perception and use of our senses.
When Helen entered the breakfast-room the next morning, she looked, and moved, and felt, quite a different creature from what she had been the preceding day. She had recovered the use of her understanding, and she could hear and see quite distinctly; and the first thing she saw was, that nobody was thinking particularly about her; and now she for the first time actually saw Mr. Beauclerc. She had before looked at him without seeing him, and really did not know what sort of looking person he was, except that he was like a gentleman; of that she had a sort of intuitive perception; — as Cuvier could tell from the first sight of a single bone what the animal was, what were its habits, and to what class it belonged, so any person early used to good company can, by the first gesture, the first general manner of being, passive or active, tell whether a stranger, even scarcely seen, is or is not a gentleman.
At the beginning of breakfast, Mr. Beauclerc had all the perfect English quiet of look and manners, with somewhat of a high-bred air of indifference to all sublunary things, yet saying and doing whatever was proper for the present company; yet it was done and said like one in a dream, performed like a somnambulist, correctly from habit, but all unconsciously. He awakened from his reverie the moment General Clarendon came in, and he asked eagerly, —
“General! how far is it to Old Forest?” These were the first words which he pronounced like one wide awake. “I must ride there this morning; it’s absolutely necessary.”
The general replied that he did not see the necessity.
“But when I do, sir,” cried Beauclerc; the natural vivacity of the young man breaking through the conventional manner. Next moment, with a humble look, he hoped that the general would accompany him, and the look of proud humility vanished from his countenance the next instant, because the general demurred, and Beauclerc added, “Will not you oblige me so far? Then I must go by myself.”
The general, seeming to go on with his own thoughts, and not to be moved by his ward’s impatience, talked of a review that was to be put off, and at length found that he could accompany him. Beauclerc then, delighted, thanked him warmly.
“What is the object of this essential visit to Old Forest, may I ask?” said Lady Davenant.
“To see a dilapidated house,” said the general.
“To save a whole family from ruin,” cried Beauclerc; “to restore a man of first-rate talents to his place in society.”
“Pshaw!” said the general.
“Why that contemptuous exclamation, my dear general?” said Beauclerc.
“I have told you, and again I tell you, the thing is impossible!” said the general.
“So I hear you say, sir,” replied his ward; “but till I am convinced, I hold to my project.”
“And what is your project, Granville?” said Lady Davenant.
“I will explain it to you when we are alone,” said Beauclerc.
“I beg your pardon, I was not aware that there was any mystery,” said Lady Davenant. “No mystery,” said Beauclerc, “only about lending some money to a friend.”
“To which I will not consent,” said the general.
“Why not, sir?” said Beauclerc, throwing back his head with an air
of defiance in his countenance; there was as he looked at his guardian a quick, mutable succession of feelings, in striking contrast with the fixity of the general’s appearance.
“I have given you my reasons, Beauclerc,” said the general, “It is unnecessary to repeat what I have said, you will do no good.”
“No good, general? When I tell you that if I lend Beltravers the money, to put his place in repair, to put it in such a state that his sisters could live in it, he would no longer be a banished man, a useless absentee, a wanderer abroad, but he would come and settle at Old Forest, re-establish the fortune and respectability of his family, and above all, save his own character and happiness. Oh, my dear general!”
General Clarendon, evidently moved by his ward’s benevolent enthusiasm, paused and said that there were many recollections which made it rather painful to him to revisit Old Forest. Still he would do it for Beauclerc, since nothing but seeing the place would convince him of the impracticability of his scheme. “I have not been at Old Forest,” continued the general, “since I was a boy — since it was deserted by the owners, and sadly changed I shall find it.
“In former times these Forresters were a respectable, good old English family, till the second wife, pretty and silly, took a fancy for figuring in London, where of course she was nobody. Then, to make herself somebody, she forced her husband to stand for the county. A contested election — bribery — a petition — another election — ruinous expense. Then that Beltravers title coming to them: and they were to live up to it, — and beyond their income. The old story — over head and shoulders in debt. Then the new story, — that they must go abroad for economy!”
“Economy! The cant of all those who have not courage to retrench at home,” said Lady Davenant.
“They must,” they said, “live abroad, it is so cheap,” continued the general. “So cheap to leave their house to go to ruin! Cheap education too! and so good — and what does it come to?”
“A cheap provision it is for a family in many cases,” said Lord Davenant. “Wife, son, and daughter, Satan, are thy own.”
“Not in this case,” cried Beauclerc; “you cannot mean I hope.”
“I can answer for one, the daughter at least,” said Lady Davenant; “that Mad. de St. Cimon, whom we saw abroad, at Florence, you know, Cecilia, with whom I would not let you form an acquaintance.”
“Your ladyship was quite right,” said the general.
Beauclerc could not say, “Quite wrong,” — and he looked — suffering.
“I know nothing of the son,” pursued Lady Davenant.
“I do,” said Beauclerc, “he is my friend.”
“I thought he had been a very distressed man, that young Beltravers,” said the aid-de-camp.
“And if he were, that would not prevent my being his friend, sir,” said Beauclerc.
“Of course,” said the aid-de-camp, “I only asked.”
“He is a man of genius and feeling,” continued Beauclerc, turning to Lady Davenant.
“But I never heard you mention Lord Beltravers before. How long has he been your friend?” said Lady Davenant.
Beauclerc hesitated. The general without hesitation answered, “Three weeks and one day.”
“I do not count my friendship by days or weeks,” said Beauclerc.
“No, my dear Beauclerc,” said the general: “well would it be for you if you would condescend to any such common-sense measure.” He rose from the breakfast-table as he spoke, and rang the bell to order the horses.
“You are prejudiced against Beltravers, general; but you will think better of him, I am sure, when you know him.”
“You will think worse of him when you know him, I suspect,” replied the general.
“Suspect! But since you only suspect,” said Beauclerc, “we English do not condemn on suspicion, unheard, unseen.”
“Not unheard,” said the general, “I have heard enough of him.”
“From the reports of his enemies,” said Beauclerc.
“I do not usually form my judgment,” replied the general, “from reports either of friends or enemies; I have not the honour of knowing any of Lord Beltravers’ enemies.”
“Enemies of Lord Beltravers!” exclaimed Lady Davenant. “What right as he to enemies as if he were a great man? — a person of whom nobody ever heard, setting up to have enemies! But now-a-days, these candidates for fame, these would-be celebrated, set up their enemies as they would their equipages, on credit — then, by an easy process of logic, make out the syllogism thus: — Every great man has enemies, therefore, every man who has enemies must be great — hey, Beauclerc?”
Beauclerc vouchsafed only a faint, absent smile, and, turning to his guardian, asked—”Since Lord Beltravers was not to be allowed the honours of enemies, or the benefit of pleading prejudice, on what did the general form his judgment?”
“From his own words.”
“Stay judgment, my dear general,” cried Beauclerc; “words repeated! by whom?”
“Repeated by no one — heard from himself, by myself.”
“Yourself! I was not aware you had ever met; — when? where?” Beauclerc started forward on his chair, and listened eagerly for the answer.
“Pity!” said Lady Davenant, speaking to herself,—”pity! that ‘with such quick affections kindling into flame,’ they should burn to waste.”
“When, where?” repeated Beauclerc, with his eyes fixed on his guardian, and his soul in his eyes.
Soberly and slowly his guardian answered, and categorically,—”When did I meet Lord Beltravers? A short time before his father’s death. — Where? At Lady Grace Bland’s.”
“At Lady Grace Bland’s! — where he could not possibly appear to advantage! Well, go on, sir.”
“One moment — pardon me, Beauclerc; I have curiosity as well as yourself. May I ask why Lord Beltravers could not possibly have appeared to advantage at Lady Grace Bland’s?”
“Because I know he cannot endure her; I have heard him, speaking of her, quote what Johnson or somebody says of Clariss—’a prating, preaching, frail creature.’”
“Good!” said the general, “he said this of his own aunt!”
“Aunt! You cannot mean that Lady Grace is his aunt?” cried Beauclerc.
“She is his mother’s sister,” replied the general, “and therefore is, I conceive, his aunt.”
“Be it so,” cried Beauclerc; “people must tell the truth sometimes, even of their own relations; they must know it best, and therefore I conclude that what Beltravers said of Lady Grace is true.”
“Bravo! well jumped to a conclusion, Granville, as usual,” said Lady Davenant, “But go on, general, tell us what you have heard from this precious lord; can you have better than what Beauclerc, his own witness, gives in evidence?”
“Better I think, and in the same line,” said the general: “his lordship has the merit of consistency. At table, servants of course present, and myself a stranger, I heard Lord Beltravers begin by cursing England and all that inhabit it. ‘But your country!’ remonstrated his aunt. He abjured England; he had no country, he said, no liberal man ever has; he had no relations — what nature gave him without his consent he had a right to disclaim, I think he argued. But I can swear to these words, with which he concluded—’My father is an idiot, my mother a brute, and my sister may go to the devil her own way.’”
“Such bad taste!” said the aid-de-camp.
Lady Davenant smiled at the unspeakable astonishment in Helen’s face. “When you have lived one season in the world, my dear child, this power of surprise will be worn out.”
“But even to those who have seen the world,” said the aide-de-camp, who had seen the world, “as it strikes me, really it is such extraordinary bad taste!”
“Such ordinary bad taste! as it strikes me,” said Lady Davenant; “base imitation, and imitation is always a confession of poverty, a want of original genius. But then there are degrees among the race of imitators. Some choose their o
riginals well, some come near them tolerably; but here, all seems equally bad, clumsy, Birmingham counterfeit; don’t you think so, Beauclerc? a counterfeit that falls and makes no noise. There is the worst of it for your protégé, whose great ambition I am sure it is to make a noise in the world. However, I may spare my remonstrances, for I am quite aware that you would never let drop a friend.”
“Never, never!” cried Beauclerc.
“Then, my dear Granville, do not take up this man, this Lord Beltravers, for, depend upon it, he will never do. If he had made a bold stroke for a reputation, like a great original, and sported some deed without a name, to work upon the wonder-loving imagination of the credulous English public, one might have thought something of him. But this cowardly, negative sin, not honouring his father and mother! so commonplace, too, neutral tint — no effect. Quite a failure, one cannot even stare, and you know, Granville, the object of all these strange speeches is merely to make fools stare. To be the wonder of the London world for a single day, is the great ambition of these ephemeral fame-hunters ‘insects that shine, buzz, and fly-blow in the setting sun.’”
Beauclerc pushed away his tea-cup half across the table, exclaiming, “How unjust! to class him among a tribe he detests and despises as much as you can, Lady Davenant. And all for that one unfortunate speech — Not quite fair, general, not quite philosophical, Lady Davenant, to decide on a man’s character from the specimen of a single speech: this is like judging of a house from the sample of a single brick. All this time I know how Beltravers came to make that speech — I know how it was, as well as if I had been present — better!”
“Better!” cried Lady Cecilia.
“Ladies and gentlemen may laugh,” resumed Beauclerc, “but I seriously maintain — better!”
“How better than the general, who was present, and heard and saw the whole?” said Lady Cecilia.
“Yes, better, for he saw only effects, and I know causes; and I appeal to Lady Davenant, — from Lady Davenant sarcastic to Lady Davenant philosophic I appeal — may not the man who discovers causes, say he knows more than he who merely sees effects?”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 237