But that would not do, she must have a moonlight walk; she threw open the conservatory door, beckoned to Mr. Beauclerc, and how it ended Helen did not stay to see. She thought that she ought not even to think on the subject, and she went away as fast as she could. It was late, and she went to bed wishing to be up early, to go on with a drawing she was to finish for Mrs. Collingwood — a view by the river side, that view which had struck her fancy as so beautiful the day she went first to Old Forest. Early the next morning — and a delightful morning it was — she was up and out, and reached the spot from which her sketch was taken. She was surprised to find her little camp-stool, which she had looked for in vain in the hall, in its usual place, set here ready for her, and on it a pencil nicely cut.
Beauclerc must have done this. But he was not in general an early riser. However, she concluded that he had gone over thus early to Old Forest, to see his friend Lord Beltravers, who was to have arrived the day before, with his sisters. She saw a boat rowing down the river, and she had no doubt he was gone. But just as she had settled to her drawing, she heard the joyful bark of Beauclerc’s dog Nelson, who came bounding towards her, and the next moment his master appeared, coming down the path from the wood. With quick steps he came till he was nearly close to her, then slackened his pace.
“Good morning!” said Helen; she tried to speak with composure, but her heart beat — she could not help feeling surprise at seeing him — but it was only surprise.
“I thought you were gone to Old Forest?” said she.
“Not yet,” said he.
His voice sounded different from usual, and she saw in him some suppressed agitation. She endeavoured to keep her own manner unembarrassed — she thanked him for the nicely-cut pencil, and the exactly well-placed seat. He advanced a step or two nearer, stooped, and looked close at her drawing, but he did not seem to see or know what he was looking at.
At this moment Nelson, who had been too long unnoticed, put up one paw on Miss Stanley’s arm, unseen by his master, and encouraged by such gentle reproof as Helen gave, his audacious paw was on the top of her drawing-book the next moment, and the next was upon the drawing — and the paw was wet with dew.—”Nelson!” exclaimed his master in an angry tone.
“O do not scold him,” cried Helen, “do not punish him; the drawing is not spoiled — only wet, and it will be as well as ever when it is dry.”
Beauclerc ejaculated something about the temper of an angel while she patted Nelson’s penitent head.
“As the drawing must be left to dry,” said Beauclerc, “perhaps Miss Stanley would do me the favour to walk as far as the landing-place, where the boat is to meet me — to take me — if — if I MUST go to Old Forest!” and he sighed.
She took his offered arm and walked on — surprised — confused; — wondering what he meant by that sigh and that look — and that strong emphasis on must. “If I must go to Old Forest.” Was not it a pleasure? — was it not his own choice? — what could he mean? — What could be the matter?
A vague agitating idea rose in her mind, but she put it from her, and they walked on for some minutes, both silent. They entered the wood, and feeling the silence awkward, and afraid that he should perceive her embarrassment, and that he should suspect her suspicion, she exerted herself to speak — to say something, no matter what.
“It is a charming morning!”
After a pause of absence of mind, he answered,
“Charming! — very!”
Then stopping short, he fixed his eyes upon Helen with an expression that she was afraid to understand. It could hardly bear any interpretation but one — and yet that was impossible — ought to be impossible — from a man in Beauclerc’s circumstances — engaged — almost a married man, as she had been told to consider him. She did not know at this moment what to think — still she thought she must mistake him, and she should be excessively ashamed of such a mistake, and now more strongly felt the dread that he should see and misinterpret or interpret too rightly her emotion; she walked on quicker, and her breath grew short, and her colour heightened. He saw her agitation — a delightful hope arose in his mind. It was plain she was not indifferent — he looked at her, but dared not look long enough — feared that he was mistaken. But the embarrassment seemed to change its character even as he looked, and now it was more like displeasure — decidedly, she appeared displeased. And so she was; for she thought now that he must either be trifling with her, or, if serious, must be acting most dishonourably; — her good opinion of him must be destroyed for ever, if, as now it seemed, he wished to make an impression upon her heart — yet still she tried not to think, not to see it. She was sorry, she was very wrong to let such an idea into her mind — and still her agitation increased.
Quick as she turned from him these thoughts passed in her mind, alternately angry and ashamed, and at last, forcing herself to be composed, telling herself she ought to see farther and at least to be certain before she condemned him — condemned so kind, so honourable a friend, while the fault might be all her own; she now, in a softened tone, as if begging pardon for the pain she had given, and the injustice she had done him, said some words, insignificant in themselves, but from the voice of kindness charming to Beauclerc’s ear and soul.
“Are not we walking very fast?” said she, breathless. He slackened his pace instantly, and with a delighted look, while she, in a hurried voice, added, “But do not let me delay you. There is the boat. You must be in haste — impatient!”
“In haste! impatient! to leave you, Helen!” She blushed deeper than he had ever seen her blush before. Beauclerc in general knew —
“Which blush was anger’s, which was love’s!”
— But now he was so much moved he could not decide at the first glance: at the second, there was no doubt; it was anger — not love. Her arm was withdrawn from his. He was afraid he had gone too far. He had called her Helen! He begged pardon, half humbly, half proudly. “I beg pardon; Miss Stanley, I should have said. I see I have offended. I fear I have been presumptuous, but Lady Davenant taught me to trust to Miss Stanley’s sincerity, and I was encouraged by her expressions of confidence and friendship.”
“Friendship! Oh, yes! Mr. Beauclerc,” said Helen, in a hurried voice, eagerly seizing on and repeating the word friendship; “yes, I have always considered you as a friend. I am sure I shall always find you a sincere, good friend.”
“Friend!” he repeated in a disappointed tone — all his hopes sunk. She took his arm again, and he was displeased even with that. She was not the being of real sensibility he had fancied — she was not capable of real love. So vacillated his heart and his imagination, and so quarrelled he alternately every instant with her and with himself. He could not understand her, or decide what he should next do or say himself; and there was the boat nearing the land, and they were going on, on, towards it in silence. He sighed.
It was a sigh that could not but be heard and noticed; it was not meant to be noticed, and yet it was. What could she think of it? She could not believe that Beauclerc meant to act treacherously. This time she was determined not to take anything for granted, not to be so foolish as she had been with Mr. Churchill.
“Is not that your boat that I see, rowing close?”
“Yes, I believe — certainly. Yes,” said he.
But now the vacillation of Beauclerc’s mind suddenly ceased. Desperate, he stopped her, as she would have turned down that path to the landing-place where the boat was mooring. He stood full across the path. “Miss Stanley, one word — by one word, one look decide. You must decide for me whether I stay — or go — for ever!”
“I! — Mr. Beauclerc!—”
The look of astonishment — more than astonishment, almost of indignation — silenced him completely, and he stood dismayed. She pressed onwards, and he no longer stopped her path. For an instant he submitted in despair. “Then I must not think of it. I must go — must I, Miss Stanley? Will not you listen to me, Helen? Advise me; let me open my
heart to you as a friend.”
She stopped under the shady tree beneath which they were passing, and, leaning against it, she repeated, “As a friend — but, no, no, Mr. Beauclerc — no; I am not the friend you should consult — consult the general, your guardian.”
“I have consulted him, and he approves.”
“You have! That is well, that is well at all events,” cried she; “if he approves, then all is right.”
There was a ray of satisfaction on her countenance. He looked as if considering what she exactly meant. He hoped again, and was again resolved to hazard the decisive words. “If you knew all!” and he pressed her arm closer to him—”if I might tell you all —— ?”
Helen withdrew her arm decidedly. “I know all,” said she; “all I ought to know, Mr. Beauclerc.”
“You know all!” cried he, astonished at her manner.
“You know the circumstances in which I am placed?”
He alluded to the position in which he stood with Lady Castlefort; she thought he meant with respect to Lady Blanche, and she answered—”Yes: I know all!” and her eye turned towards the boat.
“I understand you,” said he; “you think I ought to go?”
“Certainly,” said she. It never entered into her mind to doubt the truth of what Lady Cecilia had told her, and she had at first been so much embarrassed by the fear of betraying what she felt she ought not to feel, and she was now so shocked by what she thought his dishonourable conduct, that she repeated almost in a tone of severity—”Certainly, Mr. Beauclerc, you ought to go.”
The words, “since you are engaged,”—”you know you are engaged,” she was on the point of adding, but Lady Cecilia’s injunctions not to tell him that she had betrayed his secret stopped her.
He looked at her for an instant, and then abruptly, and in great agitation, said; “May I ask, Miss Stanley, if your affections are engaged?”
“Is that a question, Mr. Beauclerc, which you have a right to ask me?”
“I have no right — no right, I acknowledge — I am answered.”
He turned away from her, and ran down the bank towards the boat, but returned instantly, and exclaimed, “If you say to me, go! I am gone for ever!”
“Go!” Helen firmly pronounced. “You never can be more than a friend to me! Oh never be less! — go!”
“I am gone,” said he, “you shall never see me more.”
He went, and a few seconds afterwards she heard the splashing of his oars. He was gone! Oh! how she wished that they had parted sooner — a few minutes sooner, even before he had so looked — so spoken!
“Oh! that we had parted while I might have still perfectly esteemed him; but now — !”
CHAPTER V.
When Helen attempted to walk, she trembled so much that she could not move, and leaning against the tree under which she was standing, she remained fixed for some time almost without thought. Then she began to recollect what had been before all this, and as soon as she could walk she went back for her drawing-book, threw from her the pencil which Beauclerc had cut, and made her way home as fast as she could, and up to her own room, without meeting anybody; and as soon as she was there she bolted the door and threw herself upon her bed. She had by this time a dreadful headache, and she wanted to try and get rid of it in time for breakfast — that was her first object; but her thoughts were so confused that they could not fix upon anything rightly. She tried to compose herself, and to think the whole affair over again; but she could not. There was something so strange in what had passed! The sudden — the total change in her opinion — her total loss of confidence! She tried to put all thoughts and feelings out of her mind, and just to lie stupified if she could, that she might get rid of the pain in her head. She had no idea whether it was late or early, and was going to get up to look at her watch, when she heard the first bell, half an hour before breakfast, and this was the time when Cecilia usually opened the door between their rooms. She dreaded the sound, but when she had expected it some minutes, she became impatient even for that which she feared; she wanted to have it over, and she raised herself on her elbow, and listened with acute impatience: at last the door was thrown wide open, and bright and gay as ever, in came Cecilia, but at the first sight of Helen on her bed, wan and miserable, she stopped short.
“My dearest Helen! what can be the matter?”
“Mr. Beauclerc—”
“Well! what of him?” cried Cecilia, and she smiled.
“Oh, Cecilia! do not smile; you cannot imagine—”
“Oh, yes! but I can,” cried Cecilia. “I see how it is; I understand it all; and miserable and amazed as you look at this moment, I will set all right for you in one word. He is not going to be married — not engaged.”
Helen started up. “Not engaged!”
“No more than you are, my dear! Oh! I am glad to see your colour come again!”
“Thank Heaven!” cried Helen, “then he is not—”
“A villain! — not at all. He is all that’s right; all that is charming, my dear. So thank Heaven, and be as happy as you please.”
“But I cannot understand it,” said Helen, sinking back; “I really cannot understand how it is, Cecilia.” Cecilia gave her a glass of water in great haste, and was very sorry, and very glad, and begged forgiveness, and all in a breath: but as yet Helen did not know what she had to forgive, till it was explained to her in direct words, that Cecilia had told her not only what was not true, but what she at the time of telling knew to be false.
“For what purpose, oh! my dear Cecilia! All to save me from a little foolish embarrassment at first, you have made us miserable at last.”
“Miserable! my dear Helen; at worst miserable only for half an hour. Nonsense! lie down again, and rest your poor head. I will go this minute to Granville. Where is he?”
“Gone! Gone for ever! Those were his last words.”
“Impossible! absurd! Only what a man says in a passion. But where is he gone? Only to Old Forest! Gone for ever — gone till dinner-time! Probably coming back at this moment in all haste, like a true lover, to beg your pardon for your having used him abominably ill. Now, smile; do not shake your head, and look so wretched; but tell me exactly, word for word and look for look, all that passed between you, and then I shall know what is best to be done.”
Word for word Helen could not answer, for she had been so much confused, but she told to the best of her recollection; and Cecilia still thought no great harm was done. She only looked a little serious from the apprehension, now the real, true apprehension, of what might happen about Lady Blanche, who, as she believed, was at Old Forest. “Men are so foolish; men in love, so rash. Beauclerc, in a fit of anger and despair on being so refused by the woman he loved, might go and throw himself at the feet of another for whom he did not care in the least, in a strange sort of revenge. But I know how to settle it all, and I will do it this moment.”
But Helen caught hold of her hand, and firmly detaining it, absolutely objected to her doing anything without telling her exactly and truly what she was going to do.
Lady Cecilia assured her that she was only going to inquire from the general whether Lady Blanche was with her sister at Old Forest, or not. “Listen to me, my dear Helen; what I am going to say can do no mischief. If Lady Blanche is there, then the best thing to be done is, for me to go immediately, this very morning, to pay the ladies a visit on their coming to the country, and I will bring back Granville. A word will bring him back. I will only tell him there was a little mistake, or if you think it best, I will tell him the whole truth. Let me go — only let me go and consult the general before the breakfast-bell rings, for I shall have no time afterwards.”
Helen let her go, for as Beauclerc had told her that he had opened his mind to the general, she thought it was best that he should hear all that had happened.
The moment the general saw Lady Cecilia come in, he smiled, and said, “Well! my dear Cecilia, you have seen Helen this morning, and she has se
en Beauclerc — what is the result? Does he stay, or go?”
“He is gone!” said Cecilia. The general looked surprised and sorry. “He did not propose for her,” continued Cecilia, “he did not declare himself — he only began to sound her opinion of him, and she — she contrived to misunderstand — to offend him, and he is gone, but only to Old Forest, and we can have him back again directly.”
“That is not likely,” said the general, “because I know that Beauclerc had determined, that if he went he would not return for some time. Your friend Helen was to decide. If she gave him any hope, that is, permitted him to appear as her declared admirer, he could, with propriety, happiness, and honour, remain here; if not, my dear Cecilia, you must be sensible that he is right to go.”
“Gone for some time!” repeated Cecilia, “you mean as long as Lady Castlefort is here.”
“Yes,” said the general.
“I wish she was gone, I am sure, with all my heart,” said Cecilia; “but in the mean time, tell me, my dear Clarendon, do you know whether Lord Beltravers’ sisters are at Old Forest?”
The general did not think that Lady Blanche had arrived; he was not certain, but he knew that the Comtesse de St. Cymon had arrived yesterday.
“Then,” said Cecilia, “it would be but civil to go to see the comtesse. I will go this morning.”
General Clarendon answered instantly, and with decision, that she must not think of such a thing — that it could not be done. “Madame de St. Cymon is a woman of doubtful reputation, not a person with whom Lady Cecilia Clarendon ought to form any acquaintance.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 250