Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  Helen felt and admired this generous candour, but her suspicions were not of the diplomatist alone: she thought of one who might perhaps have been employed by him — Carlos the page. And many circumstances, which she recollected and put together, now strengthened this suspicion. She wondered it had not occurred to Lady Davenant; she thought it must, but that she did not choose to mention it. Helen had often heard Lady Davenant’s particular friends complain that it was extremely disagreeable to them to have this boy constantly in the room, whatever might be the conversation. There was the page, either before or behind a screen, always within hearing.

  Lady Davenant said that, as Carlos was a Portuguese, and had never been in England till she had brought him over, a few months before, he could not understand English well enough to comprehend what was going on. This was doubted, especially by Helen, who had watched his countenance, and had represented her doubts and her reasons for them to Lady Davenant, but she was not convinced. It was one of the few points on which she could justly be reproached with adhering to her fancy instead of listening to reason. The more Carlos was attacked, the more she adhered to him. In fact, it was not so much because he was a favourite, as because he was a protegé; he was completely dependent upon her protection: she had brought him to England, had saved him from his mother, a profligate camp-follower, had freed him from the most miserable condition possible, and had raised him to easy, happy, confidential life. To the generous the having conferred an obligation is in itself a tie hard to sever. All noble-minded people believe in fidelity, and never doubt of gratitude; they throw their own souls into those they oblige, and think and feel for them, as they, in their situation, would think and feel. Lady Davenant considered it an injustice to doubt the attachment of this boy, and a cruelty she deemed it to suspect him causelessly of being the most base of human creatures — he, a young defenceless orphan. Helen had more than once offended, by attempting to stop Lady Davenant from speaking imprudently before Carlos; she was afraid, even at this moment, to irritate her by giving utterance to her doubts; she determined, therefore, to keep them to herself till she had some positive grounds for her suspicions. She resolved to watch the boy very carefully. Presently, having finished her letters, Lady Davenant rang for him. Helen’s eyes were upon Carlos the moment he entered, and her thoughts did not escape observation.

  “You are wrong, Helen,” said Lady Davenant, as she lighted the taper to seal her letters.

  “If I am not right,” said Helen, keeping her eyes upon the boy’s changing countenance, “I am too suspicious — but observe, am I not right, at this instant, in thinking that his countenance is bad?”

  Lady Davenant could not but see that countenance change in an extraordinary manner, in spite of his efforts to keep it steady.

  “You cause that of which you complain,” said she, going on sealing her letters deliberately. “In courts of public justice, and in private equity,” the word equity she pronounced with an austere emphasis, “how often is the change of countenance misinterpreted. The sensibility of innocence, that cannot bear to be suspected, is often mistaken for the confusion worse confounded of guilt.”

  Helen observed, that, as Lady Davenant spoke, and spoke in his favour, the boy’s countenance cleared up; that vacillating expression of fear, and consciousness of having something within him unwhipt of justice, completely disappeared, and his whole air was now bold and open — towards Helen, almost an air of defiance.

  “What do you think is the cause of this change in his countenance — you observe it, do you not?” asked Helen.

  “Yes, and the cause is as plain as the change. He sees I do not suspect him, though you do; and seeing, Helen, that he has at least one friend in the world, who will do him justice, the orphan boy takes courage.”

  “I wish I could be as good as you are, my dearest Lady Davenant,” said Helen; “but I cannot help still feeling, and saying, — I doubt. Now observe him, while I speak; I will turn my eyes away, that my terrible looks may not confound him. You say he knows that you do not suspect him, and that I do. How does he know it?”

  “How!” said Lady Davenant. “By the universal language of the eyes.”

  “Not only by that universal language, I think,” said Helen; “but I suspect he understands every word we say.”

  Helen, without ever looking up from a bunch of seals which she was rubbing bright, slowly and very distinctly added,

  “I think that he can speak, read, and write English.”

  A change in the countenance of Carlos appeared, notwithstanding all his efforts to hold his features in the same position; instead of placid composure there was now grim rigidity.

  “Give me the great seal with the coat of arms on it,” said Lady Davenant, dropping the wax on her letter, and watching the boy’s eye as she spoke, without herself looking towards the seal she had described. He never stirred, and Helen began to fear she was unjust and suspicious. But again her doubts, at least of his disposition, occurred: as she was passing through Lady Davenant’s dressing-room with her, when they were going down to dinner, the page following them, Helen caught his figure in a mirror, and saw that he was making a horrible grimace at her behind her back, his dark countenance expressing extreme hatred and revenge. Helen touched Lady Davenant’s arm, but, before her eye could be directed to the glass, Carlos, perceiving that he was observed, pretended to be suddenly seized with the cramp in his foot, which obliged him to make these frightful contortions. Helen was shocked by his artfulness, but it succeeded with Lady Davenant: it was in vain to say more about it to her, so Helen let it pass. When she mentioned it afterwards to Lady Cecilia, she said—”I am sorry, for your sake, Helen, that this happened; depend upon it, that revengeful little Portuguese gnome will work you mischief some time or other.” Helen did not think of herself — indeed she could not imagine any means by which he could possibly work her woe; but the face was so horrible, that it came again and again before her eyes, and she was more and more determined to watch Carlos constantly.

  This was one of the public days at Clarendon Park, on which there was a good deal of company; many of the neighbouring gentry were to be at dinner. When Lady Davenant appeared, no inquiries concerning her health were made by her daughter or by the general — no allusion to her having been unwell. She seemed quite recovered, and Helen observed that she particularly exerted herself, and that her manner was more gracious than usual to commonplace people — more present to everything that was passing. She retired however early, and took Helen with her. The depression of her spirits, or rather the weight upon her mind, appeared again as soon as they were alone together. She took her writing-desk, and looked over some letters which she said ought to be burned. She could not sleep in peace, she said — she ought not to sleep, till this was done. Several of these, as she looked over them, seemed to give her pain, and excited her indignation or contempt as she from time to time exclaimed—”Meanness! — corruption! — ingratitude too! — all favours forgotten! To see — to feel this — is the common fate of all who have lived the life I have lived; of this I am not so inconsistent as to complain. But it is hard that my own character — the integrity of a whole life — should avail me nothing! And yet,” added she, after a moment’s pause of reflection, “to how few can my character be really known! Women cannot, like men, make their characters known by public actions. I have no right to complain; but if Lord Davenant’s honour is to be—” She paused; her thoughts seeming too painful for utterance. She completed the arrangement of the papers, and, as she pressed down the lid of her writing-box, and heard the closing sound of the lock, she said,—”Now I may sleep in peace.” She put out the lamp, and went to her bed-room, carrying with her two or three books which she intended to read after she should be in bed; for, though she talked of sleeping, it was plain she thought she should not. Helen prevailed upon her to let her remain with her, and read to her.

  She opened first a volume of Shakspeare, in which was Lady Davenant’s mark. “Yes,�
�� said she, “read that speech of Wolsey’s; read that whole scene, the finest picture of ambition ever drawn.” And, after she had heard the scene, she observed that there is no proof more certain of the truth of poetic description, than its recurring to us at the time we strongly feel. “Those who tell us,” continued she, “that it is unnatural to recollect poetry or eloquence at times of powerful emotion, are much mistaken; they have not strong feelings or strong imaginations. I can affirm from my own experience, that it is perfectly natural.” Lady Davenant rapidly mentioned some instances of this sort which she recollected, but seeing the anxiety of Helen’s look, she added, “You are afraid that I am feverish; you wish me to rest; then, go on reading to me.”

  Helen read on, till Lady Davenant declared she would not let her sit up any longer. “Only, before you go, my dear child, look here at what I have been looking at while you have been reading.” She made Helen place herself so as to see exactly in the same direction and light in which she was looking, and she pointed out to her, in the lining of the bed, a place where, from the falling of the folds and the crinkles in the material, a figure with the head, head-dress, and perfect profile of an old woman with a turned-up chin, appeared. At first Helen could not see it; but at last she caught it, and was struck with it. “The same sort of curious effect of chance resemblance and coincidence which painters, Leonardo da Vinci in particular, have observed in the moss and stains on old stones,” observed Lady Davenant. “But it struck me to-night, Helen, perhaps because I am a little feverish — it struck me in a new point of view — moral, not picturesque. If such be the effects of chance, or of coincidence, how cautious we should be in deciding from appearances, or pronouncing from circumstantial evidence upon the guilt of evil design in any human creature.”

  “You mean this to apply to me about Carlos?” said Helen.

  “I do. But not only of him and you was I thinking, but of myself and those who judge of me falsely from coincidences, attributing to me designs which I never had, and actions of which I am incapable.” She suddenly raised herself in her bed, and was going to say more, but the pendule striking at that instant two o’clock, she stopped abruptly, kissed Helen, and sent her away.

  Helen gathered together and carried away with her all the books, that Lady Davenant might not be tempted to look at them more. As she had several piled on one arm, and had a taper in her hand, she was somewhat encumbered, and, though she managed to open the bed-room door, and to shut it again without letting any of the books fall, and crossed the little ante-room between the bed-chamber and dressing-room safely, yet, as she was opening the dressing-room door, and taking too much or too little care of some part of her pyramid of books, down came the whole pile with a noise which, in the stillness of the night, sounded tremendous. She was afraid it would disturb Lady Davenant, and was going back to tell her what it was, when she was startled by hearing, as she thought, the moving of a chair or table in the dressing-room: she stopped short to listen — all was silent; she thought she had mistaken the direction in which the noise came.

  She softly opened the dressing-room door, and looked in — all was silent — no chair, or stool, or table overturned, every thing was in its place exactly as they had left it, but there was a strong smell of a half extinguished lamp: she thought it had been put out when they had left the room, she now supposed it had not been sufficiently lowered, she turned the screw, and took care now to see it completely extinguished; then went back for the books, and as people sometimes will, when most tired and most late, be most orderly, she would not go to bed without putting every volume in its place in the book-case. After reaching to put one book upon the highest shelf, as she was getting down she laid her hand on the top of Lady Davenant’s writing-box, and, as she leaned on it, was surprised to hear the click of its lock closing. The sound was so peculiar she could not be mistaken; besides, she thought she had felt the lid give way under her pressure. There was no key left in the lock — she perfectly recollected the very sound of that click when Lady Davenant shut the lid down before leaving the room this night. She stood looking at the lock, and considering how this could be, and as she remained perfectly still, she heard, or thought she heard some one breathing near her. Holding in her own breath, she listened and cautiously looked round without stirring from the place where she stood — one of the window curtains moved, so at least she thought — yes, certainly there was some living thing behind it. It might be Lady Davenant’s great dog; but looking again at the bottom of the curtain she saw a human foot. The page, Carlos! was her instant suspicion, and his vengeful face came before her, and a vision of a stiletto! or she did not well know what. She trembled all over; yet she had presence of mind enough to recollect that she should not seem to take notice. And, while she moved about the books on the table, she gave another look, and saw that the foot was not withdrawn. She knew she was safe still, it had not been perceived that she had seen it; now what was she to do? “Go up to that curtain and draw it back and face the boy” — but she did not dare; yet he was only a boy — But it might be a man and not the page. Better go and call somebody — tell Lady Davenant. She MUST go through the antechamber, and pass close to that curtain to open the door. All this was the thought of one moment, end she went on holding up the light to the book-shelves as if in quest of some book, and kept coasting along to gain the door; she was afraid when she was to pass the window-curtain, either of touching it, or of stumbling over that foot. But she got past without touching or stumbling, opened the door, whisked through — that was done too quickly, but she could not help it, — she shut, bolted the door, and ran across the ante-chamber to Lady Davenant’s bed-room. She entered softly, aware of the danger to her of sudden alarm. But Lady Davenant was not asleep, was not alarmed, but was effective in a moment. First she asked:—”Did you lock the door after you?” “Yes, bolted it,”—”That is well.” Neither of them said. “Who do you think it is?” But each knew what the other thought. They returned through the ante-chamber to the dressing-room. But when they opened the door, all was quiet — no one behind the curtain, no one in the room — they searched under the sofas, everywhere; there was no closet or hiding-place in which any one could be concealed. The window fastenings were unstirred. But the door into the gallery was unlocked, and the simple thing appeared — that Helen, in her confusion, had thought only of fastening the door into the ante-chamber, which also opened on the gallery, but had totally forgotten to lock that from the dressing-room into the gallery, by which whoever had been in the room had escaped without any difficulty. Lady Davenant rather inclined to believe that no one had been there, and that it was all Helen’s imagination. But Helen persisted that she had seen what she had seen, and heard what she had heard. They went into the gallery — all silence, no creature visible, and the doors at the ends of the gallery locked outside.

  After a fruitless search they retired, Lady Davenant to her own room, and Helen to hers, full of shame and regret that she had not had the courage to open the curtain at the right moment. Nothing could stir her belief, however, in the evidence of her senses; the boy must have been there, and must be still concealed somewhere in the gallery, or in some of the rooms opening into it. Some of these were unoccupied, but they were all locked up, as Lady Davenant had told her when she had proposed searching them; one or two they tried and found fastened. She stood at her own door, after having put down the candle on her table, still giving a lingering look-out, when, through the darkness in the gallery at the further end, she saw a ray of light on the floor, which seemed to come from under the door of a room unoccupied — Mr. Mapletofft’s room; he had gone to town with Lord Davenant. Helen went on tiptoe very softly along the gallery, almost to this door, when it suddenly opened, and the page stood before her, the lamp in his hand shining full on his face and on hers. Both started — then both were motionless for one second — but he, recovering instantly, shot back again into the room, flung to the door, and locked it.

  “Seen him!” cried L
ady Davenant, when Helen flew to her room and told her; “seen him! do you say?” and then ringing her bell, she bade Helen run and knock at the general’s door, while she went herself to Mr. Mapletofft’s room, commanding Carlos to open the door immediately. But he would not open it, nor make any answer; the servants came, and the general ordered one to go round to the windows of the room lest the boy should escape that way. It was too late, he had escaped; when the door was forced, one of the windows was found open; Carlos was not in the room; he must have swung himself down from the height by means of a tree which was near the window. The lamp was still burning, and papers half burnt smouldering on the table. There were sufficient remains to tell what they had been. Lady Davenant saw, in the handwriting of Carlos, copies of letters taken from her desk. One half unburnt cover of the packet he had been making up, showed by its direction to whom it was to have been sent, and there were a few lines in the boy’s own writing within — side-addressed to his employer, which revealed the whole. His employer was, as Lady Davenant had suspected — the diplomatist!

  A duplicate Bramah key was found under the table, and she recollected that she had some months ago missed this duplicate key of her desk, and supposed she had dropped it from her watch-ring while out walking; she recollected, further, that Carlos had with great zeal assisted her in the search for it all through the shrubbery walks. The proofs of this boy’s artifice and long-premeditated treachery, accumulating upon Lady Davenant, shocked her so much that she could not think of anything else. “Is it possible? is it in human nature?” she exclaimed. “Such falsehood, such art, such ingratitude!” As she fixed her eyes upon the writing, scarcely yet dry, she repeated. “It is his writing — I see it, yet can scarcely believe it! I, who taught him to write myself — guided that little hand to make the first letters that he ever formed! And this is in human nature! I could not have conceived it — it is dreadful to be so convinced, it lowers one’s confidence in one’s fellow-creatures. That is the worst of all!” She sighed deeply, and then, turning to Helen, said, “But let us think no more of it to-night, we can do no more, they are in pursuit of him; I hope I may never, never, see him more.”