“I don’t believe a word of it,” said Miss Clarendon.
“But even to have such things said must be so distressing to her and to her lover, your friend Mr. Beauclerc — so very distressing!”
“I hope they are not such fools as to be distressed about such stuff. All this insufferable talking man’s invention, I dare say.”
“Why do people tell such things?” said Mrs. Pennant. “But, my dear Esther, even supposing it to be all false, it is shocking to have such things spoken of. I pity the poor young lady and her lover. Do you not think, my dear, we shall be able to inquire into the truth of the matter from your brother this evening? He must know, he ought to know about it: whether the report be true or false, he should hear of it. He can best judge what should be done, if any thing should be done, my dear.”
Miss Clarendon quite agreed with all this; indeed she almost always agreed with this aunt of hers, who, perhaps from the peculiar gentleness of her manner, joined to a simplicity and sincerity of character she could never doubt, had an ascendency over her, which no one, at first view, could have imagined. They had many country commissions to execute this morning, which naturally took up a good deal of aunt Pennant’s attention. But between each return from shop to carriage, in the intervals between one commission off her hands and another on her mind, she returned regularly to “that poor Miss Stanley, and those love-letters!” and she sighed. Dear kind-hearted old lady! she had always a heart, as well as a hand, open as day to melting charity — charity in the most enlarged sense of the word: charity in judging as well as charity in giving. She was all indulgence for human nature, for youth and love especially.
“We must take care, my dear Esther,” said she, “to be at General Clarendon’s early, as you will like to have some little time with him to yourself before any one else arrives — shall you not, my dear?”
“Certainly,” replied Miss Clarendon; “I shall learn the truth from my brother in five minutes, if Lady Cecilia does not come between us.”
“Nay, my dear Esther, I cannot think so ill of Lady Cecilia; I cannot believe—”
“No, my dear aunt, I know you cannot think ill of any body. Stay till you know Lady Cecilia Clarendon as I do. If there is any thing wrong in this business, you will find that some falsehood of hers is at the bottom of it.”
“Oh, my dear, do not say so before you know; perhaps, as you thought at first, we shall find that it is all only a mistake of that giddy dentist’s; for your brother’s sake try to think as well as you can of his wife; she is a charming agreeable creature, I am sure.”
“You’ve only seen her once, my dear aunt,” said Miss Clarendon. “For my brother’s sake I would give up half her agreeableness for one ounce — for one scruple — of truth.”
“Well, well, take it with some grains of allowance, my dear niece; and, at any rate, do not suffer yourself to be so prejudiced as to conceive she can be in fault in this business.”
“We shall see to-day,” said Miss Clarendon; “I will not be prejudiced; but I remember hearing at Florence that this Colonel D’Aubigny had been an admirer of Lady Cecilia’s. I will get at the truth.”
With this determination, and in pursuance of the resolve to be early, they were at General Clarendon’s full a quarter of an hour before the arrival of any other company; but Lady Cecilia entered so immediately after the general, that Miss Clarendon had no time to speak with her brother alone. Determined, however, as she was, to get at the truth, without preface, or even smoothing her way to her object, she rushed into the middle of things at once. “Have you heard any reports about Miss Stanley, brother?”
“Yes.”
“And you, Lady Cecilia?”
“Yes.”
“What have you heard?”
Lady Cecilia was silent, looked at the general, and left it to him to speak as much or as little as he pleased. She trusted to his laconic mode of answering, which, without departing from truth, defied curiosity. Her trust in him upon the present occasion was, however, a little disturbed by her knowledge of his being at this moment particularly displeased with Helen. But, had she known the depths as well as she knew the surface of his character, her confidence in his caution would have been increased, instead of being diminished by this circumstance: Helen was lost in his esteem, but she was still under his protection; her secrets were not only sacred, but, as far as truth and honour could admit, he would still serve and save her. Impenetrable, therefore, was his look, and brief was his statement to his sister. A rascally bookseller had been about to publish a book, in which were some letters which paragraphs in certain papers had led the public to believe were Miss Stanley’s; the publication had been stopped, the offensive chapter suppressed, and the whole impression destroyed.
“But, brother,” pursued Miss Clarendon, “were the letters Miss Stanley’s, or not? You know I do not ask from idle curiosity, but from regard for Miss Stanley;” and she turned her inquiring eyes full upon Lady Cecilia.
“I believe, my dear Esther,” said Lady Cecilia, “I believe we had better say no more; you had better inquire no further.”
“That must be a bad case which can bear no inquiry,” said Miss Clarendon; “which cannot admit any further question, even from one most disposed to think well of the person concerned — a desperately bad case.”
“Bad! no, Esther. It would be cruel of you so to conclude: and falsely it would be — might be; indeed, Esther! my dear Esther! — —” Her husband’s eyes were upon Lady Cecilia, and she did not dare to justify Helen decidedly; her imploring look and tone, and her confusion, touched the kind aunt, but did not stop the impenetrable niece.
“Falsely, do you say? Do you say, Lady Cecilia, that it would be to conclude falsely? Perhaps not falsely though, upon the data given to me. The data may be false.”
“Data! I do not know what you mean exactly, Esther,” said Lady Cecilia, in utter confusion.
“I mean exactly what I say,” pursued Miss Clarendon; “that if I reason wrong, and come to a false conclusion, or what you call a cruel conclusion, it is not my fault, but the fault of those who do not plainly tell me the facts.”
She looked from Lady Cecilia to her brother, and from her brother to Lady Cecilia. On her brother no effect was produced: calm, unalterable, looked he; as though his face had been turned to stone. Lady Cecilia struggled in vain to be composed. “I wish I could tell you, Esther,” said she; “but facts cannot always — all facts — even the most innocent — that is, even with the best intentions — cannot always be all told, even in the defence of one’s best friend.”
“If this be the best defence you can make for your best friend, I am glad you will never have to defend me, and I am sorry for Helen Stanley.”
“Oh, my dear Esther!” said her aunt, with a remonstrating look; for, though she had not distinctly heard all that was said, she saw that things were going wrong, and that Esther was making them worse. “Indeed, Esther, my dear, we had better let this matter rest.”
“Let this matter rest!” repeated Miss Clarendon; “that is not what you would say, my dear aunt, if you were to hear any evil report of me. If any suspicion fell like a blast on my character you would never say ‘let it rest.’”
Fire lighted in her brother’s eyes, and the stone face was all animated, and he looked sudden sympathy, and he cried, “You are right, sister, in principle, but wrong in — fact.”
“Set me right where only I am wrong then,” cried she.
He turned to stone again, and her aunt in a low voice, said, “Not now.”
“Now or never,” said the sturdy champion; “it is for Miss Stanley’s character. You are interested for her, are not you, aunt?”
“Certainly, I am indeed; but we do not know all the circumstances — we cannot—”
“But we must. You do not know, brother, how public these reports are. Mr. St. Leger Swift, the dentist, has been chattering to us all morning about them. So, to go to the bottom of the business at once, will you,
Lady Cecilia, answer me one straight-forward question?”
Straight-forward question! what is coming? thought Lady Cecilia: her face flushed, and taking up a hand-screen, she turned away, as if from the scorching fire; but it was not a scorching fire, as everybody, or at least as Miss Clarendon, could see. The face turned away from Miss Clarendon was full in view of aunt Pennant, who was on her other side; and she, seeing the distressed state of the countenance, pitied, and gently laying her hand upon Lady Cecilia’s arm, said, in her soft low voice, “This must be a very painful subject to you, Lady Cecilia. I am sorry for you.”
“Thank you,” said Lady Cecilia, pressing her hand with quick gratitude for her sympathy. “It is indeed to me a painful subject, for Helen has been my friend from childhood, and I have so much reason for loving her!”
Many contending emotions struggled in Cecilia’s countenance, and she could say no more: but what she had said, what she had looked, had been quite enough to interest tenderly in her favour that kind heart to which it was addressed; and Cecilia’s feeling was true at the instant; she forgot all but Helen; the screen was laid down; tears stood in her eyes — those beautiful eyes! “If I could but tell you the whole — oh if I could! without destroying — —”
Miss Clarendon at this moment placed herself close opposite to Cecilia, and, speaking so low that neither her brother nor her aunt could hear her, said, “Without destroying yourself, or your friend — which?”
Lady Cecilia could not speak.
“You need not — I am answered,” said Miss Clarendon; and returning to her place, she remained silent for some minutes.
The general rang, and inquired if Mr. Beauclerc had come in.
“No.”
The general made no observation and then began some indifferent conversation with Mrs. Pennant, in which Lady Cecilia forced herself to join; she dreaded even Miss Clarendon’s silence — that grim repose, — and well she might.
“D’Aubigny’s Memoirs, I think, was the title of the book, aunt, that the dentist talked of? That is the book you burnt, is not it, brother? — a chapter in that book?”
“Yes,” said the general.
And again Miss Clarendon was silent; for though she well recollected what she had heard at Florence, and however strong were her suspicions, she might well pause; for she loved her brother before every thing but truth and justice, — she loved her brother too much to disturb his confidence. “I have no proof,” thought she; “I might destroy his happiness by another word, and I may be wrong.”
“But shall not we see Miss Stanley?” said Mrs. Pennant.
Lady Cecilia was forced to explain that Helen was not very well, would not appear till after dinner — nothing very much the matter — a little faintish.
“Fainted,” said the general.
“Yes, quite worn out — she was at Lady Castlefort’s last night — such a crowd!” She went on to describe its city horrors.
“But where is Mr. Beauclerc all this time?” said Miss Clarendon: “has he fainted too? or is he faintish?”
“Not likely,” said Lady Cecilia; “faint heart never won fair lady. He is not of the faintish sort.”
At this moment a thundering knock at the door announced the rest of the company, and never was company more welcome. But Beauclerc did not appear. Before dinner was served, however, a note came from him to the general. Lady Cecilia stretched out her hand for it, and read,
“MY DEAR FRIENDS, — I am obliged to dine out of town. I shall not return to-night, but you will see me at breakfast-time to-morrow. Yours ever, GRANVILLE BEAUCLERC.”
Cockburn now entered with a beautiful bouquet of hot-house flowers, which, he said, Mr. Beauclerc’s man had brought with the note, and which were, he said, for Miss Stanley. Lady Cecilia’s countenance grew radiant with joy, and she exclaimed, “Give them to me, — I must have the pleasure of taking them to her myself.”
And she flew off with them. Aunt Pennant smiled on her as she passed, and, turning to her niece as Lady Cecilia left the room, said, “What a bright creature! so warm, so affectionate!” Miss Clarendon was indeed struck with the indisputably natural sincere satisfaction and affection in Cecilia’s countenance; and, herself of such a different nature, could not comprehend the possibility of such contradiction in any character: she could not imagine the existence of such variable, transitory feelings — she could not believe any human being capable of sacrificing her friend to save herself, while she still so loved her victim, could still feel such generous sympathy for her. She determined at least to suspend her judgment; she granted Lady Cecilia a reprieve from her terrific questions and her as terrific looks. Cecilia recovered her presence of mind, and dinner went off delightfully, to her at least, with the sense of escape in recovered self-possession, and “spirits light, to every joy in tune.”
From the good-breeding of the company there was no danger that the topic she dreaded should be touched upon. Whatever reports might have gone forth, whatever any one present might have heard, nothing would assuredly be said of her friend Miss Stanley, to her, or before her, unless she or the general introduced the subject; and she was still more secure of his discretion than of her own. The conversation kept safe on London-dinner generalities and frivolities. Yet often things that were undesignedly said touched upon the taboo’d matter; and those who knew when, where, and how it touched, looked at or from one another, and almost equally dangerous was either way of looking. Such perfect neutrality of expression is not given to all men in these emergencies as to General Clarendon.
The dessert over, out of the dinner-room and in the drawing-room, the ladies alone together, things were not so pleasant to Lady Cecilia. Curiosity peeped out more and more in great concern about Miss Stanley’s health; and when ladies trifled over their coffee, and saw through all things with their half-shut eyes, they asked, and Lady Cecilia answered, and parried, and explained, and her conscience winced, and her countenance braved, and Miss Clarendon listened with that dreadfully good memory, that positive point-blank recollection, which permits not the slightest variation of statement. Her doubts and her suspicions returned, but she was silent; and sternly silent she remained the rest of the evening.
CHAPTER IX.
If “trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of Holy Writ,” and that they are no one since the time of Othello could ever doubt, it may be some consolation to observe, on the credit side of human nature, that, to those who are not cursed with a jealous infirmity, trifles light as air are often confirmations strong of the constancy of affection. Well did Lady Cecilia know this when she was so eager to be the bearer of the flowers which were sent by Beauclerc. She foresaw and enjoyed the instant effect, the quick smile, and blush of delight with which that bouquet was received by Helen.
“Oh, thank you! How kind of him!” and “all’s well,” was her immediate conclusion. When she saw his note, she never even took notice that he did not particularly mention her. The flowers from him were enough; she knew his sincerity so well, trusted to it so completely, that she was quite sure, if he had been angry with her, he would not have sent these tokens of his love, — slight tokens, though they were all-sufficient for her. Her fears had taken but one direction, and in that direction they were all dispelled. He would be at breakfast to-morrow, when she should know where he had been, and what had detained him from her the whole of this day. She told Cecilia that she was now quite well, but that she would not attempt to go down stairs. And Cecilia left her happy, so far at least; and when she was alone with her flowers, she doubly enjoyed them, inhaling the fragrance of each which she knew he particularly liked, and thanking him in her heart for the careful choice, for she was certain that they were not accidentally put together. Some of them were associated with little circumstances known only to themselves, awakening recollections of bright, happy moments, and selected, she was sure, with reference to a recent conversation they had had on the language of flowers.
Whether Hele
n fancied half this, or whether it was all true, it had the effect of soothing and pleasing her anxious, agitated mind; and she was the more ready to indulge in that pleasant reverie, from all that she had previously suffered herself, and all that she feared Beauclerc had yet to endure. She knew too well how much these reports would affect him — and hear them he must. She considered what trials he had already borne, and might still have to bear, for her sake, whatever course she might now pursue. Though soon, very soon, the whole would be told to him, yet still, though she might stand clear in his eyes as to the main points, he must, and would blame her weakness in first consenting to this deception — he who was above deceit. She had not absolutely told, but she had admitted a falsehood; she had acted a falsehood. This she could not extenuate. Her motive at first, to save Lady Davenant’s life, was good; but then her weakness afterwards, in being persuaded time after time by Cecilia, could not well be excused. She was conscious that she had sunk step by step, dragged down that slippery path by Cecilia, instead of firmly making a stand, as she ought to have done, and up-holding by her own integrity her friend’s failing truth. With returning anguish of self-reproach, she went over and over these thoughts; she considered the many unforeseen circumstances that had occurred. So much public shame, so much misery had been brought upon herself and on all she loved, by this one false step! And how much more might still await her, notwithstanding all that best of friends, the general, had done! She recollected how much he had done for her! — thinking of her too, as he must, with lowered esteem, and that was the most painful thought of all; — to Beauclerc she could and would soon clear her truth, but to the general — never, perhaps, completely!
Her head was leaning on her hand, as she was sitting deep in these thoughts, when she was startled by an unusual knock at her door. It was Cockburn with a packet, which General Clarendon had ordered him to deliver into Miss Stanley’s own hands. The instant she saw the packet she knew that it contained the book; and on opening it she found manuscript letters inserted between the marked pages, and there was a note from General Clarendon. She trembled — she foreboded ill.
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