Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “But I must,” said Miss Clarendon, “for one moment. There is one point on which my parting words are necessary. Helen! keep clear of Lady Cecilia’s affairs, whatever they may be. Hear none of her secrets.”

  Helen wished she had never heard any; did not believe there were any more to hear; but she promised herself and Miss Clarendon that she would observe this excellent counsel.

  And now she was in the carriage, and on her road to town. And now she had leisure to breathe, and to think, and to feel. Her thoughts and feelings, however, could be only repetitions of fears and hopes about Lady Davenant, and uncertainty and dread of what would happen when she should require explanation of all that had occurred in her absence. And how would Lady Cecilia he able to meet her mother’s penetration? — ill or well, Lady Davenant was so clear-sighted. “And how shall I,” thought Helen, “without plunging deeper in deceit, avoid revealing the truth? Shall I assist Cecilia to deceive her mother in her last moments; or shall I break my promise, betray Cecilia’s secret, and at last be the death of her mother by the shock?” It is astonishing how often the mind can go over the same thoughts and feelings without coming to any conclusion, any ease from racking suspense. In the mean time, on rolled the carriage, and Cockburn, according to his master’s directions, got her over the ground with all conceivable speed.

  CHAPTER XIII

  When they were within the last stage of London, the carriage suddenly stopped, and Helen, who was sitting far back, deep in her endless reverie, started forward — Cockburn was at the carriage-door.

  “My lady, coming to meet you, Miss Stanley.”

  It was Cecilia herself. But Cecilia so changed in her whole appearance, that Helen would scarcely have known her. She was so much struck that she hardly knew what was said; but the carriage-doors were opened, and Lady Cecilia was beside her, and Cockburn shut the door without permitting one moment’s delay, and on they drove.

  Lady Cecilia was excessively agitated. Helen had not power to utter a word, and was glad that Cecilia went on speaking very fast; though she spoke without appearing to know well what she was saying: of Helen’s goodness in coming so quickly, of her fears that she would never have been in time—”but she was in time, — her mother had not yet arrived. Clarendon had gone to meet her on the road, she believed — she was not quite certain.”

  That seemed very extraordinary to Helen. “Not quite certain?” said she.

  “No, I am not,” replied Cecilia, and she coloured; her very pale cheek flushed; but she explained not at all, she left that subject, and spoke of the friends Helen had left at Llansillen — then suddenly of her mother’s return — her hopes — her fears — and then, without going on to the natural idea of seeing her mother, and of how soon they should see her, began to talk of Beauclerc — of Mr. Churchill’s being quite out of danger — of the general’s expectation of Beauclerc’s immediate return. “And then, my dearest Helen,” said she, “all will be — —”

  “Oh! I do not know how it will be!” cried she, her tone changing suddenly; and, from the breathless hurry in which she had been running on, sinking at once to a low broken tone, and speaking very slowly. “I cannot tell what will become of any of us. We can never be happy again — any one of us. And it is all my doing — and I cannot die. Oh! Helen, when I tell you — —”

  She stopped, and Miss Clarendon’s warning counsel, all her own past experience, were full in Helen’s mind; and after a moment’s silence, she stopped Cecilia just as she seemed to have gathered power to speak, and begged that she would not tell her any thing that was to be kept secret. She could not, would not hear any secrets; she turned her head aside, and let down the glass, and looked out, as if determined not to be compelled to receive this confidence.

  “Have you, then, lost all interest, all affection for me, Helen? I deserve it! — But you need not fear me now, Helen: I have done with deception, would to Heaven I had never begun with it!”

  It was the tone and look of truth — she steadily fixed her eyes upon Helen — and instead of the bright beams that used to play in those eyes, there was now a dark deep-seated sorrow, almost despair. Helen was touched to the heart: it was indeed impossible for her, it would have been impossible for any one who had any feeling, to have looked upon Lady Cecilia Clarendon at that moment, and to have recollected what she had so lately been, without pity. The friend of her childhood looked upon her with all the poignant anguish of compassion —

  “Oh! my dear Cecilia! how changed!”

  Helen was not sensible that she uttered the words “how changed!”

  “Changed! yes! I believe I am,” said Lady Cecilia, in a calm voice, “very much changed in appearance, but much more in reality; my mind is more altered than my person. Oh! Helen! if you could see into my mind at this moment, and know how completely it is changed; — but it is all in vain now! You have suffered, and suffered for me! but your sufferings could not equal mine. You lost love and happiness, but still conscious of deserving both: I had both at my command, and I could enjoy neither under the consciousness, the torture of remorse.”

  Helen threw her arms round her, and exclaimed, “Do not think of me! — all will be well — since you have resolved on the truth, all will yet be well.”

  Cecilia sighed deeply and went on.—”I am sure, Helen, you were surprised that my child was born alive; at least I was. I believe its mother had not feeling enough to endanger its existence. Well, Clarendon has that comfort at all events, and, as a boy, it will never put him in mind of his mother. Well, Helen, I had hopes of myself to the last minute; I really and truly hoped, as I told you, that I should have had courage to tell him all when I put the child into his arms. But his joy! — I could not dash his joy — I could not! — and then I thought I never could. I knew you would give me up; I gave up all hope of myself. I was very unhappy, and Clarendon thought I was very ill; and I acknowledge that I was anxious about you, and let all the blame fall on you, innocent, generous creature! — I heard my husband perpetually upbraiding you when he saw me ill — all, he said, the consequences of your falsehood — and all the time I knew it was my own.

  “My dear Helen, it is impossible to tell you all the daily, hourly necessities for dissimulation which occurred. Every day, you know, we were to send to inquire for Mr. Churchill; and every day when Clarendon brought me the bulletin, he pitied me, and blamed you; and the double dealing in my countenance he never suspected — always interpreted favourably. Oh, such confidence as he had in me — and how it has been wasted, abused! Then letters from Beauclerc — how I bore to hear them read I cannot conceive: and at each time that I escaped, I rejoiced and reproached myself — and reproached myself and rejoiced. I succeeded in every effort at deception, and was cursed by my own success. Encouraged to proceed, I soon went on without shame and without fear. The general heard me defending you against the various reports which my venomous cousin had circulated, and he only admired what he called ‘my amiable zeal.’ His love for me increased, but it gave me no pleasure: for, Helen, now I am going to tell you an extraordinary turn which my mind took, for which I cannot account — I can hardly believe it — it seems out of human nature — my love for him decreased! — not only because I felt that he would hate me if he discovered my deceit, but because he was lowered in my estimation! I had always had, as every body has, even my mother, the highest opinion of his judgment. To that judgment I had always looked up; it had raised me in my own opinion; it was a motive to me to be equal to what he thought me: but now that motive was gone, I no longer looked up to him; his credulous affection had blinded his judgment — he was my dupe! I could not reverence — I could not love one who was my dupe. But I cannot tell you how shocked I was at myself when I felt my love for him decrease every time I saw him.

  “I thought myself a monster; I had grown use to every thing but that — that I could not endure; it was a darkness of the mind — a coldness; it was as if the sun had gone out of the universe; it was more — it was worse — i
t was as if I was alone in the world. Home was a desert to me. I went out every evening; sometimes, but rarely, Clarendon accompanied me: he had become more retired; his spirits had declined with mine; and though he was glad I should go out and amuse myself, yet he was always exact as to the hours of my return. I was often late — later than I ought to have been, and I made a multitude of paltry excuses; this it was, I believe, which first shook his faith in my truth; but I was soon detected in a more decided failure.

  “You know I never had the least taste for play of any kind: you may remember I used to be scolded for never minding what I was about at ecarté: in short, I never had the least love for it — it wearied me; but now that my spirits were gone, it was a sort of intoxication in which I cannot say I indulged — for it was no indulgence, but to which I had recourse. Louisa Castlefort, you know, was always fond of play — got into her first difficulties by that means — she led me on. I lost a good deal of money to her, and did not care about it as long as I could pay; but presently it came to a time when I could not pay without applying to the general: I applied to him, but under false pretences — to pay this bill or that, or to buy something, which I never bought: this occurred so often and to such extent, that he suspected — he discovered how it went; he told me so. He spoke in that low, suppressed, that terrible voice which I had heard once before; I said, I know not what, in deprecation of his anger. ‘I am not angry, Cecilia,’ said he. I caught his hand, and would have detained him; he withdrew that band, and, looking at me, exclaimed, ‘Beautiful creature! half those charms would I give for truth!’ He left the room, and there was contempt in his look.

  “All my love — all my reverence, returned for him in an instant; but what could I say? He never recurred to the subject; and now, when I saw the struggle in his mind, my passion for him returned in all its force.

  “People who flattered me often, you know, said I was fascinating, and I determined to use my powers of fascination to regain my husband’s heart; how little I knew that heart! I dressed to please him — oh! I never dressed myself with such care in my most coquettish days; — I gave a splendid ball; I dressed to please him — he used to be delighted with my dancing: he had said, no matter what, but I wanted to make him say it — feel it again; he neither said nor felt it. I saw him standing looking at me, and at the close of the dance I heard from him one sigh. I was more in love with him than when first we were married, and he saw it, but that did not restore me to his confidence — his esteem; nothing could have done that, but — what I had not. One step in dissimulation led to another.

  “After Lord Beltravers returned from Paris on Lady Blanche’s marriage, I used to meet him continually at Louisa Castlefort’s. As for play, that was over with me for ever, but I went to Louisa’s continually, because it was the gayest house I could go to; I used to meet Lord Beltravers there, and he pretended to pay me a vast deal of attention, to which I was utterly indifferent, but his object was to push his sister into society again by my means. He took advantage of that unfortunate note which I had received from Madame de St. Cymon, when she was at Old Forest; he wanted me to admit her among my acquaintance; he urged it in every possible way, and was excessively vexed that it would not do: not that he cared for her; he often spoke of her in a way that shocked me, but it hurt his pride that she should be excluded from the society to which her rank entitled her. I had met her at Louisa’s once or twice; but when I found that for her brother’s sake she was always to be invited, I resolved to go there no more, and I made a merit of this with Clarendon. He was pleased; he said, ‘That is well, that is right, my dear Cecilia.’ And he went out more with me. One night at the Opera, the Comtesse de St. Cymon was in the box opposite to us, no lady with her, only some gentlemen. She watched me; I did all I could to avoid her eye, but at an unlucky moment she caught mine, bent forward, and had the assurance to bow. The general snatched the opera-glass from my hand, made sure who it was, and then said to me,

  “‘How does that woman dare to claim your notice, Lady Cecilia? I am afraid there must have been some encouragement on your part.’

  “‘None,’ said I, ‘nor ever shall be; you see I take no notice.’

  “‘But you must have taken notice, or this could never be?’

  “‘No indeed!’ persisted I. ‘Helen! I really forgot at the moment that first unfortunate note. An instant afterwards I recollected it, and the visit about the cameos, but that was not my fault. I had, to be sure, dropped a card in return at her door, and I ought to have mentioned that, but I really did not recollect it till the words had passed my lips, and then it was too late, and I did not like to go back and spoil my case by an exception. The general did not look quite satisfied; he did not receive my assertions as implicitly as formerly. He left the box afterwards to speak to some one, and while he was gone in came Lord Beltravers. After some preliminary nothings, he went directly to the point; and said in an assured manner, ‘I believe you do not know my sister at this distance. She has been endeavouring to catch your eye.’

  “‘The Comtesse de St. Cymon does me too much honour,’ said I with a slight inclination of the head, and elevation of the eyebrow, which spoke sufficiently plainly.

  “Unabashed, and with a most provoking, almost sneering look, he replied, ‘Madame de St. Cymon had wished to say a few words to your ladyship on your own account; am I to understand this cannot be?’

  “‘On my own account?’ said I, ‘I do not in the least understand your lordship.’ ‘I am not sure,’ said he, ‘that I perfectly comprehend it. But I know that you sometimes drive to Kensington, and sometimes take a turn in the gardens there. My sister lives at Kensington, and could not she, without infringing etiquette, meet you in your walk, and have the honour of a few words with you? Something she wants to say to you,’ and here he lowered his voice, ‘about a locket, and Colonel D’Aubigny.’

  “Excessively frightened, and hearing some one at the door, I answered, ‘I do not know, I believe I shall drive to Kensington to-morrow.’ He bowed delighted, and relieved me from his presence that instant. The moment afterwards General Clarendon came in. He asked me, ‘Was not that Lord Beltravers whom I met?’

  “‘Yes,’ said I; ‘he came to reproach me for not noticing his sister, and I answered him in such a manner as to make him clear that there was no hope.’

  “‘You did right,’ said he, ‘if you did so.’ My mind was in such confusion that I could not quite command my countenance, and I put up my fan as if the lights hurt me. “‘Cecilia,’ said he, ‘take care what you are about. Remember, it is not my request only, but my command to my wife’ (he laid solemn stress on the words) ‘that she should have no communication with this woman.’

  “‘My dear Clarendon, I have not the least wish.’

  “‘I do not ask what your wishes may be; I require only your obedience.’

  “Never have I heard such austere words from him. I turned to the stage, and I was glad to seize the first minute I could to get away. But what was to be done? If I did not go to Kensington, there was this locket, and I knew not what, standing out against me. I knew that this wretched woman had had Colonel D’Aubigny in her train abroad, and supposed that he must — treacherous profligate as he was — have given the locket to her, and now I was so afraid of its coming to Clarendon’s eyes or ears! — and yet why should I have feared his knowing about it? Colonel D’Aubigny stole it, just as he stole the picture. I had got it for you, do you recollect?”

  “Perfectly,” said Helen, “and your mother missed it.”

  “Yes,” continued Lady Cecilia. “O that I had had the sense to do nothing about it! But I was so afraid of its somehow bringing everything to light: my cowardice — my conscience — my consciousness of that first fatal falsehood before my marriage, has haunted me at the most critical moments: it has risen against me, and stood like an evil spirit threatening me from the right path.

  “I went to Kensington, trusting to my own good fortune, which had so often stood me i
n stead; but Madame de St. Cymon was too cunning for me, and so interested, so mean, she actually bargained for giving up the locket. She hinted that she knew Colonel D’Aubigny had never been your lover, and ended by saying she had not the locket with her; and though I made her understand that the general would never allow me to receive her at my own house, yet she ‘hoped I could manage an introduction for her to some of my friends, and that she would bring the locket on Monday, if I would in the mean time try, at least with Lady Emily Greville and Mrs. Holdernesse.’

  “I felt her meanness, and yet I was almost as mean myself, for I agreed to do what I could. Monday came, Clarendon saw me as I was going out, and, as he handed me into the carriage, he asked me where I was going. To Kensington I said, and added — oh! Helen, I am ashamed to tell you, I added, — I am going to see my child. And there I found Madame de St. Cymon, and I had to tell her of my failure with Lady Emily and Mrs. Holdernesse. I softened their refusal as much as I could, but I might have spared myself the trouble, for she only retorted by something about English prudery. At this moment a shower of rain came on, and she insisted upon my taking her home; ‘Come in,’ said she, when the carnage stopped at her door: ‘if you will come in, I will give it to you now, and you need not have the trouble of calling again.’ I had the folly to yield, though I saw that it was a trick to decoy me into her house, and to make it pass for a visit. It all flashed upon me, and yet I could not resist, for I thought I must obtain the locket at all hazards. I resolved to get it from her before I left the house, and then I thought all would be finished.

  “She looked triumphant as she followed me into her saloon, and gave a malicious smile, which seemed to say, ‘You see you are visiting me after all.’ After some nonsensical conversation, meant to detain me, I pressed for the locket, and she produced it: it was indeed the very one that had been made for you — But just at that instant, while she still held it in her band, the door suddenly opened, and Clarendon stood opposite to me!