Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “I heard Madame de St. Cymon’s voice, but of what she said, I have no idea. I heard nothing but the single word ‘rain’ and with scarcely strength to articulate, I attempted to follow up that excuse. Clarendon’s look of contempt! — But he commanded himself, advanced calmly to me, and said, ‘I came to Kensington with these letters; they have just arrived by express. Lady Davenant is in England — she is ill.’ He gave me the packet, and left the room, and I heard the sound of his horses’ feet the next instant as he rode off. I broke from Madame de St. Cymon, forgetting the locket and everything. I asked my servants which way the general had gone? ‘To Town.’ I perceived that he must have been going to look for me at the nurse’s, and had seen the carriage at Madame de St. Cymon’s door. I hastened after him, and then I recollected that I had left the locket on the table at Madame de St. Cymon’s, that locket for which I had hazarded — lost — everything! The moment I readied home, I ran to Clarendon’s room; he was not there, and oh! Helen, I have not seen him since!

  “From some orders which he left about horses, I suppose he went to meet my mother. I dared not follow him. She had desired me to wait for her arrival at her own house. All yesterday, all last night, Helen, what I have suffered! I could not bear it any longer, and then I thought of coming to meet you. I thought I must see you before my mother arrived — my mother! but Clarendon will not have met her till to-day. Oh, Helen! you feel all that I fear — all that I foresee.”

  Lady Cecilia sank back, and Helen, overwhelmed with all she had heard, could for some time only pity her in silence; and at last could only suggest that the general would not have time for any private communication with Lady Davenant, as her woman would be in the carriage with her, and the general was on horseback.

  It was late in the day before they reached town. As they came near Grosvenor Square, Cockburn inquired whether they were to drive home, or to Lady Davenant’s?

  “To my mother’s, certainly, and as fast as you can.”

  Lady Davenant had not arrived, but there were packages in the hall, her courier, and her servants, who said that General Clarendon was with her, but not in the carriage; he had sent them on. No message for Lady Cecilia, but that Lady Davenant would be in town this night.

  To night — some hours still of suspense! As long as there were arrangements to be made, anything to do or to think of but that meeting of which they dared not think, it was endurable, but too soon all was settled; nothing to be done, but to wait and watch, to hear the carriages roll past, and listen, and start, and look at each other, and sink back disappointed. Lady Cecilia walked from the sofa to the window, and looked out, and back again — continually, continually, till at last Helen begged her to sit down. She sat down before an old piano-forte of her mother’s, on which her eyes fixed; it was one on which she had often played with Helen when they were children. “Happy, innocent days,” said she; “I never shall we be so happy again, Helen! But I cannot think of it;” she rose hastily, and threw herself on the sofa.

  A servant, who had been watching at the hall-door, came in—”The carriage, my lady! Lady Davenant is coming.”

  Lady Cecilia started up; they ran down stairs; the carriage stopped, and in the imperfect light they saw the figure of Lady Davenant, scarcely altered, leaning upon General Clarendon’s arm. The first sound of her voice was feebler, softer, than formerly — quite tender, when she said, as she embraced them both by turns, “My dear children!”

  “You have accomplished your journey, Lady Davenant, better than you expected,” said the general.

  Something struck her in the tone of his voice. She turned quickly, saw her daughter lay her hand upon his arm, and saw that arm withdrawn!

  They all entered the saloon — it was a blaze of light; Lady Davenant, shading her eyes with her hand, looked round at the countenances, which she had not yet seen. Lady Cecilia shrank back. The penetrating eyes turned from her, glanced at Helen, and fixed upon the general.

  “What is all this?” cried she.

  Helen threw her arms round Lady Davenant. “Let us think of you first, and only — be calm.”

  Lady Davenant broke from her, and pressing forwards exclaimed, “I must see my daughter — if I have still a daughter! Cecilia!”

  The general moved. Lady Cecilia, who had sunk upon a chair behind him, attempted to rise. Lady Davenant stood opposite to her; the light was now full upon her face and figure; and her mother saw how it was changed! and looking back at Helen, she said in a low, awful tone, “I see it; the black spot has spread!”

  Scarcely had Lady Davenant pronounced these words, when she was seized with violent spasms. The general had but just time to save her from falling; he could not leave her. All was terror! Even her own woman, so long used to these attacks, said it was the worst she had ever seen, and for some time evidently feared it would terminate fatally. At last slowly she came to herself, but perfectly in possession of her intellects, she sat up, looked round, saw the agony in her daughter’s countenance, and holding out her hand to her, said, “Cecilia, if there is anything that I ought to know, it should be said now.” Cecilia caught her mother’s hand, and threw herself upon her knees. “Helen, Helen, stay!” cried she, “do not go, Clarendon!”

  He stood leaning against the chimney-piece, motionless, while Cecilia, in a faltering voice, began; her voice gaining strength, she went on, and poured out all — even from the very beginning, that first suppression of the truth, that first cowardice, then all that followed from that one falsehood — all — even to the last degradation, when in the power, in the presence of that bad woman, her husband found and left her. She shuddered as she came to the thought of that look of his, and not daring, not having once dared while she spoke, to turn towards him, her eyes fixed upon her mother’s; but as she finished speaking, her head sank, she laid her face on the sofa beside her; she felt her mother’s arm thrown over her and she sobbed convulsively.

  There was silence.

  “I have still a daughter!” were the first words that broke the silence. “Not such as I might have had, but that is my own fault.”

  “Oh mother!”

  “I have still a daughter,” repeated Lady Davenant. “There is,” continued she, turning to General Clarendon, “there is a redeeming power in truth. She may yet be more worthy to be your wife than she has ever yet been!”

  “Never!” exclaimed the general. His countenance was rigid as iron; then suddenly it relaxed, and going up to Helen, he said,

  “I have done you injustice, Miss Stanley. I have been misled. I have done you injustice, and by Heaven! I will do you public justice, cost me what it will. Beauclerc will be in England in a few days, at the altar I will give you to him publicly; in the face of all the world, will I mark my approbation of his choice; publicly will I repair the wrong I have done you. I will see his happiness and yours before I leave England for ever!”

  Lady Cecilia started up: “Clarendon!” was all she could say.

  “Yes, Lady Cecilia Clarendon,” said he, all the stern fixedness of his face returning at once—”Yes, Lady Cecilia Clarendon, we separate, now and for ever.”

  Then turning from her, he addressed Lady Davenant. “I shall be ordered on some foreign service. Your daughter, Lady Davenant, will remain with you, while I am still in England, unless you wish otherwise — —”

  “Leave my daughter with me, my dear general, till my death,” said Lady Davenant. She spoke calmly, but the general, after a respectful — an affectionate pressure of the hand she held out to him, said, “That may be far distant, I trust in God, and we shall at all events meet again the day of Helen’s marriage.”

  “And if that day is to be a happy day to me,” cried Helen, “to me or to your own beloved ward, General Clarendon, it must be happy to Cecilia!”

  “As happy as she has left it in my power to make her. When I am gone, my fortune — —”

  “Name it not as happiness for my daughter,” interrupted Lady Davenant, “or you do her injustice
, General Clarendon.”

  “I name it but to do her justice,” said he. “It is all that she has left it in my power to give;” and then his long suppressed passion suddenly bursting forth, he turned to Cecilia. “All I can give to one so false — false from the first moment to the last — false to me — to me! who so devotedly, fondly, blindly loved her!” He rushed out of the room.

  Then Lady Davenant, taking her daughter in her arms, said, “My child, return to me!”

  She sank back exhausted. Mrs. Elliott was summoned, she wished them all out of the room, and said so; but Lady Davenant would have her daughter stay beside her, and with Cecilia’s hand in hers, she fell into a profound slumber.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  On awaking in the morning, after some long-expected event has happened, we feel in doubt whether it has really occurred, or whether it is all a dream. Then comes the awful sense of waking truth, and the fear that what has been done, or said, is irremediable, and then the astonishment that it really is done. “It is over!” Helen repeated to herself, repeated aloud, before she could well bring herself from that state of half belief, before she could recover her stunned faculties.

  Characters which she thought she perfectly understood, had each appeared, in these new circumstances, different from what she had expected. From Cecilia she had scarcely hoped, even at the last moment, for such perfect truth in her confession. From Lady Davenant not so much indulgence, not all that tenderness for her daughter. From the general, less violence of expression, more feeling for Cecilia; he had not allowed the merit of her candour, her courage at the last. It was a perfectly voluntary confession, all that concerned Colonel D’Aubigny, and the letters could never have been known to the general by any other means. Disappointed love, confidence duped, and his pride of honour, had made him forget himself in anger, even to cruelty. Helen thought he would feel this hereafter, fancied he must feel it even now, but that, though he might relent, he would not recede; though he might regret that he had made the determination, he would certainly abide by it; that which he had resolved to do, would certainly be done, — the separation between him and Cecilia would take place. And though all was clear and bright in Helen’s own prospects, the general’s esteem restored, his approbation to be publicly marked, Beauclerc to be convinced of her perfect innocence! Beauclerc, freed from all fear and danger, returning all love and joy; yet she could not be happy — it was all mixed with bitterness, anguish for Cecilia.

  She had so often so forcibly urged her to this confession! and now it was made, did Helen regret that it was made? No, independently of her own cleared character, she was satisfied, even for Cecilia’s sake, for it was right, whatever were the consequences; it was right, and in the confusion and discordance of her thoughts and feelings, this was the only fixed point. To this conclusion she had come, but had not been able farther to settle her mind, when she was told that Lady Davenant was now awake, and wished to see her.

  Lady Davenant, renovated by sleep, appeared to Helen, even when she saw her by daylight, scarcely altered in her looks. There was the same life, and energy, and elasticity, and strength, Helen hoped, not only of mind, but of body, and quick as that hope rose, as she stood beside her bed, and looked upon her, Lady Davenant marked it, and said, “You are mistaken, my dear Helen, I shall not last long; I am now to consider how I am to make the most of the little life that remains. How to repair as far as may be, as far as can be, in my last days, the errors of my youth! You know, Helen, what I mean, and it is now no time to waste words, therefore I shall not begin by wasting upon you, Helen, any reproaches. Foolish, generous, weak creature that you are, and as the best of human beings will ever be — I must be content with you as you are; and so,” continued she, in a playful tone, “we must love one another, perhaps all the better, for not being too perfect. And indeed, my poor child, you have been well punished already, and the worst of criminals need not be punished twice. Of the propensity to sacrifice your own happiness for others you will never be cured, but you will, I trust, in future, when I am gone never to return, be true to yourself. Now as to my daughter—”

  Lady Davenant then went over with Helen every circumstance in Cecilia’s confession, and showed how, in the midst of the shock she had felt at the disclosure of so much falsehood, hope for her daughter’s future truth had risen in her mind even from the courage, and fulness, and exactness of her confession. “And it is not,” continued she, “a sudden reformation; I have no belief in sudden reformations. I think I see that this change in Cecilia’s mind has been some time working out by her own experience of the misery, the folly, the degradation of deceit.”

  Helen earnestly confirmed this from her own observations, and from the expressions which had burst forth in the fulness of Cecilia’s heart and strength of her conviction, when she told her all that had passed in her mind.

  “That is well!” pursued Lady Davenant; “but principles cannot be depended upon till confirmed by habit; and Cecilia’s nature is so variable — impressions on her are easily, even deeply made, but all in sand; they may shift with the next tide — may be blown away by the next wind.”

  “Oh no,” exclaimed Helen, “there is no danger of that. I see the impression deepening every hour, from your kindness and—” Helen hesitated, “And besides—”

  “Besides,” said Lady Davenant, “usually comes as the arrière-ban of weak reasons: you mean to say that the sight of my sufferings must strengthen, must confirm all her principles — her taste for truth. Yes,” continued she, in her most firm tone, “Cecilia’s being with me during my remaining days will be painful but salutary to her. She sees, as you do, that all the falsehood meant to save me has been in vain; that at last the shock has only hastened my end: it must be so, Helen. Look at it steadily, in the best point of view — the evil you cannot avert; take the good and be thankful for it.”

  And Cecilia — how did she feel? Wretched she was, but still in her wretchedness there was within her a relieved conscience and the sustaining power of truth; and she had now the support of her mother’s affection, and the consolation of feeling that she had at last done Helen justice! To her really generous, affectionate disposition, there was in the return of her feelings to their natural course, an indescribable sense of relief. Broken, crushed, as were all her own hopes, her sympathy, even in the depths of her misery, now went pure, free from any windings of deceit, direct to Helen’s happy prospects, in which she shared with all the eagerness of her warm heart.

  Beauclerc arrived, found the general at home expecting him, and in his guardian’s countenance and voice he saw and heard only what was natural to the man. The general was prepared, and Beauclerc was himself in too great impatience to hear the facts, to attend much to the manner in which things were told.

  “Lady Davenant has returned ill; her daughter is with her, and Helen — —”

  “And Helen — —”

  “And you may be happy, Beauclerc, if there be truth in woman,” said the general. “Go to her — you will find I can do justice. Go, and return when you can tell me that your wedding-day is fixed. And, Beauclerc,” he called after him, “let it be as soon as possible.”

  “The only unnecessary advice my dear guardian has ever given me,” Beauclerc, laughing, replied.

  The general’s prepared composure had not calculated upon this laugh, this slight jest; his features gave way. Beauclerc, struck with a sudden change in the general’s countenance, released his hand from the congratulatory shake in which its power failed. The general turned away as if to shun inquiry, and Beauclerc, however astonished, respected his feelings, and said no more. He hastened to Lady Davenant with all a lover’s speed — with all a lover’s joy saw the first expression in Helen’s eyes; and with all a friend’s sorrow for Lady Davenant and for the general, heard all that was to be told of Lady Cecilia’s affairs: her mother undertook the explanation, Cecilia herself did not appear.

  In the first rush of Beauclerc’s joy in Helen’s cleared fame
, he was ready to forgive all the deceit; yes, to forgive all; but it was such forgiveness as contempt can easily grant, which can hardly be received by any soul not lost to honour. This Lady Davenant felt, and felt so keenly, that Helen trembled for her: she remained silent, pressing her hand upon her heart, which told her sense of approaching danger. It was averted by the calmness, the truth, the justice with which Helen spoke to Beauclerc of Cecilia. As she went on, Lady Davenant’s colour returned and Beauclerc’s ready sympathy went with her as far as she pleased, till she came to one point, from which he instantly started back. Helen proposed, if Beauclerc would consent, to put off their marriage till the general should be reconciled to Cecilia.

  “Attempt it not, Helen,” cried Lady Davenant; “delay not for any consideration. Your marriage must be as soon as possible, for my sake, for Cecilia’s — mark me! — for Cecilia’s sake, as soon as possible let it be; it is but justice that her conscience should be so far relieved, let her no longer obstruct your union. Let me have the satisfaction of seeing it accomplished; name the day, Helen, I may not have many to live.”

  The day, the earliest possible, was named by Helen; and the moment it was settled, Lady Davenant hurried Beauclerc away, saying—”Return to General Clarendon — spare him suspense — it is all we can do for him.”

  The general’s wishes in this, and in all that followed, were to be obeyed. He desired that the marriage should be public, that all should be bidden of rank, fashion, and note — all their family connections. Lady Katrine Hawksby, he especially named. To do justice to Helen seemed the only pleasurable object now remaining to him. In speaking to Beauclerc, he never once named Lady Cecilia; it seemed a tacit compact between him and Beauclerc, that her name should not be pronounced. They talked of Lady Davenant; the general said he did not think her in such danger as she seemed to consider herself to be: his opinion was, he declared, confirmed by his own observation; by the strength of mind and of body which she had shown since her arrival in England. Beauclerc could only hope that he was right; and the general went on to speak of the service upon which he was to be employed: said that all arrangements, laying an emphasis upon the word, would be transacted by his man of business. He spoke of what would happen after he quitted England, and left his ward a legacy of some favourite horse which he used to ride at Clarendon Park, and seemed to take it for granted that Beauclerc and Helen would be sometimes there when he was gone. Then, having cleared his throat several times, the general desired that Lady Cecilia’s portrait, which he designated only as “the picture over the chimney-piece in my room,” should be sent after him. And taking leave of Beauclerc, he set off for Clarendon Park, where he was to remain till the day before the wedding; — the day following he had fixed for his departure from England.