His departure from Clarendon Park was openly regretted by Lady Cecilia, while Lady Katrine secretly mourned over the downfall of her projects, and Beauclerc attempted not to disguise his satisfaction.
He was all life and love, and would then certainly have declared his passion, but for an extraordinary change which now appeared in Helen’s manner towards him. It seemed unaccountable; it could not be absolute caprice, she did not even treat him as a friend, and she evidently avoided explanation. He thought, and thought, and came as near the truth without touching it as possible. He concluded that she had understood his joy at Churchill’s departure; that she now clearly perceived his attachment; and was determined against him. Not having the slightest idea that she considered him as a married man, he could not even guess the nature of her feelings. And all the time Helen did not well understand herself; she began to be extremely alarmed at her own feelings—to dread that there was something not quite right. This dread, which had come and gone by fits,—this doubt as to her own sentiments,—was first excited by the death of her dove—Beauclerc’s gift. The poor dove was found one morning drowned in the marble vase in which it went to drink. Helen was very sorry—that was surely natural; but she was wonderfully concerned. Lady Katrine scoffingly said; and before everybody, before Beauclerc, worse than all, her ladyship represented to the best of her ability the attitude in which she had found Helen mourning over her misfortune, the dove in her hand pressed close to her bosom—“And in tears—absolutely.” She would swear to the tears.
Helen blushed, tried to laugh, and acknowledged it was very foolish. Well, that passed off as only foolish, and she did not at first feel that it was a thing much to be ashamed of in any other way. But she was sorry that Beauclere was by when Lady Katrine mimicked her; most sorry that he should think her foolish. But then did he? His looks expressed tenderness. He was very tender-hearted. Really manly men always are so; and so she observed to Lady Cecilia. Lady Katrine heard the observation, and smiled—her odious smile—implying more than words could say. Helen was not quite clear, however, what it meant to say.
Some days afterwards Lady Katrine took up a book, in which Helen’s name was written in Beauclerc’s hand. “Gage d’amitié?” said her ladyship; and she walked up and down the room, humming the air of an old French song; interrupting herself now and then to ask her sister if she could recollect the words. “The refrain, if I remember right, is something like this—
Sous le nom d’amitié—sous le nom d’amitié,
La moitié du monde trompe l’autre moitié,
Sous le nom, sous le nom, sous le nom d’amitié.
And it ends with
Sous le nom d’amitié, Damon, je vous adore,
Sous le nom, sous le nom d’amitié.
“Miss Stanley, do you know that song?” concluded her malicious ladyship. No—Miss Stanley had never heard it before; but the marked emphasis with which Lady Katrine sung and looked, made Helen clear that she meant to apply the words tauntingly to her and Beauclerc,—but which of them her ladyship suspected was cheating, or cheated—“sous le nom d’amitié,” she did not know. All was confusion in her mind. After a moment’s cooler reflection, however, she was certain it could not be Beauclerc who was to blame—it must be herself, and she now very much wished that every body, and Lady Katrine in particular, should know that Mr. Beauclerc was engaged—almost married; if this were but known, it would put an end to all such imputations.
The first time she could speak to Cecilia on the subject, she begged to know how soon Mr. Beauclerc’s engagement would be declared. Lady Cecilia slightly answered she could not tell—and when Helen pressed the question she asked,—
“Why are you so anxious, Helen?”