Helen paused, and Lady Cecilia went on: “As to love, nobody knows anything about it till it comes—and here it is coming, I do believe!” continued she, looking out of the window.—No! not Mr. Beauclerc, but the man she had sent with her letter, galloping towards the house. Disappointed not to see Beauclerc himself, she could only conclude that as he had not his horse with him, he was returning in the boat. The answer to her letter was brought in. At the first glance on the direction, her countenance changed. “Not Granville’s hand!—what can have happened?” She tore open the note, “He is gone!—gone with Lord Beltravers—set off!—gone to Paris!” Helen said not one word, and Cecilia, in despair, repeated, “Gone!—gone!—absolutely gone! Nothing more can be done. Oh, that I had done nothing about it! All has failed! Heaven knows what may happen now! Oh! if I could but have let it all alone! I never, never can forgive myself! My dear Helen, be angry with me—reproach me: pray—pray reproach me as I deserve!” But Helen could not blame one who so blamed herself—one who, however foolish and wrong she had been, had done it all from the kindest motives. In the agony of her penitence, she now told Helen all that had passed between her and the general; that, to avoid the shame of confessing to him her first deception, she had gone on another and another step in these foolish evasions, contrivances, and mysteries; how, thinking she could manage it, she had written without his knowledge; and now, to complete her punishment, not only had every thing which she had attempted failed, but a consequence which she could never have foreseen had happened.—“Here I am, with a note actually in my hand from this horrid Madame de St. Cymon, whom Clarendon absolutely would not hear of my even calling upon! Look what she writes to me. She just took advantage of this opportunity to begin a correspondence before an acquaintance: but I will never answer her. Here is what she says:—
“‘The Comtesse de St. Cymon exceedingly regrets that Lady Cecilia Clarendon’s servant did not arrive in time to deliver her ladyship’s letter into Mr. Beauclerc’s own hand. Mr. B. left Old Forest with Lord Beltravers early to-day for Paris. The Comtesse de St. Cymon, understanding that Lady Cecilia Clarendon is anxious that there should be as little delay as possible in forwarding her letter, and calculating that if returned by her ladyship’s servant it must be too late for this day’s post from Clarendon Park, has forwarded it immediately with her own letters to Paris, which cannot fail to meet Mr. Beauclerc directly on his arrival there.’
“Oh!” cried Lady Cecilia, “how angry the general would be if he knew of this!” She tore the note to the smallest bits as she spoke, and threw them away; and next she begged that Helen would never say a word about it. There was no use in telling the general what would only vex him, and what could not be helped; and what could lead to nothing, for she should never answer this note, nor have any further communication of any kind with Madame de St. Cymon.
Helen, nevertheless, thought it would be much better to tell the general of it, and she wondered how Cecilia could think of doing otherwise, and just when she had so strongly reproached herself, and repented of these foolish mysteries; and this was going on another step. “Indeed, Cecilia,” said Helen, “I wish—on my own account I wish you would not conceal anything. It is hard to let the general suspect me of extreme folly and absurdity, or of some sort of double dealing in this business, in which I have done my utmost to do right and to go straightforward.” Poor Helen, with her nervous headache beating worse and worse, remonstrated and entreated, and came to tears; and Lady Cecilia promised that it should be all done as she desired; but again she charged and besought Helen to say nothing herself about the matter to the general: and this acceded to, Lady Cecilia’s feelings being as transient as they were vehement, all her self-reproaches, penitence, and fears passed away, and, taking her bright view of the whole affair, she ended with the certainty that Beauclerc, would return the moment he received her letter; that he would have it in a very few days, and all would end well, and quite as well as if she had not been a fool.
CHAPTER VI.
THE first tidings of Beauclerc came in a letter from him to the general, written immediately after his arrival at Paris. But it was plain that it must have been written before Lady Cecilia’s letter, forwarded by Madame de St. Cymon, could have reached him. It was evident that matters were as yet unexplained, from his manner of writing about “the death-blow to all his hopes,” and now he was setting off with Lord Beltravers for Naples, to follow M. de St. Cymon, and settle the business of the sister’s divorce. Lady Cecilia could only hope that her letter would follow him thither, enclosed in this Madame de St. Cymon’s despatches to her brother; and now they could know nothing more till they could hear from Naples.
Meanwhile, Helen perceived that, though the general continued to be as attentive and kind to her as usual, yet that there was something more careful and reserved in his manner than formerly, less of spontaneous regard, and cordial confidence. It was not that he was displeased by her having discouraged the addresses of his ward, fond as he was of Beauclerc, and well as he would have been pleased by the match. This he distinctly expressed the only time that he touched upon the subject. He said, that Miss Stanley was the best and the only judge of what would make her happy; but he could not comprehend the nature of the mistake she had made; Cecilia’s explanations, whatever they were, had not made the matter clear. There was either some caprice, or some mystery, which he determined not to inquire into, upon his own principle of leaving people to settle their love affairs in their own way. Helen’s spirits were lowered: naturally of great sensibility, she depended more for her happiness on her inward feelings than upon any external circumstances. A great deal of gaiety was now going on constantly among the young people at Clarendon Park, and this made her want of spirits more disagreeable to herself, more obvious, and more observed by others. Lady Katrine rallied her unmercifully. Not suspecting the truth, her ladyship presumed that Miss Stanley repented of having, before she was asked, said No instead of Yes, to Mr. Churchill. Ever since his departure she had evidently worn the willow.
Lady Cecilia was excessively vexed by this ill-natured raillery: conscious that she had been the cause of all this annoyance to Helen, and of much more serious evil to her, the zeal and tenderness of her affection now increased, and was shown upon every little occasion involuntarily, in a manner that continually irritated her cousin Katrine’s jealousy. Helen had been used to live only with those by whom she was beloved, and she was not at all prepared for the sort of warfare which Lady Katrine carried on; her perpetual sneers, innuendoes, and bitter sarcasms, Helen did not resent, but she felt them. The arrows, ill-aimed and weak, could not penetrate far; it was not with their point they wounded, but by their venom—wherever that touched it worked inward mischief. Often to escape from one false imputation she exposed herself to another more grievous. One night, when the young people wished to dance, and the usual music was not to be had, Helen played quadrilles, and waltzes, for hours with indefatigable good-nature, and when some of the party returned their cordial thanks, Lady Katrine whispered, “our musician has been well paid by Lord Estridge’s admiration of her white hands.” His lordship had not danced, and had been standing all the evening beside Helen, much to the discomfiture of Lady Katrine, who intended to have had him for her own partner. The next night, Helen did not play, but joined the dance, and with a boy partner, whom nobody could envy her. The general, who saw wonderfully quickly the by-play of society, marked all this, and now his eye followed Helen through the quadrille, and he said to some one standing by, that Miss Stanley danced charmingly, to his taste, and in such a lady-like manner. He was glad to see her in good spirits again; her colour was raised, and he observed that she looked remarkably well. “Yes,” Lady Katrine answered, “remarkably well; and black is so becoming to that sort of complexion, no doubt this is the reason Miss Stanley wears it so much longer than is customary for an uncle. Short or long mournings are, to be sure, just according to fashion, or feeling, as some say. For my part, I hate long mournings—so like ostentation of sentiment; whatever I did, at any rate I would be consistent. I never would dance in black. Pope, you know, has such a good cut at that sort of thing. Do you recollect the lines?”