“Though quite unknown in the London world, this young lady cannot fail to excite some curiosity among our fashionables as the successful rival of one whom the greatest painter of the age has pronounced to be the fairest of the fair—the Lady B. F. This new Helen is, we understand, of a respectable family, niece to a late dean, distinguished for piety much and virtù more. It was reported that the niece was a great heiress, but after the proposal had been made, it was discovered that Virtù had made away with every shilling of her fortune. This made no difference in the eyes of her inamorato, who is as rich as he is generous, and who saw with the eyes of a youth ‘Of Age to-morrow.’ His guardian, a wary general, demurred—but nursery tactics prevailed. The young lady, though she had never been out, bore the victory from him of many campaigns. The day for the marriage was fixed as announced by us—But we are concerned to state that a postponement of this marriage for mysterious reasons has taken place. Delicacy forbids us to say more at present.”
Delicacy, however, did not prevent their saying in the next paper in a paragraph headed, “MYSTERY SOLVED,” “We understand that in the course of a few days will appear the ‘Memoirs of the late Colonel D——y; or, Reminiscences of a Rouè, well known in the Fashionable World.’ This little volume bids fair to engross the attention of the higher circles, as it contains, besides innumerable curious, personal, and secret anecdotes, the original love letters of a certain belle fiancée, now residing with a noble family in Grosvenor Square.”
Lady Cecilia saw at once the whole dreadful danger—her own letters to Colonel D’Aubigny they must he! How could they have got them? They would be seen by her husband—published to the whole world—if the general found out they were hers, he would cast her off for ever. If they were believed to be Helen’s—Helen was undone, sacrificed to her folly, her cowardice. “Oh! if I had but told Clarendon, he would have stopped this dreadful, dreadful publication.” And what falsehoods it might contain, she did not even dare to think. All was remorse, terror, confusion—fixed to the spot like one stupified, she stood. Lady Castlefort did not see it—she had been completely engrossed with what she had been writing, she was now looking for her most sentimental seal, and not till she had pressed that seal down and examined the impression, did she look up or notice Cecilia—Then struck indeed with a sense of something unusual—“My dear,” said she, “you have no idea how odd you look—so strange, Cecilia—quite èbahie!” Giving two pulls to the bell as she spoke, and her eyes on the door, impatient for the servant, she added—“After all, Cecilia, Helen Stanley is no relation even—only a friend. Take this note—” to the footman who answered the bell; and the moment he left the room, continuing, in the same tone, to Lady Cecilia, she said—“You will have to give her up at last—that’s all; so you had better make your mind up to it.”
When Lady Cecilia tried to speak, she felt her tongue cleave to the roof of her mouth; and when she did articulate, it was in a sort of hoarse sound. “Is the book published?” She held the paper before Lady Castlefort’s eyes, and pointed to the name she could not utter.
“D’Aubigny’s book—is it published, do you mean?” said Lady Castlefort. “Absolutely published, I cannot say, but it is all in print, I know. I do not understand about publishing. There’s something about presentation copies: I know Katrine was wild to have one before any body else, so she is to have the first copy, I know, and, I believe, is to have it this very morning for the people at this breakfast: it is to be the bonne bouche of the business.”
“What has Katrine to do with it?—Oh, tell me, quick!”
“Dear me, Cecilia, what a fuss you are in!—you make me quite nervous to look at you. You had better go down to the breakfast-room, and you will hear all about it from the fountain-head.”
“Has Katrine the book or not?” cried Lady Cecilia.
“Bless me! I will inquire, my dear, if you will not look so dreadful.” She rang and coolly asked—“Did that man, that bookseller, Stone, send any parcel or book this morning, do you know, for Lady Katrine?”
“Yes, my lady; Landrum had a parcel for Lady Katrine—it is on the table, I believe.”