“Fainted,” said the general.
“Yes, quite worn out—she was at Lady Castlefort’s last night—such a crowd!” She went on to describe its city horrors.
“But where is Mr. Beauclerc all this time?” said Miss Clarendon: “has he fainted too? or is he faintish?”
“Not likely,” said Lady Cecilia; “faint heart never won fair lady. He is not of the faintish sort.”
At this moment a thundering knock at the door announced the rest of the company, and never was company more welcome. But Beauclerc did not appear. Before dinner was served, however, a note came from him to the general. Lady Cecilia stretched out her hand for it, and read,
“MY DEAR FRIENDS,—I am obliged to dine out of town. I shall not return to-night, but you will see me at breakfast-time to-morrow. Yours ever, GRANVILLE BEAUCLERC.”
Cockburn now entered with a beautiful bouquet of hot-house flowers, which, he said, Mr. Beauclerc’s man had brought with the note, and which were, he said, for Miss Stanley. Lady Cecilia’s countenance grew radiant with joy, and she exclaimed, “Give them to me,—I must have the pleasure of taking them to her myself.”
And she flew off with them. Aunt Pennant smiled on her as she passed, and, turning to her niece as Lady Cecilia left the room, said, “What a bright creature! so warm, so affectionate!” Miss Clarendon was indeed struck with the indisputably natural sincere satisfaction and affection in Cecilia’s countenance; and, herself of such a different nature, could not comprehend the possibility of such contradiction in any character: she could not imagine the existence of such variable, transitory feelings—she could not believe any human being capable of sacrificing her friend to save herself, while she still so loved her victim, could still feel such generous sympathy for her. She determined at least to suspend her judgment; she granted Lady Cecilia a reprieve from her terrific questions and her as terrific looks. Cecilia recovered her presence of mind, and dinner went off delightfully, to her at least, with the sense of escape in recovered self-possession, and “spirits light, to every joy in tune.”
From the good-breeding of the company there was no danger that the topic she dreaded should be touched upon. Whatever reports might have gone forth, whatever any one present might have heard, nothing would assuredly be said of her friend Miss Stanley, to her, or before her, unless she or the general introduced the subject; and she was still more secure of his discretion than of her own. The conversation kept safe on London-dinner generalities and frivolities. Yet often things that were undesignedly said touched upon the taboo’d matter; and those who knew when, where, and how it touched, looked at or from one another, and almost equally dangerous was either way of looking. Such perfect neutrality of expression is not given to all men in these emergencies as to General Clarendon.
The dessert over, out of the dinner-room and in the drawing-room, the ladies alone together, things were not so pleasant to Lady Cecilia. Curiosity peeped out more and more in great concern about Miss Stanley’s health; and when ladies trifled over their coffee, and saw through all things with their half-shut eyes, they asked, and Lady Cecilia answered, and parried, and explained, and her conscience winced, and her countenance braved, and Miss Clarendon listened with that dreadfully good memory, that positive point-blank recollection, which permits not the slightest variation of statement. Her doubts and her suspicions returned, but she was silent; and sternly silent she remained the rest of the evening.