“My dear Lady Davenant, Mr. Beauclerc!”—He was there! and she made her retreat as quickly as possible. The quantity that had been said about him, and the awkward way in which they had thus accidentally met, made her feel much embarrassed when they were regularly introduced.
At the beginning of dinner, Helen fancied that there was unusual silence and constraint; perhaps this might be so, or perhaps people were really hungry, or perhaps Mr. Beauclerc had not yet satisfied the general and Lady Davenant: however, towards the end of dinner, and at the dessert, he was certainly entertaining; and Lady Cecilia appeared particularly amused by an account which he was giving of a little French piece he had seen just before he left London, called “Les Premieres Amours,” and Helen might have been amused too, but that Lady Cecilia called upon her to listen, and, Mr. Beauclerc turning his eyes upon her, she saw, or fancied that he was put out in his story, and though he went on with perfect good breeding, yet it was evidently with diminished spirit. As soon as politeness permitted, at the close of the story, she, to relieve him and herself, turned to the aide-de-camp on her other side, and devoted, or seemed to devote, to him her exclusive attention. He was always tiresome to her, but now more than ever; he went on, when once set a-going, about his horses and his dogs, while she had the mortification of hearing almost immediately after her seceding, that Mr. Beauclerc recovered the life and spirit of his tone, and was in full and delightful enjoyment of conversation with Lady Cecilia. Something very entertaining caught her ear every now and then; but, with her eyes fixed in the necessary direction, it was impossible to make it out, through the aid-de-camp’s never-ending tediousness. She thought the sitting after dinner never would terminate, though it was in fact rather shorter than usual.
As soon as they reached the drawing-room, Lady Cecilia asked her mother what was the cause of Granville’s delay in town, and why he had come to-day, after he had written it was impossible?
Lady Davenant answered, that he had ‘trampled,’ as Lord Chatham did, ‘on impossibilities.’ “It was not a physical impossibility, it seems.”
“I’m sure—I hope,” continued Cecilia, “that none of the Beltravers’ set had any thing to do with his delay, yet from a word or two the general let fall, I’m almost sure that they have—Lady Blanche, I’m afraid—.” There she stopped. “If it were only a money difficulty with Lord Beltravers,” resumed she, “that might be easily settled, for Beauclerc is rich enough.”
“Yes,” said Lady Davenant, “but rashly generous; an uncommon fault in these days, when young men are in general selfishly prudent or selfishly extravagant.”
“I hope,” said Cecilia,—“I hope Lady Blanche Forrester will not—” there she paused, and consulted her mother’s countenance; her mother answered that Beauclerc had not spoken to her of Lady Blanche. After putting her hopes and fears, questions and conjectures, into every possible form and direction, Lady Cecilia was satisfied that her mother knew no more than herself, and this was a great comfort.
When Mr. Beauclerc reappeared, Helen was glad that she was settled at an embroidery frame, at the furthest end of the room, as there, apart from the world, she felt safe from all cause for embarrassment, and there she continued happy till some one came to raise the light of the lamp over her head. It was Mr. Beauclerc, and, as she looked up, she gave a foolish little start of surprise, and then all her confusion returning, with thanks scarce audible, her eyes were instantly fixed on the vine leaf she was embroidering. He asked how she could by lamplight distinguish blue from green? a simple and not very alarming question, but she did not hear the words rightly, and thinking he asked whether she wished for a screen, she answered “No, thank you.”
Lady Cecilia laughed, and covering Helen’s want of hearing by Beauclerc’s want of sight, explained—“Do not you see, Granville, the silk-cards are written upon, ‘blue’ and ‘green;’ there can be no mistake.”
Mr. Beauclerc made a few more laudable attempts at conversation with Miss Stanley, but she, still imagining that this was forced, could not in return say anything but what seemed forced and unnatural, and as unlike her usual self as possible. Lady Cecilia tried to relieve her; she would have done better to have let it alone, for Beauclerc was not of the French wit’s opinion that, La modestie n’est bonne qu’à quinze ans, and to him it appeared only a graceful timidity. Helen retired earlier than any one else, and, when she thought over her foolish awkwardness, felt as much ashamed as if Mr. Beauclerc had actually heard all that Lady Cecilia had said about him—had seen all her thoughts, and understood the reason of her confusion. At last, when Lady Cecilia came into her room before she went to bed, she began with—“I am sure you are going to scold me, and I deserve it, I am so provoked with myself, and the worst of it is, that I do not think I shall ever get over it—I am afraid I shall be just as foolish again tomorrow.”