"If I could! O if I could!" cried Helen.

"What can you mean? Pardon me, Miss Stanley, but surely you can tell the plain fact; you can recollect what you have written--at least you can know what you have not written. You have not yet even looked beyond a few of the letters--pray be composed--be yourself. This business it was that brought me to town. I was warned by that young lady, that poetess of Mr. Churchill's, whom you made your friend by some kindness at Clarendon Park--I was warned that there was a book to come out, these Memoirs of Colonel D'Aubigny, which would contain letters said to be yours, a publication that would be highly injurious to you. I need not enter into details of the measures I consequently took; but I ascertained that Sir Thomas D'Aubigny, the elder brother of the colonel, knows nothing more of the matter than that he gave a ma.n.u.script of his brother's, which he had never read, to be published: the rest is a miserable intrigue between booksellers and literary manufacturers, I know not whom; I have not been able to get to the bottom of it; sufficient for my present purpose I know, and must tell you. You have enemies who evidently desire to destroy your reputation, of course to break your marriage. For this purpose the slanderous press has been set at work, the gossiping part of the public has had its vile curiosity excited, the publication of this book is expected in a few days: this is the only copy yet completed, I believe, and this I could not get from the bookseller till this morning; I am now going to have every other copy destroyed directly."

"Oh my dear, dear friend, how can I thank you?" Her tears gushed forth.

"Thank me not by words, Helen, but by actions; no tears, summon your soul--be yourself."

"O if I could but retrieve one false step!"--she suddenly checked herself.

He stood aghast for an instant, then recovering himself as he looked upon her and marked the nature of her emotion, he said: "There can be no false step that you could ever have taken that cannot be retrieved.

There can have been nothing that is irretrievable, except falsehood."

"Falsehood! No," cried she, "I will not say what is false--therefore I will not say anything."

"Then since you cannot speak," continued the general, "will you trust me with the letters themselves? Have you brought them to town with you?"

"The original letters?"

"Yes, those in the packet which I gave to you at Clarendon Park."

"They are burned."

"All?--one, this first letter I saw you tear; did you burn all the rest?"

"They are burned," repeated she, colouring all over. She could not say "I burned them."

He thought it a poor evasion. "They are burned," continued he, "that is, you burned them: unfortunate. I must then recur to my first appeal. Take this pencil, and mark, I pray you, the pa.s.sages that are your's. I may be called on to prove the forgery of these pa.s.sages: if you do not show me, and truly, which are yours, and which are not, how can I answer for you, Helen?"

"One hour," said Helen,--"only leave me for one hour, and it shall be done."

"Why this cowardly delay?"

"I ask only one hour--only leave me for one hour."

"I obey, Miss Stanley, since it must be so. I am gone."

He went, and Helen felt how sunk she was in his opinion,--sunk for ever, she feared! but she could not think distinctly, her mind was stunned; she felt that she must wait for somebody, but did not at first recollect clearly that it was for Cecilia. She leaned back on the sofa, and sank into a sort of dreamy state. How long she remained thus unconscious she knew not; but she was roused at last by the sound, as she fancied, of a carriage stopping at the door: she started up, but it was gone, or it had not been. She perceived that the breakfast things had been removed, and, turning her eyes upon the clock, she was surprised to see how late it was. She s.n.a.t.c.hed up the pages which she hated to touch, and ran up-stairs to Cecilia's room,--door bolted;--she gave a hasty tap--no answer; another louder, no answer. She ran into the dressing-room for Felicie, who came with a face of mystery, and the smile triumphant of one who knows what is not to be known. But the smile vanished on seeing Miss Stanley's face.

"Bon Dieu! Miss Stanley--how pale! mais qu'est ce que c'est? Mon Dieu, qu'est ce que c'est donc?"

"Is Lady Cecilia's door bolted within side?" said Helen.

"No, only lock by me," said Mademoiselle Felicie. "Miladi charge me not to tell you she was not dere. And I had de presentiment you might go up to look for her in her room. Her head is got better quite. She is all up and dress; she is gone out in the carriage, and will soon be back no doubt. I know not to where she go, but in my opinion to my Lady Katrine.

If you please, you not mention I say dat, as miladi charge me not to speak of dis to you. _Apparemment quelque pet.i.t mystere_."

Poor Helen felt as if her last hope was gone, and now in a contrary extreme from the dreamy torpor in which she had been before, she was seized with a nervous impatience for the arrival of Cecilia, though whether to hope or fear from it, she did not distinctly know. She went to the drawing-room, and listened and listened, and watched and watched, and looked at the clock, and felt a still increasing dread that the general might return before Lady Cecilia, and that she should not have accomplished her promise. She became more and more impatient. As it grew later, the rolling of carriages increased, and their noise grew louder, and continually as they came near she expected that one would stop at the door. She expected and expected, and feared, and grew sick with fear long deferred. At last one carriage did stop, and then came a thundering knock--louder, she thought, than usual; but before she could decide whether it was Cecilia or not, the room-door opened, and the servant had scarcely time to say, that two ladies who did not give their names had insisted upon being let up--when the two ladies entered. One in the extreme of foreign fashion, but an Englishwoman, of a.s.sured and not prepossessing appearance; the other, half hid behind her companion, and all timidity, struck Helen as the most beautiful creature she had ever beheld.

"A thousand pardons for forcing your doors," said the foremost lady; "but I bear my apology in my hand: a precious little box of Roman cameos from a friend of Lady Cecilia Clarendon's, which I was desired to deliver myself."

Helen was, of course, sorry that Lady Cecilia was not at home.

"I presume I have the honour of speaking to Miss Stanley," continued the a.s.sured lady, and she gave her card "Comtesse de St. Cymon."

Then half-turning to the beauty, who now became visible--"Allow me to _mention_--Lady Blanche Forrester."

At that name Helen did not start, but she felt as if she had received an electric shock. How she went through the necessary forms of civility she knew not; but even in the agony of pa.s.sion the little habits of life hold their sway. The customary motions were made, and words p.r.o.nounced; yet when Helen looked at that beautiful Lady Blanche, and saw how beautiful! there came a spasm at her heart.

The comtesse, in answer to her look towards a chair, did not "choose to sit down--could not stay--would not intrude on Miss Stanley." So they stood, Helen supporting herself as best she could, and preserving, apparently, perfect composure, seeming to listen to what farther Madame de St. Cymon was saying; but only the sounds reached her ear, and a general notion that she spoke of the box in her hand. She gave Helen some message to Lady Cecilia, explanatory of her waiting or not waiting upon her ladyship, to all which Helen answered with proper signs of civility; and while the comtesse was going on, she longed to look again at Lady Blanche, but dared not. She saw a half curtsey and a receding motion; and she knew they were going, and she curtsied mechanically. She felt inexpressible relief when Madame de St. Cymon turned her back and moved towards the door. Then Helen looked again at Lady Blanche, and saw again her surpa.s.sing beauty and perfect tranquillity. The tranquillity gave her courage, it pa.s.sed instantaneously into herself, through her whole existence. The comtesse stopped in her way out, to look at a china table. "Ha! beautiful! Sevre!--enamel--by Jaquetot, is it not?"

Helen was able to go forward, and answer to all the questions asked. Not one word from the Lady Blanche; but she wished to hear the sound of her voice. She tried--she spoke to her; but to whatever Helen said, no answer came, but the sweetest of smiles. The comtesse, with easy a.s.surance and impertinent ill-breeding, looked at all that lay in her way, and took up and opened the miniature pictures that were on the table. "Lady Cecilia Clarendon--charming!--Blanche, you never saw her yet. Quite charming, is it not?"

Not a word from Lady Blanche, but a smile, a Guido smile. Another miniature taken up by the curious comtesse. "Ah! very like indeed! not flattered though. Do you know it, Blanche--eh?"

It was Beauclerc. Lady Blanche then murmured some few words indistinctly, in a very sweet voice, but showed no indication of feeling, except, as Helen gave one glance, she thought she saw a slight colour, like the inside of a sh.e.l.l, delicately beautiful; but it might be only the reflection from the crimson silk curtain near which she stood: it was gone, and the picture put down; and in a lively tone from the comtesse "_Au revoir_," and exit, a graceful bend from the silent beauty, and the vision vanished.

Helen stood for some moments fixed to the spot where they left her. She questioned her inmost thoughts. "Why was I struck so much, so strangely, with that beauty--so painfully? It cannot be envy; I never was envious of any one, though so many I have seen so much handsomer than myself.

Jealousy? surely not; for there is no reason for it--no possibility of danger. Yet now, alas! when he has so much cause to doubt me! perhaps he might change. He seemed so displeased last night, and he has never been here all the morning!" She recollected the look and accent of Madame de St. Cymon, as she said the words "_au revoir_." Helen did not like the words, or the look. She did not like anything about Madame de St. Cymon: "Something so a.s.sured, so impertinent! And all that unintelligible message about those cameos!--a mere excuse for making this unseasonable pushing visit--just pushing for the acquaintance. The general will never permit it, though--that is one comfort. But why do I say comfort?" Back went the circle of her thoughts to the same point.--"What can I do?--the general will return, he will find I have not obeyed him. But what can be done till Cecilia returns? If she were but here, I could mark--we could settle. O Cecilia! where are you? But," thought she, "I had better look at the whole. I will, have courage to read these horrible letters." To prevent all hazard of further interruption, she now went into an inner room, bolted the doors, and sat down to her dreaded task. And there we leave her.

CHAPTER V.

That Fortune is not nice in her morality, that she frequently favours those who do not adhere to truth more than those who do, we have early had occasion to observe. But whether Fortune may not be in this, as in all the rest, treacherous and capricious; whether she may not by her first smiles and favours lure her victims on to their cost, to their utter undoing at last, remains to be seen.

It is time to inquire what has become of Lady Cecilia Clarendon. Before we follow her on her very early morning visit to her cousin's, we must take leave to pause one moment to remark, not in the way of moralising by any means, but simply as a matter of history, that the first little fib in which Lady Cecilia, as a customary licence of speech, indulged herself the moment she awoke this morning, though it seemed to answer its purpose exactly at the time, occasioned her ladyship a good deal of superfluous toil and trouble during the course of the day. In reply to the first question her husband had asked, or in evasion of that question, she had answered, "My dear love, don't ask me any questions, for I have such a horrid headache, that I really can hardly speak."

Now a headache, such as she had at that moment, certainly never silenced any woman. Slighter could not be--scarce enough to swear by. There seemed no great temptation to prevarication either, for the general's question was not of a formidable nature, not what the lawyers call a leading question, rather one that led to nothing. It was only, "Had you a pleasant party at Lady Castlefort's last night, my dear Cecilia?"

But with that prescience with which some nicely foresee how the truth, seemingly most innocent, may do harm, her ladyship foreboded that, if she answered straight forward--"no"--that might lead to--why? how? or wherefore?--and this might bring out the history of the strange rude manner in which _la belle fiancee_ had been received. That need not necessarily have followed, but, even if it had, it would have done her no harm,--rather would have served at once her purpose in the best manner possible, as time will show. Her husband, unsuspicious man, asked no more questions, and only gave her the very advice she wished him to give, that she should not get up to breakfast--that she should rest as long as she could. Farther, as if to forward her schemes, even without knowing them, he left the house early, and her headache conveniently going off, she was dressed with all despatch--carriage at the door as soon as husband out of sight, and away she went, as we have seen, without Helen's hearing, seeing, or suspecting her so well contrived and executed project.

She was now in good spirits. The infection of fear which she had caught, perhaps from the too sensitive Helen, last night, she had thrown off this morning. It was a sunny day, and the bright sunshine dispelled, as ever with her, any black notions of the night, all melancholy ideas whatsoever. She had all the const.i.tutional hopefulness of good animal spirits. But though no fears remained, curiosity was as strong as ever.

She was exceedingly eager to know what had been the cause of all these strange appearances. She guessed it must be some pitiful jealousy of Lady Katrine's--some poor spite against Helen. Anything that should really give Beauclerc uneasiness, she now sincerely believed to be out of the question. Nonsense--only Helen and Beauclerc's love of tormenting themselves--quite nonsense! And nonsense! three times e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, quite settled the matter, and a.s.sured her in the belief that there could be nothing serious to be apprehended. In five minutes she should be at the bottom of all things, and in half an hour return triumphant to Helen, and make her laugh at her cowardly self. The carriage rolled on, Lady Cecilia's spirits rising as she moved rapidly onwards, so that by the time she arrived at Lady Castlefort's she was not only in good but in high spirits. To her askings, "Not at home" never echoed. Even at hours undue, such as the present, she, privileged, penetrated. Accordingly, unquestioned, unquestioning, the alert step was let down, opened wide was the hall-door, and lightly tripped she up the steps; but the first look into the hall told her that company was in the house already--yes--a breakfast--all were in the breakfast-room, except Lady Castlefort, not yet come down--above, the footman believed, in her boudoir. To the boudoir Cecilia went, but Lady Castlefort was not there, and Cecilia was surprised to hear the sound of music in the drawing-room, Lady Castlefort's voice singing. While she waited in the next room for the song to be finished, Cecilia turned over the books on the table, richly gilt and beautifully bound, except one in a brown paper parcel, which seemed unsuited to the table, yet excited more attention than all the others, because it was directed _"Private--for Lady Katherine Hawksby--to be returned before two o'clock."_ What could it be? thought Lady Cecilia. But her attention was now attracted by the song which Lady Castlefort seemed to be practising; the words were distinctly p.r.o.nounced, uncommonly distinctly, so as to be plainly heard--

"Had we never loved so kindly, Hail we never loved so blindly, Never met, or never parted.

We had ne'er been broken-hearted."

As Cecilia listened, she cast her eyes upon a card which lay on the table--"Lord Beltravers," and a new light flashed upon her, a light favourable to her present purpose; for since the object was altered with Lady Castlefort, since it was not Beauclerc any longer, there would be no further ill-will towards Helen. Lady Castlefort was not of the violent vindictive sort, with her there was no long-lasting _depit amoureux_. She was not that fury, a woman scorned, but that blessed spirit, a woman believing herself always admired. "Soft, silly, sooth--not one of the hard, wicked, is Louisa," thought Cecilia. And as Lady Castlefort, slowly opening the door, entered, timid, as if she knew some particular person was in the room, Cecilia could not help suspecting that Louisa had intended her song for other ears than those of her dear cousin, and that the superb negligence of her dress was not unstudied; but that well-prepared, well-according sentimental air, changed instantly on seeing--not the person expected, and with a start, she exclaimed, "Cecilia Clarendon!"

"Louisa Castlefort!" cried Lady Cecilia, answering that involuntary start of confusion with a well-acted start of admiration. "Louisa Castlefort, _si belle, si belle_, so beautifully dressed!"

"Beautifully dressed--nothing extraordinary!" said Lady Castlefort, advancing with a half embarra.s.sed, half _non-chalant_ air,--"One must make something of a _toilette de matin_, you know, when one has people to breakfast."

"So elegant, so negligent!" continued Lady Cecilia.

"There is the point," said Lady Castlefort. "I cannot bear any thing that is studied in costume, for dress is really a matter of so little consequence! I never bestow a thought upon it. Angelique rules my toilette as she pleases."

"Angelique has the taste of an angel fresh from Paris," cried Lady Cecilia.

"And now tell me, Cecilia," pursued Lady Castlefort, quite in good humour, "tell me, my dear, to what do I owe this pleasure? what makes you so _matinale?_ It must be something very extraordinary."