"My dear Helen, it is impossible to tell you all the daily, hourly necessities for dissimulation which occurred. Every day, you know, we were to send to inquire for Mr. Churchill; and every day when Clarendon brought me the bulletin, he pitied me, and blamed you; and the double dealing in my countenance he never suspected--always interpreted favourably. Oh, such confidence as he had in me--and how it has been wasted, abused! Then letters from Beauclerc--how I bore to hear them read I cannot conceive: and at each time that I escaped, I rejoiced and reproached myself--and reproached myself and rejoiced. I succeeded in every effort at deception, and was cursed by my own success. Encouraged to proceed, I soon went on without shame and without fear. The general heard me defending you against the various reports which my venomous cousin had circulated, and he only admired what he called 'my amiable zeal.' His love for me increased, but it gave me no pleasure: for, Helen, now I am going to tell you an extraordinary turn which my mind took, for which I cannot account--I can hardly believe it--it seems out of human nature--my love for him decreased!--not only because I felt that he would hate me if he discovered my deceit, but because he was lowered in my estimation! I had always had, as every body has, even my mother, the highest opinion of his judgment. To that judgment I had always looked up; it had raised me in my own opinion; it was a motive to me to be equal to what he thought me: but now that motive was gone, I no longer looked up to him; his credulous affection had blinded his judgment--he was my dupe! I could not reverence--I could not love one who was my dupe. But I cannot tell you how shocked I was at myself when I felt my love for him decrease every time I saw him.

"I thought myself a monster; I had grown use to every thing but that--that I could not endure; it was a darkness of the mind--a coldness; it was as if the sun had gone out of the universe; it was more--it was worse--it was as if I was alone in the world. Home was a desert to me. I went out every evening; sometimes, but rarely, Clarendon accompanied me: he had become more retired; his spirits had declined with mine; and though he was glad I should go out and amuse myself, yet he was always exact as to the hours of my return. I was often late--later than I ought to have been, and I made a mult.i.tude of paltry excuses; this it was, I believe, which first shook his faith in my truth; but I was soon detected in a more decided failure.

"You know I never had the least taste for play of any kind: you may remember I used to be scolded for never minding what I was about at ecarte: in short, I never had the least love for it--it wearied me; but now that my spirits were gone, it was a sort of intoxication in which I cannot say I indulged--for it was no indulgence, but to which I had recourse. Louisa Castlefort, you know, was always fond of play--got into her first difficulties by that means--she led me on. I lost a good deal of money to her, and did not care about it as long as I could pay; but presently it came to a time when I could not pay without applying to the general: I applied to him, but under false pretences--to pay this bill or that, or to buy something, which I never bought: this occurred so often and to such extent, that he suspected--he discovered how it went; he told me so. He spoke in that low, suppressed, that terrible voice which I had heard once before; I said, I know not what, in deprecation of his anger. 'I am not angry, Cecilia,' said he. I caught his hand, and would have detained him; he withdrew that band, and, looking at me, exclaimed, 'Beautiful creature! half those charms would I give for _truth!_' He left the room, and there was contempt in his look.

"All my love--all my reverence, returned for him in an instant; but what could I say? He never recurred to the subject; and now, when I saw the struggle in his mind, my pa.s.sion for him returned in all its force.

"People who flattered me often, you know, said I was fascinating, and I determined to use my powers of fascination to regain my husband's heart; how little I knew that heart! I dressed to please him--oh! I never dressed myself with such care in my most coquettish days;--I gave a splendid ball; I dressed to please him--he used to be delighted with my dancing: he had said, no matter what, but I wanted to make him say it--feel it again; he neither said nor felt it. I saw him standing looking at me, and at the close of the dance I heard from him one sigh.

I was more in love with him than when first we were married, and he saw it, but that did not restore me to his confidence--his esteem; nothing could have done that, but--what I had not. One step in dissimulation led to another.

"After Lord Beltravers returned from Paris on Lady Blanche's marriage, I used to meet him continually at Louisa Castlefort's. As for play, that was over with me for ever, but I went to Louisa's continually, because it was the gayest house I could go to; I used to meet Lord Beltravers there, and he pretended to pay me a vast deal of attention, to which I was utterly indifferent, but his object was to push his sister into society again by my means. He took advantage of that unfortunate note which I had received from Madame de St. Cymon, when she was at Old Forest; he wanted me to admit her among my acquaintance; he urged it in every possible way, and was excessively vexed that it would not do: not that he cared for her; he often spoke of her in a way that shocked me, but it hurt his pride that she should be excluded from the society to which her rank ent.i.tled her. I had met her at Louisa's once or twice; but when I found that for her brother's sake she was always to be invited, I resolved to go there no more, and I made a merit of this with Clarendon. He was pleased; he said, 'That is well, that is right, my dear Cecilia.' And he went out more with me. One night at the Opera, the Comtesse de St. Cymon was in the box opposite to us, no lady with her, only some gentlemen. She watched me; I did all I could to avoid her eye, but at an unlucky moment she caught mine, bent forward, and had the a.s.surance to bow. The general s.n.a.t.c.hed the opera-gla.s.s from my hand, made sure who it was, and then said to me,

"'How does that woman dare to claim your notice, Lady Cecilia? I am afraid there must have been some encouragement on your part.'

"'None,' said I, 'nor ever shall be; you see I take no notice.'

"'But you must have taken notice, or this could never be?'

"'No indeed!' persisted I. 'Helen! I really forgot at the moment that first unfortunate note. An instant afterwards I recollected it, and the visit about the cameos, but that was not my fault. I had, to be sure, dropped a card in return at her door, and I ought to have mentioned that, but I really did not recollect it till the words had pa.s.sed my lips, and then it was too late, and I did not like to go back and spoil my case by an exception. The general did not look quite satisfied; he did not receive my a.s.sertions as implicitly as formerly. He left the box afterwards to speak to some one, and while he was gone in came Lord Beltravers. After some preliminary nothings, he went directly to the point; and said in an a.s.sured manner, 'I believe you do not know my sister at this distance. She has been endeavouring to catch your eye.'

"'The Comtesse de St. Cymon does me too much honour,' said I with a slight inclination of the head, and elevation of the eyebrow, which spoke sufficiently plainly.

"Unabashed, and with a most provoking, almost sneering look, he replied, 'Madame de St. Cymon had wished to say a few words to your ladyship on your own account; am I to understand this cannot be?'

"'On my own account?' said I, 'I do not in the least understand your lordship.' 'I am not sure,' said he, 'that I perfectly comprehend it.

But I know that you sometimes drive to Kensington, and sometimes take a turn in the gardens there. My sister lives at Kensington, and could not she, without infringing etiquette, meet you in your walk, and have the honour of a few words with you? Something she wants to say to you,' and here he lowered his voice, 'about a locket, and Colonel D'Aubigny.'

"Excessively frightened, and hearing some one at the door, I answered, 'I do not know, I believe I shall drive to Kensington to-morrow.' He bowed delighted, and relieved me from his presence that instant. The moment afterwards General Clarendon came in. He asked me, 'Was not that Lord Beltravers whom I met?'

"'Yes,' said I; 'he came to reproach me for not noticing his sister, and I answered him in such a manner as to make him clear that there was no hope.'

"'You did right,' said he, 'if you did so.' My mind was in such confusion that I could not quite command my countenance, and I put up my fan as if the lights hurt me. "'Cecilia,' said he, 'take care what you are about. Remember, it is not my request only, but my command to my wife' (he laid solemn stress on the words) 'that she should have no communication with this woman.'

"'My dear Clarendon, I have not the least wish.'

"'I do not ask what your wishes may be; I require only your obedience.'

"Never have I heard such austere words from him. I turned to the stage, and I was glad to seize the first minute I could to get away. But what was to be done? If I did not go to Kensington, there was this locket, and I knew not what, standing out against me. I knew that this wretched woman had had Colonel D'Aubigny in her train abroad, and supposed that he must--treacherous profligate as he was--have given the locket to her, and now I was so afraid of its coming to Clarendon's eyes or ears!--and yet why should I have feared his knowing about it? Colonel D'Aubigny stole it, just as he stole the picture. I had got it for you, do you recollect?"

"Perfectly," said Helen, "and your mother missed it."

"Yes," continued Lady Cecilia. "O that I had had the sense to do nothing about it! But I was so afraid of its somehow bringing everything to light: my cowardice--my conscience--my consciousness of that first fatal falsehood before my marriage, has haunted me at the most critical moments: it has risen against me, and stood like an evil spirit threatening me from the right path.

"I went to Kensington, trusting to my own good fortune, which had so often stood me in stead; but Madame de St. Cymon was too cunning for me, and so interested, so mean, she actually bargained for giving up the locket. She hinted that she knew Colonel D'Aubigny had never been your lover, and ended by saying she had not the locket with her; and though I made her understand that the general would never allow me to receive her at my own house, yet she 'hoped I could manage an introduction for her to some of my friends, and that she would bring the locket on Monday, if I would in the mean time try, at least with Lady Emily Greville and Mrs.

Holdernesse.'

"I felt her meanness, and yet I was almost as mean myself, for I agreed to do what I could. Monday came, Clarendon saw me as I was going out, and, as he handed me into the carriage, he asked me where I was going.

To Kensington I said, and added--oh! Helen, I am ashamed to tell you, I added,--I am going to see my child. And there I found Madame de St.

Cymon, and I had to tell her of my failure with Lady Emily and Mrs.

Holdernesse. I softened their refusal as much as I could, but I might have spared myself the trouble, for she only retorted by something about English prudery. At this moment a shower of rain came on, and she insisted upon my taking her home; 'Come in,' said she, when the carnage stopped at her door: 'if you will come in, I will give it to you now, and you need not have the trouble of calling again.' I had the folly to yield, though I saw that it was a trick to decoy me into her house, and to make it pa.s.s for a visit. It all flashed upon me, and yet I could not resist, for I thought I must obtain the locket at all hazards. I resolved to get it from her before I left the house, and then I thought all would be finished.

"She looked triumphant as she followed me into her saloon, and gave a malicious smile, which seemed to say, 'You see you are visiting me after all.' After some nonsensical conversation, meant to detain me, I pressed for the locket, and she produced it: it was indeed the very one that had been made for you--But just at that instant, while she still held it in her band, the door suddenly opened, and Clarendon stood opposite to me!

"I heard Madame de St. Cymon's voice, but of what she said, I have no idea. I heard nothing but the single word 'rain' and with scarcely strength to articulate, I attempted to follow up that excuse.

Clarendon's look of contempt!--But he commanded himself, advanced calmly to me, and said, 'I came to Kensington with these letters; they have just arrived by express. Lady Davenant is in England--she is ill.' He gave me the packet, and left the room, and I heard the sound of his horses' feet the next instant as he rode off. I broke from Madame de St.

Cymon, forgetting the locket and everything. I asked my servants which way the general had gone? 'To Town.' I perceived that he must have been going to look for me at the nurse's, and had seen the carriage at Madame de St. Cymon's door. I hastened after him, and then I recollected that I had left the locket on the table at Madame de St. Cymon's, that locket for which I had hazarded--lost--everything! The moment I readied home, I ran to Clarendon's room; he was not there, and oh! Helen, I have not seen him since!

"From some orders which he left about horses, I suppose he went to meet my mother. I dared not follow him. She had desired me to wait for her arrival at her own house. All yesterday, all last night, Helen, what I have suffered! I could not bear it any longer, and then I thought of coming to meet you. I thought I must see you before my mother arrived--my mother! but Clarendon will not have met her till to-day. Oh, Helen! you feel all that I fear--all that I foresee."

Lady Cecilia sank back, and Helen, overwhelmed with all she had heard, could for some time only pity her in silence; and at last could only suggest that the general would not have time for any private communication with Lady Davenant, as her woman would be in the carriage with her, and the general was on horseback.

It was late in the day before they reached town. As they came near Grosvenor Square, c.o.c.kburn inquired whether they were to drive home, or to Lady Davenant's?

"To my mother's, certainly, and as fast as you can."

Lady Davenant had not arrived, but there were packages in the hall, her courier, and her servants, who said that General Clarendon was with her, but not in the carriage; he had sent them on. No message for Lady Cecilia, but that Lady Davenant would be in town this night.

To night--some hours still of suspense! As long as there were arrangements to be made, anything to do or to think of but that meeting of which they dared not think, it was endurable, but too soon all was settled; nothing to be done, but to wait and watch, to hear the carriages roll past, and listen, and start, and look at each other, and sink back disappointed. Lady Cecilia walked from the sofa to the window, and looked out, and back again---continually, continually, till at last Helen begged her to sit down. She sat down before an old piano-forte of her mother's, on which her eyes fixed; it was one on which she had often played with Helen when they were children. "Happy, innocent days," said she; "I never shall we be so happy again, Helen! But I cannot think of it;" she rose hastily, and threw herself on the sofa.

A servant, who had been watching at the hall-door, came in--"The carriage, my lady! Lady Davenant is coming."

Lady Cecilia started up; they ran down stairs; the carriage stopped, and in the imperfect light they saw the figure of Lady Davenant, scarcely altered, leaning upon General Clarendon's arm. The first sound of her voice was feebler, softer, than formerly--quite tender, when she said, as she embraced them both by turns, "My dear children!"

"You have accomplished your journey, Lady Davenant, better than you expected," said the general.

Something struck her in the tone of his voice. She turned quickly, saw her daughter lay her hand upon his arm, and saw that arm withdrawn!

They all entered the saloon--it was a blaze of light; Lady Davenant, shading her eyes with her hand, looked round at the countenances, which she had not yet seen. Lady Cecilia shrank back. The penetrating eyes turned from her, glanced at Helen, and fixed upon the general.

"What is all this?" cried she.

Helen threw her arms round Lady Davenant. "Let us think of you first, and only--be calm."

Lady Davenant broke from her, and pressing forwards exclaimed, "I must see my daughter--if I have still a daughter! Cecilia!"

The general moved. Lady Cecilia, who had sunk upon a chair behind him, attempted to rise. Lady Davenant stood opposite to her; the light was now full upon her face and figure; and her mother saw how it was changed! and looking back at Helen, she said in a low, awful tone, "I see it; the black spot has spread!"

Scarcely had Lady Davenant p.r.o.nounced these words, when she was seized with violent spasms. The general had but just time to save her from falling; he could not leave her. All was terror! Even her own woman, so long used to these attacks, said it was the worst she had ever seen, and for some time evidently feared it would terminate fatally. At last slowly she came to herself, but perfectly in possession of her intellects, she sat up, looked round, saw the agony in her daughter's countenance, and holding out her hand to her, said, "Cecilia, if there is anything that I ought to know, it should be said now." Cecilia caught her mother's hand, and threw herself upon her knees. "Helen, Helen, stay!" cried she, "do not go, Clarendon!"

He stood leaning against the chimney-piece, motionless, while Cecilia, in a faltering voice, began; her voice gaining strength, she went on, and poured out all--even from the very beginning, that first suppression of the truth, that first cowardice, then all that followed from that one falsehood--all--even to the last degradation, when in the power, in the presence of that bad woman, her husband found and left her. She shuddered as she came to the thought of that look of his, and not daring, not having once dared while she spoke, to turn towards him, her eyes fixed upon her mother's; but as she finished speaking, her head sank, she laid her face on the sofa beside her; she felt her mother's arm thrown over her and she sobbed convulsively.

There was silence.

"I have still a daughter!" were the first words that broke the silence.

"Not such as I might have had, but that is my own fault."

"Oh mother!"