_ VOLUME THE SECOND
CHAPTER VII
Of the regatta, of the fineness of the weather, the beauty of the spectacle, and the dresses of the ladies, a full account appeared in the papers of the day, of which it would be useless here to give a repetition, and shameful to steal or seem to steal a description. We shall record only what concerns Helen.
With the freshness of youth and of her naturally happy temper, she was delighted with the whole, to her a perfectly new spectacle, and every body was pleased except Lady Katrine, who, in the midst of every amusement, always found something that annoyed her, something that "should not have been so." She was upon this occasion more cross than usual, because this morning's uniform was not becoming to her, and was most particularly so to Miss Stanley, as all the gentlemen observed.
Just in time before the ladies went to dress for the ball at night, the precious box arrived, containing the set of sapphires. Cecilia opened it eagerly, to see that all was right. Helen was not in the room. Lady Katrine stood by, and when she found that these were for Helen, her envious indignation broke forth. "The poor daughters of peers cannot indulge in such things," cried she; "they are fit only for rich heiresses! I understood," continued she, "that Miss Stanley had given away her fortune to pay her uncle's debts, but I presume she has thought better of that, as I always prophesied she would----generosity is charming, but, after all, sapphires are so becoming!"
Helen came into the room just as this speech was ended. Lady Katrine had one of the bracelets in her hand. She looked miserably cross, for she had been disappointed about some ornaments she had expected by the same conveyance that brought Miss Stanley's. She protested that she had nothing fit to wear to-night. Helen looked at Cecilia; and though Cecilia's look gave no encouragement, she begged that Lady Katrine would do her the honour to wear these sapphires this night, since she had not received what her ladyship had ordered. Lady Katrine suffered herself to be prevailed on, but accepted with as ill a grace as possible. The ball went on, and Helen at least was happier than if she had worn the bracelets. She had no pleasure in being the object of envy, and now, when she found that Cecilia could be and was satisfied, though their ornaments were not exactly alike, it came full upon her mind that she had done foolishly in bespeaking these sapphires: it was at that moment only a transient self-reproach for extravagance, but before she went to rest this night it became more serious.
Lady Davenant had been expected all day, but she did not arrive till late in the midst of the ball, and she just looked in at the dancers for a few minutes before she retired to her own apartment. Helen would have followed her, but that was not allowed. After the dancing was over, however, as she was going to her room, she heard Lady Davenant's voice, calling to her as she passed by; and, opening the door softly, she found her still awake, and desiring to see her for a few minutes, if she was not too much tired.
"Oh no, not in the least tired; quite the contrary," said Helen.
After affectionately embracing her, Lady Davenant held her at arms' length, and looked at her as the light of the lamp shone full upon her face and figure. Pleased with her whole appearance, Lady Davenant smiled, and said, as she looked at her--"You seem, Helen, to have shared the grateful old fairy's gift to Lady Georgiana B. of the never-fading rose in the cheek. But what particularly pleases me, Helen, is the perfect simplicity of your dress. In the few minutes that I was in the ball-room to-night, I was struck with that over-dressed duchess: her figure has been before my eyes ever since, hung round with jewellery, and with that
aureole a foot and a-half high on her head: like the Russian bride's headgear, which Heber so well called 'the most costly deformity he ever beheld.' Really, this passion for baubles," continued Lady Davenant, "is the universal passion of our sex. I will give you an instance to what extravagance it goes. I know a lady of high rank, who hires a certain pair of emerald earrings at fifteen hundred pounds per annum. She rents them in this way from some German countess in whose family they are an heir-loom, and cannot be sold." Helen expressed her astonishment. "This is only one instance, my dear; I could give you hundreds. Over the whole world, women of all ages, all ranks, all conditions, have been seized with this bauble insanity--from the counter to the throne. Think of Marie Antoinette and the story of her necklace; and Josephine and her Cisalpine pearls, and all the falsehoods she told about them to the emperor she reverenced, the husband she loved--and all for what?--a string of beads! But I forget," cried Lady Davenant, interrupting herself, "I must not forget how late it is: and I am keeping you up, and you have been dancing: forgive me! When once my mind is moved, I forget all hours. Good night--or good morning, my dear child; go, and rest." But just as Helen was withdrawing her hand, Lady Davenant's eye fixed on her pearl bracelets--"Roman pearls, or real? Real, I see, and very valuable!--given to you, I suppose, by your poor dear extravagant uncle?"
Helen cleared her uncle's memory from this imputation, and explained that the bracelets were a present from General Clarendon. She did not know they were so "very valuable," but she hoped she had not done wrong to accept of them in the circumstances; and she told how she had been induced to take them.
Lady Davenant said she had done quite right. The general was no present-maker, and this exception in his favour could I not lead to any future inconvenience. "But Cecilia," continued she, "is too much addicted to trinket giving, which ends often disagreeably even between friends, or at all events fosters a foolish taste, and moreover associates it with feelings of affection in a way particularly deceitful and dangerous to such a little, tender-hearted person as I am speaking to, whose common sense would too easily give way to the pleasure of pleasing or fear of offending a friend. Kiss me, and don't contradict me, for your conscience tells you that what I say is true."
The sapphires, the ruby brooch, and all her unsettled accounts, came across Helen's mind; and if the light had shone upon her face at that moment, her embarrassment must have been seen; but Lady Davenant, as she finished the last words, laid her head upon the pillow, and she turned and settled herself comfortably to go to sleep. Helen retired with a disordered conscience; and the first thing she did in the morning was to look in the red case in which the sapphires came, to see if there was any note of their price; she recollected having seen some little bit of card--it was found on the dressing-table. When she beheld the price, fear took away her breath--it was nearly half her whole year's income; still she
could pay it. But the ruby brooch that had not yet arrived--what would that cost? She hurried to her accounts; she had let them run on for months unlooked at, but she thought she must know the principal articles of expense in dress by her actual possessions. There was a heap of little crumpled bills which, with Felicie's griffonage, Helen had thrown into her table-drawer. In vain did she attempt to decipher the figures, like apothecaries' marks, linked to quarters and three-quarters, and yards, of gauzes, silks, and muslins, altogether inextricably puzzling. They might have been at any other moment laughable, but now they were quite terrible to Helen; the only thing she could make clearly out was the total; she was astonished when she saw to how much little nothings can amount, an astonishment felt often by the most experienced--how much more by Helen, all unused to the arithmetic of economy! At this instant her maid came in smiling with a packet, as if sure of being the bearer of the very thing her young lady most wished for; it was the brooch--the very last thing in the world she desired to see. With a trembling hand she opened the parcel, looked at the note of the price, and sank upon her chair half stupified, with her eyes fixed upon the sum. She sat she knew not how long, till, roused by the opening of Cecilia's door, she hastened to put away the papers. "Let me see them, my dear, don't put away those papers," cried Cecilia; "Felicie tells me that you have been at these horrid accounts these two hours, and--you look--my dear Helen, you must let me see how much it is!" She drew the total from beneath Helen's hand. It was astounding even to Cecilia, as appeared by her first unguarded look of surprise. But, recovering herself immediately, she in a playfully scolding tone told Helen that all this evil came upon her in consequence of her secret machinations. "You set about to counteract me, wrote for things that I might not get them for you, you see what has come of it! As to these bills, they are all from tradespeople who cannot be in a hurry to be paid; and as to the things Felicie has got for you, she can wait, is not she a waiting-woman by profession? Now, where is the ruby-brooch? Have you never looked at it?--I hope it is pretty--I am sure it is handsome," cried she as she opened the case. "Yes; I like it prodigiously, I will take it off your hands, my dear; will that do?"
"No, Cecilia, I cannot let you do that, for you have one the same, I know, and you cannot want another--no, no."
"You speak like an angel, my dear, but you do not look like one," said Cecilia. "So woe-begone, so pale a creature, never did I see! do look at yourself in the glass; but you are too wretched to plague. Seriously, I want this brooch, and mine it must be--it is mine: I have a use for it, I assure you."
"Well, if you have a use for it, really," said Helen, "I should indeed be very glad----"
"Be glad then, it is mine," said Cecilia; "and now it is yours, my dear Helen, now, not a word! pray, if you love me!"
Helen could not accept of it; she thanked Cecilia with all her heart, she felt her kindness--her generosity, but even the hitherto irresistible words, "If you love me," were urged in vain. If she had not been in actual need of money, she might have been over-persuaded, but now her spirit of independence strengthened her resolution, and she persisted in her refusal. Lady Davenant's bell rang, and Helen, slowly rising, took up the miserable accounts, and said, "Now I must go----"
"Where!" said Cecilia; "you look as if you had heard a knell that summoned you--what are you going to do?" "To tell all my follies to Lady Davenant."
"Tell your follies to nobody but me," cried Lady Cecilia. "I have enough of my own to sympathise with you, but do not go and tell them to my mother, of all people; she, who has none of her own, how can you expect any mercy?"
"I do not; I am content to bear all the blame I so richly deserve, but I know that after she has heard me, she will tell me what I ought to do, she will find out some way of settling it all rightly, and if that can but be, I do not care how much I suffer. So the sooner I go to her the better," said Helen.
"But you need not be in such a hurry; do not be like the man who said, 'Je veux etre l'enfant prodigue, je veux etre l'enfant perdu.' L'enfant prodigue, well and good, but why l'enfant perdu?"
"My dear Cecilia, do not play with me now--do not stop me," said Helen anxiously. "It is serious with me now, and it is as much as I can do----"
Cecilia let her go, but trembled for her, as she looked after her, and saw her stop at her mother's door.
Helen's first knock was too low, it was unheard, she was obliged to wait; another, louder, was answered by, "Come in." And in the presence she stood, and into the middle of things she rushed at once; the accounts, the total, lay before Lady Davenant. There it was: and the culprit, having made her confession, stood waiting for the sentence.
The first astonished change of look, was certainly difficult to sustain. "I ought to have foreseen this," said Lady Davenant; "my affection has deceived my judgment. Helen, I am sorry for your sake, and for my own."
"Oh do not speak in that dreadful calm voice, as if--do not give me up at once," cried Helen.
"What can I do for you? what can be done for one who has no strength of mind?" I have some, thought Helen, or I should not be here at this moment. "Of what avail, Helen, is your good heart--your good intentions, without the power to abide by them? When you can be drawn aside from the right by the first paltry temptation--by that most contemptible of passions--the passion for baubles! You tell me it was not that, what then? a few words of persuasion from any one who can smile, and fondle, and tell you that they love you;--the fear of offending Cecilia! how absurd! Is this what you both call friendship? But weaker still, Helen, I perceive that you have been led blindfold in extravagance by a prating French waiting-maid--to the brink of ruin, the very verge of dishonesty."
"Dishonesty! how?"
"Ask yourself, Helen: is a person honest, who orders and takes from the owner that for which he cannot pay? Answer me, honest or dishonest."
"Dishonest! if I had intended not to pay. But I did intend to pay, and I will."
"You will! The weak have no will--never dare to say I will. Tell me how you will pay that which you owe. You have no means--no choice, except to take from the fund you have already willed to another purpose. See what good intentions, come to, Helen, when you cannot abide by them!"
"But I can," cried Helen; "whatever else I do, I will not touch that fund, destined for my dear uncle--I have not touched it. I could pay it in two years, and I will--I will give up my whole allowance."
"And what will you live upon in the mean time?"
"I should not have said my whole allowance, but I can do with very little, I will buy nothing new."
"Buy nothing--live upon nothing!" repeated Lady Davenant; "how often have I heard these words said by the most improvident, in the moment of repentance, even then as blind and uncalculating as ever! And you, Helen, talk to me of your powers of forbearance,--you, who, with the strongest motive your heart could feel, have not been able for a few short months to resist the most foolish--the most useless fancies."
Helen burst into tears. But Lady Davenant, unmoved, at least to all outward appearance, coldly said, "It is not feeling that you want, or that I require from you; I am not to be satisfied by words or tears."
"I deserve it all," said Helen; "and I know you are not cruel. In the midst of all this, I know you are my best friend."
Lady Davenant was now obliged to be silent, lest her voice should betray more tenderness than her countenance chose to show.
"Only tell me what I can do now," continued Helen; "what can I do?"
"What you CAN do, I will tell you, Helen. Who was the man you were dancing with last night?" "I danced with several; which do you mean?"
"Your partner in the quadrille you were dancing when I came in."
"Lord Estridge: but you know him--he has been often here."
"Is he rich?" said Lady Davenant.
"Oh yes, very rich, and very self-sufficient: he is the man Cecilia used to call '
Le prince de mon merite.'"
"Did she? I do not remember. He made no impression on me, nor on you, I dare say."
"Not the least, indeed."
"No matter, he will do as well as another, since he is rich. You can marry him, and pay your present debts, and contract new, for thousands instead of hundreds:--this is what you CAN do, Helen."
"Do you think I can?" said Helen.
"You can, I suppose, as well as others. You know that young ladies often marry to pay their debts?"
"So I once heard," said Helen, "but is it possible?"
"Quite. You might have been told more--that they enter into regular partnerships, joint-stock companies with dress-makers and jewellers, who make their ventures and bargains on the more or less reputation of the young ladies for beauty or for fashion, supply them with finery, speculate on their probabilities of matrimonial success, and trust to being repaid after marriage. Why not pursue this plan next season in town? You must come to it like others, whose example you follow--why not begin it immediately?"
There is nothing so reassuring to the conscience as to hear, in the midst of blame that we do deserve, suppositions of faults, imputations which we know to be unmerited--impossible. Instead of being hurt or alarmed by what Lady Davenant had said, the whole idea appeared to Helen so utterly beneath her notice, that the words made scarcely any impression on her mind, and her thoughts went earnestly back to the pressing main question--"What can I do, honestly to pay this money that I owe?" She abruptly asked Lady Davenant if she thought the jeweller could be prevailed upon to take back the sapphires and the brooch?
"Certainly not, without a considerable loss to you," replied Lady Davenant; but with an obvious change for the better in her countenance, she added, "Still the determination to give up the bauble is good; the means, at whatever loss, we will contrive for you, if you are determined."
"Determined!--oh yes." She ran for the bracelets and brooch, and eagerly put them into Lady Davenant's hand. And now another bright idea came into her mind: she had a carriage of her own--a very handsome carriage, almost new; she could part with it--yes, she would, though it was a present from her dear uncle--his last gift; and he had taken such pleasure in having it made perfect for her. She was very, very fond of it, but she would part with it; she saw no other means of abiding by her promise, and paying his debts and her own. This passed rapidly through her mind; and when she had expressed her determination, Lady Davenant's manner instantly returned to all its usual kindness, and she exclaimed as she embraced her, drew her to her, and kissed her again and again--"You are my own Helen! These are deeds, Helen, not words: I am satisfied--I may be satisfied with you now!
"And about that carriage, my dear, it shall not go to a stranger, it shall be mine. I want a travelling chaise--I will purchase it from you: I shall value it for my poor friend's sake, and for yours, Helen. So now it is settled, and you are clear in the world again. I will never spoil you, but I will always serve you, and a greater pleasure I cannot have in this world."
After this happy termination of the dreaded confession, how much did Helen rejoice that she had had the courage to tell all to her friend. The pain was transient--the confidence permanent.
As Helen was going into her own room, she saw Cecilia flying up stairs towards her, with an open letter in her hand, her face radiant with joy. "I always knew it would all end well! Churchill might well say that all the sand in my hour-glass was diamond sand. There, my dear Helen--there," cried Cecilia, embracing her as she put the letter into her hand. It was from Beauclerc, his answer to Lady Cecilia's letter, which had followed him to Naples. It was written the very instant he had read her explanation, and, warm from his heart, he poured out all the joy he felt on hearing the truth, and, in his transport of delight, he declared that he quite forgave Lady Cecilia, and would forget, as she desired, all the misery she had made him feel. Some confounded quarantine he feared might detain him, but he would certainly be at Clarendon Park in as short a time as possible. Helen's first smile, he said, would console him for all he had suffered, and make him forget everything.
Helen's first smile he did not see, nor the blush which spread and rose as she read. Cecilia was delighted. "Generous, affectionate Cecilia!" thought Helen; "if she has faults, and she really has but one, who could help loving her?" Not Helen, certainly, or she would have been the most ungrateful of human beings. Besides her sympathy in Helen's happiness, Cecilia was especially rejoiced at this letter, coming, as it did, the very day after her mother's return; for though she had written to Lady Davenant on Beauclerc's departure, and told her that he was gone only on Lord Beltravers' account, yet she dreaded that, when it came to speaking, her mother's penetration would discover that something extraordinary had happened. Now all was easy. Beauclerc was coming back: he had finished his friend's business, and, before he returned to Clarendon Park he wished to know if he might appear there as the acknowledged admirer of Miss Stanley--if he might with any chance of success pay his addresses to her. Secure that her mother would never ask to see the letter, considering it either as a private communication to his guardian, or as a love letter to Helen, Cecilia gave this version of it to Lady Davenant; and how she settled it with the general, Helen never knew, but it seemed all smooth and right.
And now, the regatta being at an end, the archery meetings over, and no hope of further gaiety for this season at Clarendon Park, the Castleforts and Lady Katrine departed. Lady Katrine's last satisfaction was the hard haughty look with which she took leave of Miss Stanley--a look expressing, as well as the bitter smile and cold form of good breeding could express it, unconquered, unconquerable hate. _