CHAPTER IX.

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It was late before they reached home, and Helen dressed as fast as possible, for the general’s punctual habits required that all should assemble in the drawing-room five minutes at least before dinner. She was coming down the private turret staircase, which led from the family apartments to the great hall, when, just at the turn, and in the most awkward way possible, she met a gentleman, a stranger, where never stranger had been seen by her before, running up full speed, so that they had but barely space and time to clear out of each other’s way. Pardons were begged of course. The manner and voice of the stranger were particularly gentlemanlike. A servant followed with his portmanteau, inquiring into which room Mr. Beauclerc was to go?

“Mr. Beauclerc!”—When Helen got to the drawing-room, and found that not even the general was there, she thought she could have time to run up the great staircase to Lady Davenant’s room, and tell her that Mr. Beauclerc was come.

“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.”

“I could find it in my heart to scold you to death,” said Lady Cecilia, “but that I am vexed myself.”

Then hesitating, and studying Helen’s countenance, she seemed doubtful how to proceed. Either she was playing with Helen’s curiosity, or she was really herself perplexed. She made two or three beginnings, each a little inconsistent with the other.

“Mamma is always right; with her—‘coming events’ really and truly ‘cast their shadows before.’ I do believe she has the fatal gift, the coming ill to know!”

“Ill!” said Helen; “what ill is coming?”

“After all, however, it may not be an ill,” said Lady Cecilia; “it may be all for the best; yet I am shockingly disappointed, though I declare I never formed any—”

“Oh, my dear Cecilia, do tell me at once what it is you mean.”

“I mean, that Granville Beauclerc, like all men of genius, has acted like the greatest fool.”

“What has he done?”

“He is absolutely—you must look upon him in future—as a married man.”

Helen was delighted. Cecilia could form no farther schemes on her account, and she felt relieved from all her awkwardness.

“Dearest Helen, this is well at all events,” cried Cecilia, seeing her cleared countenance. “This comforts me; you are at ease; and, if I have caused you one uncomfortable evening, I am sure you are consoled for it by the reflection that my mother was right, and I, as usual, wrong. But, Helen,” continued she earnestly, “remember that this is not to be known; remember you must not breathe the least hint of what I have told you to mamma or the general.”

Something more than astonishment appeared in Helen’s countenance. “And is it possible that Mr. Beauclerc does not tell them,—does not trust his guardian and such a friend as your mother?” said Helen.

“He will tell them, he will tell them—but not yet; perhaps not till—he is not to see his fiancÉe—they have for some reason agreed to be separated for some time—I do not know exactly, but surely every body may choose their own opportunity for telling their own secrets. In fact, Helen, the lady, I understand, made it a point with him that nothing should be said of it yet—to any one.”

“But he told it to you?”

“No, indeed, he did not tell it; I found it out, and he could not deny it; but he charged me to keep it secret, and I would not have told it to any body living but yourself; and to you, after all I said about him, I felt it was necessary—thought I was bound—in short, I thought it would set things to rights, and put you at your ease at once.”

And then, with more earnestness, she again pressed upon Helen a promise of secrecy, especially towards Lady Davenant. Helen submitted. Cecilia embraced her affectionately, and left the room. Quite tired, and quite happy, Helen was in bed and asleep in a few minutes.

Not the slightest suspicion crossed her mind that all her friend had been telling her was not perfectly true. To a more practised, a less confiding, person the perplexity of Lady Cecilia’s prefaces, and some contradictions or inconsistencies, might have suggested doubts; but Helen’s general confidence in her friend’s truth had never yet been seriously shaken. Lady Davenant she had always thought prejudiced on this point, and too severe. If there had been in early childhood a bad habit of inaccuracy in Cecilia, Helen thought it long since cured; and so perhaps it was, till she formed a friendship abroad with one who had no respect for truth.

But of this Helen knew nothing; and, in fact, till now Lady Cecilia’s aberrations had been always trifling, almost imperceptible, errors, such as only her mother’s strictness or Miss Clarendon’s scrupulosity could detect. Nor would Cecilia have ventured upon a decided, an important, false assertion, except for a kind purpose. Never in her life had she told a falsehood to injure any human creature, or one that she could foresee might, by any possibility do harm to any living being. But here was a friend, a very dear friend, in an awkward embarrassment, and brought into it by her means; and by a little innocent stretching of the truth she could at once, she fancied, set all to rights. The moment the idea came into her head, upon the spur of the occasion, she resolved to execute it directly. It was settled between the drawing-room door and her dressing-room. And when thus executed successfully, with happy sophistry she justified it to herself. “After all,” said she to herself, “though it was not absolutely true, it was ben trovato, it was as near the truth, perhaps, as possible. Beauclerc’s best friends really feared that he was falling in love with the lady in question. It was very likely, and too likely, it might end in his marrying this Lady Blanche Forrester. And, on every account, and every way, it was for the best that Helen should consider him as a married man. This would restore Helen by one magical stroke to herself, and release her from that wretched state in which she could neither please nor be pleased.” And as far as this good effect upon Helen was concerned, Lady Cecilia’s plan was judicious; it succeeded admirably.

Wonderful! how a few words spoken, a single idea taken, out of or put into the mind, can make such a difference, not only in the mental feelings, but in the whole bodily appearance, and in the actual powers of perception and use of our senses.

When Helen entered the breakfast-room the next morning, she looked, and moved, and felt, quite a different creature from what she had been the preceding day. She had recovered the use of her understanding, and she could hear and see quite distinctly; and the first thing she saw was, that nobody was thinking particularly about her; and now she for the first time actually saw Mr. Beauclerc. She had before looked at him without seeing him, and really did not know what sort of looking person he was, except that he was like a gentleman; of that she had a sort of intuitive perception;—as Cuvier could tell from the first sight of a single bone what the animal was, what were its habits, and to what class it belonged, so any person early used to good company can, by the first gesture, the first general manner of being, passive or active, tell whether a stranger, even scarcely seen, is or is not a gentleman.

At the beginning of breakfast, Mr. Beauclerc had all the perfect English quiet of look and manners, with somewhat of a high-bred air of indifference to all sublunary things, yet saying and doing whatever was proper for the present company; yet it was done and said like one in a dream, performed like a somnambulist, correctly from habit, but all unconsciously. He awakened from his reverie the moment General Clarendon came in, and he asked eagerly,—

“General! how far is it to Old Forest?” These were the first words which he pronounced like one wide awake. “I must ride there this morning; it’s absolutely necessary.”

The general replied that he did not see the necessity.

“But when I do, sir,” cried Beauclerc; the natural vivacity of the young man breaking through the conventional manner. Next moment, with a humble look, he hoped that the general would accompany him, and the look of proud humility vanished from his countenance the next instant, because the general demurred, and Beauclerc added, “Will not you oblige me so far? Then I must go by myself.”

The general, seeming to go on with his own thoughts, and not to be moved by his ward’s impatience, talked of a review that was to be put off, and at length found that he could accompany him. Beauclerc then, delighted, thanked him warmly.

“What is the object of this essential visit to Old Forest, may I ask?” said Lady Davenant.

“To see a dilapidated house,” said the general.

“To save a whole family from ruin,” cried Beauclerc; “to restore a man of first-rate talents to his place in society.”

“Pshaw!” said the general.

“Why that contemptuous exclamation, my dear general?” said Beauclerc.

“I have told you, and again I tell you, the thing is impossible!” said the general.

“So I hear you say, sir,” replied his ward; “but till I am convinced, I hold to my project.”

“And what is your project, Granville?” said Lady Davenant.

“I will explain it to you when we are alone,” said Beauclerc.

“I beg your pardon, I was not aware that there was any mystery,” said Lady Davenant. “No mystery,” said Beauclerc, “only about lending some money to a friend.”

“To which I will not consent,” said the general.

“Why not, sir?” said Beauclerc, throwing back his head with an air of defiance in his countenance; there was as he looked at his guardian a quick, mutable succession of feelings, in striking contrast with the fixity of the general’s appearance.

“I have given you my reasons, Beauclerc,” said the general, “It is unnecessary to repeat what I have said, you will do no good.”

“No good, general? When I tell you that if I lend Beltravers the money, to put his place in repair, to put it in such a state that his sisters could live in it, he would no longer be a banished man, a useless absentee, a wanderer abroad, but he would come and settle at Old Forest, re-establish the fortune and respectability of his family, and above all, save his own character and happiness. Oh, my dear general!”

General Clarendon, evidently moved by his ward’s benevolent enthusiasm, paused and said that there were many recollections which made it rather painful to him to revisit Old Forest. Still he would do it for Beauclerc, since nothing but seeing the place would convince him of the impracticability of his scheme. “I have not been at Old Forest,” continued the general, “since I was a boy—since it was deserted by the owners, and sadly changed I shall find it.

“In former times these Forresters were a respectable, good old English family, till the second wife, pretty and silly, took a fancy for figuring in London, where of course she was nobody. Then, to make herself somebody, she forced her husband to stand for the county. A contested election—bribery—a petition—another election—ruinous expense. Then that Beltravers title coming to them: and they were to live up to it,—and beyond their income. The old story—over head and shoulders in debt. Then the new story,—that they must go abroad for economy!”

“Economy! The cant of all those who have not courage to retrench at home,” said Lady Davenant.

“They must,” they said, “live abroad, it is so cheap,” continued the general. “So cheap to leave their house to go to ruin! Cheap education too! and so good—and what does it come to?”

“A cheap provision it is for a family in many cases,” said Lord Davenant. “Wife, son, and daughter, Satan, are thy own.”

“Not in this case,” cried Beauclerc; “you cannot mean I hope.”

“I can answer for one, the daughter at least,” said Lady Davenant; “that Mad. de St. Cimon, whom we saw abroad, at Florence, you know, Cecilia, with whom I would not let you form an acquaintance.”

“Your ladyship was quite right,” said the general.

Beauclerc could not say, “Quite wrong,”—and he looked—suffering.

“I know nothing of the son,” pursued Lady Davenant.

“I do,” said Beauclerc, “he is my friend.”

“I thought he had been a very distressed man, that young Beltravers,” said the aid-de-camp.

“And if he were, that would not prevent my being his friend, sir,” said Beauclerc.

“Of course,” said the aid-de-camp, “I only asked.”

“He is a man of genius and feeling,” continued Beauclerc, turning to Lady Davenant.

“But I never heard you mention Lord Beltravers before. How long has he been your friend?” said Lady Davenant.

Beauclerc hesitated. The general without hesitation answered, “Three weeks and one day.”

“I do not count my friendship by days or weeks,” said Beauclerc.

“No, my dear Beauclerc,” said the general: “well would it be for you if you would condescend to any such common-sense measure.” He rose from the breakfast-table as he spoke, and rang the bell to order the horses.

“You are prejudiced against Beltravers, general; but you will think better of him, I am sure, when you know him.”

“You will think worse of him when you know him, I suspect,” replied the general.

“Suspect! But since you only suspect,” said Beauclerc, “we English do not condemn on suspicion, unheard, unseen.”

“Not unheard,” said the general, “I have heard enough of him.”

“From the reports of his enemies,” said Beauclerc.

“I do not usually form my judgment,” replied the general, “from reports either of friends or enemies; I have not the honour of knowing any of Lord Beltravers’ enemies.”

“Enemies of Lord Beltravers!” exclaimed Lady Davenant. “What right as he to enemies as if he were a great man?—a person of whom nobody ever heard, setting up to have enemies! But now-a-days, these candidates for fame, these would-be celebrated, set up their enemies as they would their equipages, on credit—then, by an easy process of logic, make out the syllogism thus:—Every great man has enemies, therefore, every man who has enemies must be great—hey, Beauclerc?”

Beauclerc vouchsafed only a faint, absent smile, and, turning to his guardian, asked—“Since Lord Beltravers was not to be allowed the honours of enemies, or the benefit of pleading prejudice, on what did the general form his judgment?”

“From his own words.”

“Stay judgment, my dear general,” cried Beauclerc; “words repeated! by whom?”

“Repeated by no one—heard from himself, by myself.”

“Yourself! I was not aware you had ever met;—when? where?” Beauclerc started forward on his chair, and listened eagerly for the answer.

“Pity!” said Lady Davenant, speaking to herself,—“pity! that ‘with such quick affections kindling into flame,’ they should burn to waste.”

“When, where?” repeated Beauclerc, with his eyes fixed on his guardian, and his soul in his eyes.

Soberly and slowly his guardian answered, and categorically,—“When did I meet Lord Beltravers? A short time before his father’s death.—Where? At Lady Grace Bland’s.”

“At Lady Grace Bland’s!—where he could not possibly appear to advantage! Well, go on, sir.”

“One moment—pardon me, Beauclerc; I have curiosity as well as yourself. May I ask why Lord Beltravers could not possibly have appeared to advantage at Lady Grace Bland’s?”

“Because I know he cannot endure her; I have heard him, speaking of her, quote what Johnson or somebody says of Clariss—‘a prating, preaching, frail creature.’”

“Good!” said the general, “he said this of his own aunt!”

“Aunt! You cannot mean that Lady Grace is his aunt?” cried Beauclerc.

“She is his mother’s sister,” replied the general, “and therefore is, I conceive, his aunt.”

“Be it so,” cried Beauclerc; “people must tell the truth sometimes, even of their own relations; they must know it best, and therefore I conclude that what Beltravers said of Lady Grace is true.”

“Bravo! well jumped to a conclusion, Granville, as usual,” said Lady Davenant, “But go on, general, tell us what you have heard from this precious lord; can you have better than what Beauclerc, his own witness, gives in evidence?”

“Better I think, and in the same line,” said the general: “his lordship has the merit of consistency. At table, servants of course present, and myself a stranger, I heard Lord Beltravers begin by cursing England and all that inhabit it. ‘But your country!’ remonstrated his aunt. He abjured England; he had no country, he said, no liberal man ever has; he had no relations—what nature gave him without his consent he had a right to disclaim, I think he argued. But I can swear to these words, with which he concluded—‘My father is an idiot, my mother a brute, and my sister may go to the devil her own way.’”

“Such bad taste!” said the aid-de-camp.

Lady Davenant smiled at the unspeakable astonishment in Helen’s face. “When you have lived one season in the world, my dear child, this power of surprise will be worn out.”

“But even to those who have seen the world,” said the aide-de-camp, who had seen the world, “as it strikes me, really it is such extraordinary bad taste!”

“Such ordinary bad taste! as it strikes me,” said Lady Davenant; “base imitation, and imitation is always a confession of poverty, a want of original genius. But then there are degrees among the race of imitators. Some choose their originals well, some come near them tolerably; but here, all seems equally bad, clumsy, Birmingham counterfeit; don’t you think so, Beauclerc? a counterfeit that falls and makes no noise. There is the worst of it for your protÉgÉ, whose great ambition I am sure it is to make a noise in the world. However, I may spare my remonstrances, for I am quite aware that you would never let drop a friend.”

“Never, never!” cried Beauclerc.

“Then, my dear Granville, do not take up this man, this Lord Beltravers, for, depend upon it, he will never do. If he had made a bold stroke for a reputation, like a great original, and sported some deed without a name, to work upon the wonder-loving imagination of the credulous English public, one might have thought something of him. But this cowardly, negative sin, not honouring his father and mother! so commonplace, too, neutral tint—no effect. Quite a failure, one cannot even stare, and you know, Granville, the object of all these strange speeches is merely to make fools stare. To be the wonder of the London world for a single day, is the great ambition of these ephemeral fame-hunters ‘insects that shine, buzz, and fly-blow in the setting sun.’”

Beauclerc pushed away his tea-cup half across the table, exclaiming, “How unjust! to class him among a tribe he detests and despises as much as you can, Lady Davenant. And all for that one unfortunate speech—Not quite fair, general, not quite philosophical, Lady Davenant, to decide on a man’s character from the specimen of a single speech: this is like judging of a house from the sample of a single brick. All this time I know how Beltravers came to make that speech—I know how it was, as well as if I had been present—better!”

“Better!” cried Lady Cecilia.

“Ladies and gentlemen may laugh,” resumed Beauclerc, “but I seriously maintain—better!”

“How better than the general, who was present, and heard and saw the whole?” said Lady Cecilia.

“Yes, better, for he saw only effects, and I know causes; and I appeal to Lady Davenant,—from Lady Davenant sarcastic to Lady Davenant philosophic I appeal—may not the man who discovers causes, say he knows more than he who merely sees effects?”

“He may say he knows more, at all events,” replied Lady Davenant; “but now for the discovery of causes, metaphysical sir.”

“I have done,” cried the general, turning to leave the breakfast-room; “when Beauclerc goes to metaphysics I give it up.”

“No, no, do not give it up, my dear general,” cried Lady Cecilia; “do not stir till we have heard what will come next, for I am sure it will be something delightfully absurd.”

Beauclerc bowed, and feared he should not justify her ladyship’s good opinion, for he had nothing delightfully absurd to say, adding that the cause of his friend’s appearing like a brute was, that he feared to be a hypocrite among hypocrites.

“Lord Beltravers was in company with a set who were striving, with all their might of dissimulation, to appear better than they are, and he, as he always does, strove to make himself appear worse than he really is.”

“Unnecessary, I should think,” said Lady Davenant.

“Impossible, I should think,” said the general.

“Impossible I know it is to change your opinion, general, of any one,” said Beauclerc.

“For my own part, I am glad of that,” said Lady Cecilia, rising; “and I advise you, Granville, to rest content with the general’s opinion of yourself, and say no more.”

“But,” said Beauclerc; “one cannot be content to think only of one’s-self always.”

“Say no more, say no more,” repeated Lady Cecilia, smiling as she looked back from the door, where she had stopped the general. “For my sake say no more, I entreat, I do dislike to hear so much said about anything or anybody. What sort of a road is it to Old Forest?” continued she; “why should not we ladies go with you, my dear Clarendon, to enliven the way.”

Clarendon’s countenance brightened at this proposal. The road was certainly beautiful, he said, by the banks of the Thames. Lady Cecilia and the general left the room, but Beauclerc remained sitting at the breakfast-table, apparently intently occupied in forming a tripod of three tea-spoons; Lady Davenant opposite to him, looking at him earnestly, “Granville!” said she. He started, “Granville! set my mind at ease by one word, tell me the mot d’Énigme of this sudden friendship.”

“Not what you suppose,” said he steadily, yet colouring deeply. “The fact is, that Beltravers and I were school-fellows; a generous little fellow he was as ever was born; he got me out of a sad scrape once at his own expense, and I can never forget it. We had never met since we left Eton, till about three weeks ago in town, when I found him in great difficulties, persecuted too, by a party—I could not turn my back on him—I would rather be shot!”

“No immediate necessity for being shot, my dear Granville, I hope,” said Lady Davenant. “But if this be indeed all, I will never say another word against your Lord Beltravers; I will leave it to you to find out his character, or to time to show it. I shall be quite satisfied that you throw away your money, if it be only money that is in the question; be this Lord Beltravers what he may. Let him say, ‘or let them do, it is all one to me,’ provided that he does not marry you to his sister.”

“He has not a thought of it,” cried Beauclerc; “and if he had, do you conceive, Lady Davenant, that any man on earth could dispose of me in marriage, at his pleasure?”

“I hope not,” said Lady Davenant.

“Be assured not; my own will, my own heart alone, must decide that matter.”

“The horses are at the door!” cried Cecilia, as she entered; but “where’s Helen?”

Helen had made her escape out of the room when Lady Davenant had pronounced the words, “Set my mind at rest, Granville,” as she felt it must then be embarrassing to him to speak, and to herself to hear. Her retreat, had not, however, been effected with considerable loss, she had been compelled to leave a large piece of the crape-trimming of her gown under the foot of Lady Davenant’s inexorable chair.

“Here is something that belongs to Miss Stanley, if I mistake not,” said the general, who first spied the fragment. The aid-de-camp stooped for it—Lady Cecilia pitied it—Lady Davenant pronounced it to be Helen’s own fault—Beauclerc understood how it happened, and said nothing.

“But, Helen,” cried Lady Cecilia, as she re-appeared,—“but, Helen, are you not coming with us?”

Helen had intended to have gone in the pony-carriage with Lady Davenant, but her ladyship now declared that she had business to do at home; it was settled therefore that Helen was to be of the riding party, and that party consisted of Lady Cecilia and the general, Beauclerc and herself.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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