More honour'd in the breach than the observance:
More honour'd in the breach than the observance:
She sent, therefore, a message after Camilla, entreating a short conference.
Camilla, who was trying to comprehend some further account from Mrs. Mittin, silently, but hastily obeyed the call; and her look of wild anguish would have fixed the benign intention of Lady Isabella, had it been wavering. In a simple phrase, but with a manner the most delicate, her Ladyship then offered to conduct her to Winchester. A service so unexpected, a goodness so consoling, instantly brought Camilla to the use of her frightened away faculties, but with sensations of gratitude so forcible, that Lord O'Lerney with difficulty saved her from falling at the feet of his amiable friend, and with yet more difficulty restrained his own knees from doing her that homage. And still the more strongly he felt this active exertion, from the disappointment he had just endured through the failure of his favourite Mrs. Berlinton.
No time was to be lost; Lady Isabella determined to do well what she once undertook to do at all; she went to Park-lane, to make known her excursion, and arrange some affairs, and then instantly returned, in her own post-chaise, and four horses, for Camilla; who was driven from the metropolis.
Lady Isabella, for the first two or three miles, left Camilla uninterruptedly to her own thoughts; she then endeavoured to engage her in some discourse, but was soon forced to desist. Her misery exceeded all measure of restraint, all power of effort. Her Father in prison! and for her own debts! The picture was too horrible for her view, yet too adhesive to all her thoughts, all her feelings, all her faculties, to be removed from them a moment. Penetrated by what she owed to Lady Isabella, she frequently took her hand, pressed it between her own, pressed it to her lips; but could shew her no other gratitude, and force herself to no other exertion.
It was still early, they travelled post, and with four horses, and arrived at Winchester before eight o'clock.
Shaking, she entered the town, half fainting, half dead. Lady Isabella would have driven straight on to Etherington, which was but a stage further; but to enter the rectory, whence the Rector himself was torn—'No!' cried she, 'no! there where abides my Father, there alone will I abide! No roof shall cover my head, but that which covers his! I have no wish but to sink at his feet—to crawl in the dust—to confine myself to the hardest labour for the remnant of my miserable existence, so it might expiate but this guilty outrage!'
Lady Isabella took not any advantage of the anguish that was thus bursting forth with secret history; she was too delicate and too good to seize such a moment for surprising confidence, and only enquired if she had any friend in the town, who could direct her whither to go, and accompany as well as direct.
She knew no one with sufficient intimacy to endure presenting herself to them upon such an occasion; and preferred proceeding alone to the sad and cruel interview. Lady Isabella ordered the chaise to an hotel, where she was shewn into a room upstairs, whence she sent one of her own servants to enquire out where debtors were confined, and if Mr. Tyrold were in custody: charging him not to name, from whom or why he came, and begging Camilla to get ready a note to prepare her Father for the meeting, and prevent any affecting surprise. She then went to chuse herself a chamber, determined not to quit her voluntary charge, till she saw her in the hands of her own friends.
Camilla could not write: to kneel, to weep, to sue, was all she could bear to plan; to present to him the sight of her hand writing she had not courage.
Presently she heard a chaise drive rapidly through the inn gate: it might be him, perhaps released; she flew down the stairs with that wild hope; but no sooner had descended them, than a dread of his view took its place, and she ran back: she stopt, however, in the landing place, to hear who entered.
Suddenly a voice struck her ear that made her start; that vibrated quick to her heart, and there seemed to arrest the springs of life; she thought it the voice of her Mother——
It ceased to speak; and she dropt on one knee, inwardly, but fervently praying her senses might deceive her.
Again, however, and more distinctly, it reached her; doubt then ceased, and terrour next to horrour took its place. What was said she knew not, her trepidation was too great to take in more than the sound.
Prostrate she fell on the floor; but hearing a waiter say, 'Up stairs, madam, you may have a room to yourself.' She started, rose, and rushing violently back to the apartment she had quitted, bolted herself in; exclaiming, 'I am not worthy to see you, my Mother! I have cast my Father into prison—and I know you will abhor me!'
She then sat down against the door, to listen if she were pursued; she heard a footstep, a female step; she concluded it that of her Mother; 'She can come,' cried she, 'but to give me her malediction!' And flew frantic about the room, looking for any means of escape, yet perceiving only the window, whence she must be dashed to destruction.
She now heard a hand upon the lock of the door. 'O that I could die! that I could die!' she cried, madly advancing to the window, and throwing up the sash, yet with quick instinctive repentance pulling it down, shuddering and exclaiming: 'Is there no death for me but murder—no murder but suicide?'
A voice now found its way through her cries to her ear, that said, 'It is me, my dear Miss Tyrold; will you not admit me?'
It was Lady Isabella; but her Mother might be with her: she could not, however, refuse to open the door, though desperately she said to herself: If she is there, I will pass her, and rush into the streets!
Seeing, however, Lady Isabella alone, she dropt on her knees, ejaculating 'Thank Heaven! thank Heaven! one moment yet I am spared!'
'What is it, my dear Miss Tyrold,' said Lady Isabella, 'that causes you this sudden agony? what can it be that thus dreadfully disorders you?'
'Is she with you?' cried she, in a voice scarce audible, 'does she follow me? does she demand my Father?'
'Rise, dear madam, and compose yourself. If you mean a Lady whom this minute I have passed, and whose countenance so much resembles yours, that I thought her at once some near relation, she is just gone from this house.'
'Thank Heaven! thank Heaven!' again ejaculated the prostrate Camilla; 'My Mother is spared a little longer the dreadful sight of all she must now most abominate upon earth!'
She then begged Lady Isabella instantly to order the chaise, and return to town.
'On the contrary,' answered her Ladyship, extremely surprised at so wild a request, 'Let me rather, myself, carry you to your family.'
'O no, Lady Isabella, no!' cried Camilla, speaking with frightful rapidity, and shaking in every limb, 'all now is changed. I came to wait upon my Father—to humble myself at his feet—not to obtrude myself upon my Mother!—O Lady Isabella!—I shall have broken her heart—and I dare not offend her with my sight!'
Lady Isabella, with the most judicious gentleness, endeavoured to render her more reasonable. 'I pretend not,' she said, 'to decide upon your situation, though I comprehend its general affliction: yet still, and at all events, its termination must be a meeting. Suffer me, therefore, rather to hasten than retard so right a measure. Allow of my mediation, and give me the infinite pleasure of leaving you in the hands of your friends.'
Camilla, though scarcely able to articulate her words, declared again the motive to her journey was at an end; that her Father had now one to watch, soothe, and attend him, who had none of her dreadful drawbacks to consoling powers; and that she would remain at Mrs. Berlinton's till summoned home by their immediate commands.
Lady Isabella began pleading their own rights to decide if or not the meeting should be deferred: but wildly interrupting her, 'You know not,' she cried, 'what it is you ask. I have not nerves, I have not hardiness to force myself into such a presence. An injured Father ... an offended Mother ... O Lady Isabella! if you knew how I adore—and how I have ruined them!...'
'Let me go to them from you, myself; let me represent your situation. They are now probably together. That Lady whom I saw but from the stairs, though her countenance so much struck me, and whom I now conclude to be Mrs. Tyrold, said, as she passed, I shall walk; I only want a guide;'—
'They had not, then, even met!' cried Camilla, starting up with fresh horrour; 'she is but just arrived—has but just been at Etherington—and there heard—that her husband was in prison—and in prison for the debts of her daughter! her guilty ... perhaps reprobated daughter!'—
Again, wringing her hands, half distracted, 'O, that the earth,' she cried, 'had received me, ere I quitted the parental roof! Innocent I had then died, beloved, regretted,—no shame would have embittered my Father's sorrow—no wrath my Mother's—no culpable misconduct would have blighted with disgrace their so long—long wished-for meeting!'
The compassionating, yet judicious Lady Isabella, willing to shorten the sufferings she pitied, made yet another effort to prevent this unadvised return, by proposing they should both sleep this night at Winchester, that Camilla might gather some particulars of her family, and some composure for herself, to better judge what step to pursue. But all desire of meeting was now converted into horrour; she was too much known in the neighbourhood to escape being recognized if she stayed till the morning, and her shattered intellects, she declared, could not bear passing a whole night in expectation of a discovery through some accident. 'Have I not already,' cried she, 'heard her voice and fled its sound? Judge then, Lady Isabella, if I can present myself before her! No, I must write, first. I have a long and dreadful history to relate—and then, when she has heard it—and when the rectory has again its reverend master—and when they find some little palliation, where now they can see only guilt—and when all is committed without disguise to their goodness—their mercy—they may say to me perhaps themselves: Unhappy Camilla! thou hast paid thy just penalty; come home, then, to thy parents' roof, thou penitent child!'
Lady Isabella knew too little of the characters with which she had to deal, to judge if it would be right to insist any further: she ordered, therefore, fresh horses to her chaise, and as soon as her footman came back, who brought the now useless direction where Mr. Tyrold was to be found, they galloped out of Winchester.
At Alton they stopt to sleep; and, her immediate terrour removed, she became more sensible of what she owed to Lady Isabella, to whom, in the course of the evening, she recounted frankly the whole history of her debts, except what related to Lionel.
'Your Ladyship hears me,' said she, in conclusion, 'with the patience of benevolence, though I fear, with the censure of all judgment. What evils have accrued from want of consideration and foresight! My errours have all been doubled by concealment—every mischief has been augmented by delay. O, Lady Isabella! how sad an example shall I add to your powers of benign instruction!—From day to day, from hour to hour, I planned expedients, where I ought to have made confessions! To avoid one dreadful—but direct evil, what I have suffered has been nearly intolerable—what I have inflicted, unpardonable!'
Lady Isabella, much touched by her openness and confidence, repaid them by all that compassion could suggest, or that a sincere disposition towards esteem could anticipate of kindness. She gathered the amount of the sum for which Mr. Tyrold was confined, and besought Camilla to let it less weigh upon her spirits, as she could herself undertake that Lord O'Lerney would accommodate him with it immediately, and wait his perfect leisure for re-payment. 'I have known him,' said she, 'from a child, and have always seen, with respect and admiration, the prompt pleasure with which he rather seizes than accepts every opportunity to do good.'
Camilla returned the most grateful thanks; but acknowledged she had no apprehension but that the writ would immediately be withdrawn, as the county was almost filled with friends to her Father, who would come forward upon such an occasion. 'What rests thus upon my mind,' said she, 'and what upon his—and upon my Mother's will rest—is the disgrace—and the cause! the one so public, the other so clandestine! And besides, though this debt will be easily discharged, its payment by a loan is but incurring another: and how that is to be paid, I know not indeed. Alas! Lady Isabella!—the Father I have thus dreadfully involved, has hitherto, throughout his exemplary life, held it a sacred duty to adapt his expences to his income!'
Again Lady Isabella gave what consolation she could bestow; and in return for her trust, said she would speak to her with sincerity upon a point of much delicacy. It was of her friend, Mrs. Berlinton; 'who now,' said she, 'you are not, perhaps, aware, is become a general topic of discourse. To the platonics, with which she set out in life, she has, of late, joined coquetry; nor even there stops the ardour with which she seeks to animate her existence; to two characters, hitherto thought the most contradictory, the sentimental and the flirting, she unites yet a third, till now believed incompatible with the pleasures and pursuits of either; this, I need not tell you, is that of a gamestress. And when to three such attributes is added an open aversion to her husband, a professed, an even boasted hatred of his person, his name, his very being—what hope can be entertained, be her heart, her intentions what they may, that the various dangers she sets at defiance, will not ultimately take their revenge, and surprise her in their trammels?'
Edgar himself seemed, to Camilla, to be speaking in this representation; and that idea made it catch her attention, in the midst of her utmost misery. She urged, however, all she knew, and could suggest, in favour of Mrs. Berlinton; and Lady Isabella expressed much concern in occasioning her any painful sensations. 'But who,' said she, 'can see you thus nearly, and not be interested in your happiness? And I have known, alas!—though I am still under thirty, instances innumerable of self-deluded young women, who trusting to their own pure intentions, have neither feared nor heeded the dangers which encircled them, till imperceptibly, from the insidious influence of levity, they have pursued the very course they began with disclaiming, and followed the very steps from which at first they unaffectedly recoiled.'
Instructed and grateful, though incapable of being tranquillised, Camilla the next day reached Grosvenor Square long before her fair friend had left her downy pillow. Lady Isabella exacted a promise to be informed of her proceedings, and, loaded with merited acknowledgments, returned to her own mansion.
Camilla took possession of the first room in which she found a pen and ink, and wrote instantly to Lavinia a short, rapid, and incoherent letter, upon the distraction of her mind at the dreadful calamity she had occasioned her Father, and the accumulated horrours to which her Mother had returned. She durst not present herself before them uncalled, not even by letter; but she would live in the strictest retirement and penance till they ordered her home, for which epoch, not more longed [for] than dreaded, she besought her sister's mediation.
This sent off, she forced herself to wait upon Miss Margland, who had received an answer from Cleves to continue in town till Indiana wrote or re-appeared. She was put immediately into uncommon good-humour, by the ill success at the journey of Camilla, which she protested was exactly what she expected.
Camilla then strove to recollect all she had been told by Lord O'Lerney of Mr. Macdersey, and to relate it to Miss Margland, who, pleased and surprised, undertook to write it to Sir Hugh.
To three days of dreadful suspense she now saw herself inevitably condemned, in waiting an answer from Lavinia: but as her eyes were opened to remark, by the admonitions of Lady Isabella, and her attention was called back to the earlier cautions of Edgar, her time, though spent with misery, hung not upon her unoccupied. She thought herself called upon by every tie of friendship, faithfully and courageously to represent to Mrs. Berlinton her impropriety of conduct with regard to Bellamy, and the reports that were spread abroad to her more general disadvantage.
Her reception from that Lady, she had thought, for the first time, cold. She had welcomed her, indeed, with an accustomed embrace, but her kindness seemed strained, her smile was faint, and the eyes which so softly used to second it, were averted.
As soon as they were alone together, Camilla took her hand; but, without returning its pressure, Mrs. Berlinton presented her with a new poem for her evening's amusement.
Camilla put it down, but while hesitating how to begin, Bellamy was announced. She started, and flew away, but returned when he was gone, and begged a conference.
Mrs. Berlinton answered certainly; though she looked embarrassed, and added not immediately, as she was obliged to dress for the evening.
Camilla entreated she might speak with her before dinner the next day.
To this she received a gentle assent: but no interview at the time appointed took place; and when at dinner they met, no notice was taken of the neglect.
She now saw she was pointedly avoided. Her courage, however, was called upon, her gratitude was indebted for past kindnesses, and her honour felt a double engagement. The opportunity therefore she could not obtain by request, she resolved to seize by surprise.
Bellamy was again, however, announced; but the moment that, from her own chamber, she heard him descend the stairs, she flew to the dressing-room, and abruptly entered it.
The surprise she gave was not greater than that she received. Mrs. Berlinton, her fine eyes streaming with tears, and her white hands uplifted with an air of supplication, was evidently in an act of devotion. Camilla drew back, and would have retired, but she hastily dried her eyes, and said: 'Miss Tyrold? Do you want me? where's Miss—Miss Margland?'
'Ah! my dearest Mrs. Berlinton! my friend, as I had hoped, and by me, surely I trust loved for ever,' cried Camilla, throwing her arms round her neck, 'why this sorrow? why this distance? why this unkind avoidance?'
Mrs. Berlinton, who, at first, had shrunk from her embrace, now fell, in trembling agitation, upon her breast. Camilla hoped this was the instant to improve; when she appeared to be, herself, calling religion to her aid, and when the tenderness of her appeal seemed to bring back a movement of her first partiality. 'Suffer, suffer me,' she therefore cried, 'to speak to you now! hear me, my dear and amiable friend, with the sweetness that first won my affection!'
Mrs. Berlinton, affrighted, drew back, acknowledging herself unhappy; but shrinking from all discourse, and starting when Camilla named Bellamy, with a confusion she vainly strove to repress.
Unhackneyed in the world as was Camilla, her understanding and sense of right stood here in the place of experience, to point out the danger and impropriety surrounding her friend; and catching her by the gown, as she would have quitted the room, 'Mrs. Berlinton,' she emphatically cried, 'if you persist in this unhappy, this perilous intercourse, you risk your reputation, you risk my sister's peace, you risk even your own future condemnation!—O forgive me, forgive me! I see how I have affected you—but you would listen to no milder words!'
Mrs. Berlinton had sunk upon a chair, her hands clasped upon her forehead, and tears running rapidly down her cheeks. Brought up with religious terrours, yet ill instructed in religious principles, the dread of future punishment nearly demolished her, though no regular creed of right kept her consistently or systematically in any uniform exercise of good. But thus forcibly surprised into sudden conscientious recollections, she betrayed, rather than opened her heart, and acknowledged that she was weeping at a denial she had given to Bellamy; who, molested by the impossibility of ever conversing with her undisturbed, had entreated her to grant him, from time to time, a few hours society, in a peaceful retirement. 'Nor should I—nor could I—' she cried, 'refuse him—for I have every reliance in his honour—but that the guilty world, ignorant of the purity of our friendship, might causelessly alarm my brother for my fame. And this, and the fear of any—though so groundless—uneasiness to your sister, makes me resist his powerful eloquence, and even my own notions of what is due to our exalted league of friendship.'
Camilla listened with horrour to this avowal, yet saw, with compassion, that her friend endeavoured to persuade herself she was free from wrong; though with censure that she sought to gloss over, rather than investigate, every doubt to the contrary: but while fear was predominant for the event of such a situation to herself, abhorrence filled her whole mind against Bellamy, in every part, every plan, and every probability of the business.
'O Mrs. Berlinton!' she cried, 'conquer this terrible infatuation, which obscures danger from your sight, and right from your discernment! Mr. Bellamy is married; and if you think, yourself, my sister would be hurt to know of these unhallowed leagues and bonds, you must be sure, with the least reflection, that they are wrong; you too, are married; and if Mr. Melmond would join with the world in contemning the extraordinary project you mention, you must feel, with the least reflexion, it ought not to be granted. Even were you both single, it would be equally improper, though not so wide spreading in its mischief. I have committed many errours; yet not one of them wilfully, or against conviction: nevertheless, the ill consequences that have ensued, tear me at this moment with repentant sorrow:—Ah! think then, what you—so tender, so susceptible, so feeling, will suffer, if with your apprehensions all awake, you listen to any request that may make my sister unhappy, or involve your deserving brother in any difficulty or hazard!'
Mrs. Berlinton was now subdued. Touched, terrified, and convinced, she embraced Camilla, wept in her arms, and promised to see Bellamy no more.
The next day arrived an answer from Lavinia, long, minute, and melancholy, but tenderly affectionate and replete with pity.
'Ah, my sister,' she began, 'we cannot yet meet! Our Mother is in no state to bear any added emotion. The firmness of her whole character, the fortitude of her whole life, hitherto unbroken by any passion, and superior to any misfortune, have both given way, suddenly and dreadfully, to the scene following her arrival.'
She then went back to particulars.
Mr. Clykes, she had heard, finding his bill for his own trouble positively refused, had conceived the Tyrold family in danger of bankruptcy, by the general rumours of the joint claimants of Lionel and Clermont; and imagining he had no time to lose, hoped by an arrest to frighten their Father to terms, in order to obviate the disgrace of such a measure. Their Father would, however, hear of none, nor pay any thing above the exact amount of the signed receipts of the various creditors; and submitted to the confinement, in preference to applying to any friend to be his bail, till he could consult with a lawyer. He was already at Winchester, where he had given Clykes a meeting, when the writ was served against him. He sent a dispatch to Etherington, to prevent any surprise at his not returning, and to desire the affair might not travel to Cleves, where Lavinia was then with Sir Hugh. This note, addressed to the upper servant, fell into the hands of Mrs. Tyrold herself, the next evening, upon her sudden arrival. She had been thus unexpectedly brought back by the news of the flight of Bellamy with Eugenia: her brother was still ill; but every consideration gave way to the maternal; and in the hope to yet rescue her daughter from this violator, she set off in a packet which was just sailing. But what, upon descending from the chaise, was the horrour of her first news! She went on instantly to Winchester, and alighting at an hotel, took a guide and went to the place of confinement.
'The meeting that ensued,' continued Lavinia, 'no one witnessed, but everyone may imagine. I will not therefore, wound your feelings, my dearest Camilla, with even touching upon my own. The impression, however, left upon the mind of our poor Mother, I should try vainly to disguise, since it has given her a shock that has forced from me the opening of this letter.'
She then besought her to take, nevertheless, some comfort, since she had the unspeakable satisfaction to inform her that their Father was returned to the rectory. He had been liberated, from the writ's being withdrawn; though without his consent, without even his knowledge, and contrary to his wishes. Nor was it yet ascertained by whom this was done, though circumstances allowed no division to their conjectures.
Harry Westwyn had learnt the terrible event in a ride he had accidentally taken to Winchester; and, upon returning to Cleves, had communicated it, with the most feeling circumspection, to herself. The excess of grief with which she had heard him, had seemed to penetrate to his quickly sensitive soul, 'for he is yet more amiable,' she added, 'than his Father's partiality paints him;' they agreed not to name it to Sir Hugh; though Harry assured her that no less than five gentlemen in the vicinity had already flown to Mr. Tyrold, to conjure to be accepted as his bail: but he chose first to consult his lawyer upon the validity of the claim made against him. All their care, however, was ineffectual; through some of the servants, Sir Hugh was informed of the affair, and his affliction was despair. He accused himself as being the cause of this evil, from the money he had borrowed for Clermont, which might wholly have been avoided, had he followed his brother's advice in immediate and severe retrenchments. These, however, he now began, in a manner that threatened to rob him of every comfort; and Mr. Westwyn was so much affected by his distress, that, to relieve him, at least, from the expence of two guests and their servants, he instantly took leave, promising nevertheless, to yet see him again, before he returned for the rest of his days to his native home. In a few hours after the departure of these gentlemen, news arrived that Mr. Tyrold was again at the rectory. Mr. Clykes had suddenly sent his receipt, in full of all demands, and then set off for London.
'There cannot be a doubt this was the deed of the generous Mr. Westwyn, in compact with his deserving Son,' continued Lavinia; 'they have been traced to Winchester; but we none of us know where, at present, to direct to them. The delight of my Uncle at this act of his worthy old friend, has extremely revived him. My Father is much dissatisfied the wretched Clykes should thus be paid all his fraudulent claims; but my Mother and my Uncle would, I believe, scarce have supported life under his longer confinement.'
The letter thus concluded.
'My Mother, when first she heard you were in town, was herself going to send for you; but when she understood that Miss Margland was with you, and you lived in utter seclusion from company, she said; "Since she is safe, I had rather not yet see her." Our beloved Father acquiesces, for he thinks you, at present, too much shaken, as well as herself, for so agitating an interview, till her mind is restored to its usual firmness. Judge then, my sister, since even he is for the delay, if your Lavinia can gather courage to plead against it?'You know, my dearest Camilla, her extreme and tender fondness; you cannot, therefore, doubt, but her displeasure will soon pass away. But when, to the dreadful pangs of finding the hapless fate of Eugenia irremediable, was added the baneful sight of an adored Husband in custody, you cannot wonder such complicate shocks should have disordered her frame, and taught her,—even her, as my imcomparable Father has just said to me, "that always to be superior to calamity, demands a mental strength beyond the frail texture of the human composition; though to wish, and to try for it, shews we havethat within, which aspires at a higher state, and prepares us for fuller perfection".''Can I better finish my letter than with words such as these? Adieu, then, my dear sister, I hope soon to write more cheerful tidings.'Our poor Mother is gone to Belfont. What a meeting again there!Lavinia Tyrold.'
'My Mother, when first she heard you were in town, was herself going to send for you; but when she understood that Miss Margland was with you, and you lived in utter seclusion from company, she said; "Since she is safe, I had rather not yet see her." Our beloved Father acquiesces, for he thinks you, at present, too much shaken, as well as herself, for so agitating an interview, till her mind is restored to its usual firmness. Judge then, my sister, since even he is for the delay, if your Lavinia can gather courage to plead against it?
'You know, my dearest Camilla, her extreme and tender fondness; you cannot, therefore, doubt, but her displeasure will soon pass away. But when, to the dreadful pangs of finding the hapless fate of Eugenia irremediable, was added the baneful sight of an adored Husband in custody, you cannot wonder such complicate shocks should have disordered her frame, and taught her,—even her, as my imcomparable Father has just said to me, "that always to be superior to calamity, demands a mental strength beyond the frail texture of the human composition; though to wish, and to try for it, shews we havethat within, which aspires at a higher state, and prepares us for fuller perfection".'
'Can I better finish my letter than with words such as these? Adieu, then, my dear sister, I hope soon to write more cheerful tidings.
'Our poor Mother is gone to Belfont. What a meeting again there!
Lavinia Tyrold.'
A wish for death, immediate death, in common with every youthful mourner, in the first paroxysm of violent sorrow, was the sole sensation which accompanied the reading, or remained after the finishing of this letter, with Camilla. 'Here,' she cried, falling prostrate, 'here might I but at once expire! close these unworthy eyes, forbidden to raise themselves to the authors of my existence! finish my short and culpable career, forgotten—since no longer cherished—by the parents I have offended—by the Mother who no longer wishes to see me!'
She laid down her head, and her sight became dim; a convulsive shivering, from feelings over-strained, and nerves dreadfully shattered, seized her; she sighed short and quick, and thought her prayer already accomplishing; but the delusion soon ceased; she found life still in its vigour, though bereft of its joy; and death no nearer to her frame, for being called upon by her wishes.
In the heaviness of disappointment, 'I have lived,' she cried, 'too long, and yet I cannot die! I am become an alien to my family, and a burthen to myself! ordered from my home by my Father, lest my sight should be destructive to my Mother—while my sister durst not even plead for me.... O happy Edgar! how great has been thy escape not to have taken for thy wife this excommunicated wretch!'—
To live thus, seemed to her impossible; to pass even the day in such wretchedness she believed impracticable. Any, every period appeared to her preferable, and in the desperation of her heart, she determined instantly to pursue her Mother to Belfont; and there, by the gentle intercession of Eugenia, to obtain her pardon, or, which she thought immediately would follow its refusal, to sink to death at her feet.
Relieved from the intenseness of her agony by this plan, and ever eager to pursue the first idea that arose, she flew to borrow from Mrs. Berlinton her post-chaise for the next morning, and to supplicate that Miss Margland would accompany her to Belfont; whence, if she missed Mrs. Tyrold, they could easily return the same day, as the distance was not more than thirteen miles.
The chaise was accorded promptly by Mrs. Berlinton, and no regret expressed at the uncertainty of Camilla whether or not she should return; but Miss Margland, though burning with curiosity to see Eugenia as Mrs. Bellamy, would not quit town, from continual expectation of some news of Indiana.
At an early hour the following morning, and feeling as if suspended but by a thread between life and death, Camilla set off for Belfont.
The plan of Camilla was to stop within twenty yards of the house of Bellamy, and then send for Molly Mill. But till she gave this direction to the driver, she was not aware of the inconvenience of being without a servant, which had not previously occurred either to Mrs. Berlinton or herself. The man could not leave his horses, and she was compelled to let him draw up to the gate. There, when he rang at a bell, her terrour, lest she should suddenly encounter Mrs. Tyrold, made her bid him open the chaise door, that she might get out and walk on, before he enquired for Molly. But, in stepping from the carriage, she discerned, over a paling at some distance, Eugenia herself, alone, slowly walking, and her head turned another way.
Every personal, and even every filial idea, was buried instantly in this sight. The disastrous state of this beloved and unhappy sister, and her own peculiar knowledge of the worthless character of the wretch who had betrayed her into his snares, penetrated her with an anguish that took thought from all else; and darting through the great gate, and thence through a smaller one, which opened to the spot where she saw her walking, she flew to her in a speechless transport of sorrow, folded her in her arms, and sobbed upon her shoulder.
Starting, shaking, amazed, Eugenia looked at her; 'Good Heaven!' she exclaimed, 'is it my Sister?—Is it Camilla?—Do I, indeed, see one so dear to me?' And, too weak to sustain herself, she sunk, though not fainting, upon the turf.
Camilla could not articulate a syllable. The horrour she had conceived against Bellamy chilled all attempt at consolation, and her own misery which, the preceding moment, seemed to be crushing the springs of life, vanished in the agonized affection with which she felt the misfortunes of her sister.
Eugenia soon recovered, and rising, and holding her by the hand, yet seeming to refuse herself the emotion of returning her embraces, said, with a faint effort to smile; 'You have surprised me, indeed, my dear Camilla, and convicted me to myself of my vain philosophy. I had thought I should never more be moved thus again. But I see now, the affections are not so speedily to be all vanquished.'
The melancholy conveyed by this idea of believed apathy, in a young creature so innocent, and but just dawning into life, still beyond speech, and nearly beyond sufferance, affected Camilla, who hanging over her, sighed out: 'My dearest!... dearest Eugenia!'
'And what is it has brought to me this unexpected, but loved sight? Does Mr. Bellamy know you are here?'
'No,' she answered, shuddering at his name.
Eugenia looked pensive, looked distressed; and casting down her eyes and hesitating, with a deep sigh said: 'I, ... I have not the trinkets for my dear Sister ... Mr. Bellamy ...' she stopt.
Called to her sad self by this shock, of which she strove to repress the emotion, Camilla recollected her own 'almost blunted purpose[6],' and fearfully asked if their Mother were yet at Belfont.
'Ah, no!' she answered, clasping her hands, and leaning her head upon her sister's neck: 'She is gone!—The day before yesterday she was with me,—with me only for one hour!—yet to pass with her such another, I think, my dear Camilla, would soon lead me where I might learn a better philosophy than that I so vainly thought I had already acquired here!'
Camilla, struck with awe, ventured not even at an enquiry; and they both, for some little time, walked on in silence.
'Did she name to you,' at length, in broken accents, she asked, 'did she name to you, my Eugenia, ... the poor, banished ... Camilla?——'
'Banished? No. How banished?'
'She did not mention me?'
'No. She came to me but upon one subject. She failed in her purpose, ... and left me.'
A sigh that was nearly a groan finished this short little speech.
'Ah, Heaven! my Eugenia,' cried Camilla, now in agony unresisted, 'tell me, then, what passed! what new disappointment had my unhappy Mother to sustain? And how, and by what cruel fatality, has it fallen to your lot ... even to yours ... to suffer her wishes to fail?'
'You know nothing, then,' said Eugenia, after a pause, 'of her view—her errand hither?'
'Nothing; but that to see you brought her not only hither, but to England.'
'Blessed may she be!' cried Eugenia, fervently, 'and rewarded where rewards are just, and are permanent!'
Camilla zealously joined in the prayer, yet besought to know if she might not be informed of the view to which she alluded?
'We must go, then,' said Eugenia, 'into the house; my poor frame is yet feebler than my mind, and I cannot support it unaided while I make such a relation.'
Camilla, affrighted, now gave up her request; but the generous Eugenia would not leave her in suspense. They went, therefore, to a parlour, where, shutting the doors and windows, she said, 'I must be concise, for both our sakes; and when you understand me, we must talk instantly of other things.'
Camilla could give only a tacit promise; but her air shewed she would hold it sacred as any bond.
'The idea which brought over this inestimable Parent, and which brought her, at a moment when she knew me to be alone, to this sad house, these sad arms ... Camilla! how shall I speak it? It was to exonerate me from my vows, as forced! to annul all my engagements, as compulsatory! and to restore me again ... O, Camilla! Camilla! to my Parents, my Sisters, my Uncle, my dearly-loved Cleves!'
She gasped almost convulsively; yet though Camilla now even conjured her to say no more, went on: 'A proposal such as this, pressed upon me by one whose probity and honour hold all calamity at nought, if opposed to the most minute deviation from right—a proposal such as this ... ah! let me not go back to the one terrible half instant of demur! It was heart-rending, it was killing! I thought myself again in the bosom of my loved family!'—
'And is it so utterly impossible? And can it not yet be effected?'—
'No, my dear Sister, no! The horrible scenes I must go through in a public trial for such a purpose—the solemn vows I must set aside, the re-iterated promises I must break,——no, my dear Sister, no!... And now, we will speak of this no more.'
Camilla knew too well her firmness, her enthusiasm to perform whatever she conceived to be her duty, to enter into any contest. Yet to see her thus self devoted, where even her upright Mother, and pious Father, those patterns of resignation to every heaven-inflicted sorrow, thought her ties were repealed by the very villainy which had formed them, seemed more melancholy, and yet harder for submission, than her first seizure by the worthless Bellamy.
'And how bore my poor Mother ... my poor unfortunate Mother! destined thus to woes of every sort, though from children who adore her!—how bore she the deprivation of a hope that had brought her so far?'
'Like herself! nobly! when once it was decided, and she saw that though, upon certain avowals, the law might revoke my plighted faith, it could not abrogate the scruples of my conscience. She thinks them overstrained, but she knows them to be sincere, and permitted them, therefore, to silence her. Unfit to be seen by any others, she hurried then away. And then, Camilla, began my trial! Indeed I thought, when she had left me, ... when my arms no more embraced her honoured knees, and neither her blessings, nor her sorrows soothed or wounded my ears, I thought I might defy all evil to assault, all woe to afflict me ever again! that my eyes were exhausted of every tear, and my heart was emptied of all power of future feeling. I seemed suddenly quite hardened;—transformed I thought to stone, as senseless, as immovable, and as cold!'
The sensations of Camilla were all such as she durst not utter; but Eugenia, assuming some composure; added, 'Of this and of me now enough—speak, my dear Sister, of yourself. How have you been enabled to come hither? And what could you mean by saying you were banished?'
'Alas! my dearest Eugenia, if my unhappy situation is unknown to you, why should I agitate you with new pain? my Mother, I find, spared you; and not only you, but me—though I have wrung her heart, tortured it by a sight never to be obliterated from her memory—she would not rob me of my beloved sister's regard; nor even name me, lest the altered tone of her voice should make you say, Of what Camilla does my Mother speak?'
Eugenia, with earnest wonder, begged an explanation; but when Camilla found her wholly uninformed of the history of their Father's confinement, she recoiled from giving her such a shock: yet having gone too far entirely to recede, she rested the displeasure of their Mother upon the debts, and the dealings with a usurer; both sufficiently repugnant to the strictness and nobleness of Mrs. Tyrold, to seem ample justification of her displeasure.
Eugenia entered into the distresses of her sister, as if exempt herself from all suffering: and Camilla, thus commiserating and commiserated, knew now how to tear herself away; for though Eugenia pressed not her stay, she turned pale, when a door opened, a clock struck, or any thing seemed to prognosticate a separation; and looked as if to part with her were death.
At length, however, the lateness of the day forced more of resolution. But when Camilla then rang to give orders for the carriage, the footman said it had been gone more than two hours. The postillion, being left without any directions, thought it convenient to suppose he was done with; and knowing Camilla had no authority, and his lady no inclination to chide him, had given in her little packet, and driven off, without enquiry.
Far from repining at this mixture of impertinence and carelessness, Camilla would have rejoiced in an accident that seemed to invite her stay, had not her sister seemed more startled than pleased by it. She begged, therefore, that a post chaise might be ordered; and Molly Mill, the only servant to whom the mistress of the house appeared willing to speak, received the commission. At sight of Camilla, Molly had cried bitterly, and beginning 'O Miss!—' seemed entering into some lamentation and detail; but Eugenia, checking her, half whispered: 'Good Molly, remember what you promised!'
When Molly came back, she said that there were no horses at Belfont, and would be none till the next morning.
The sisters involuntarily congratulated one another upon this accident, though they reciprocated a sigh, that to necessity alone they should owe their lengthened intercourse.
'But, my dear mistress,' cried Molly, 'there's a lad that I know very well, for I always see him when I go of an errand, that's going to Salisbury; and he says he must go through Etherington, and if you've any thing you want to send he'll take it for you; and he can bring any thing back, for he shall be here again to morrow, for he goes post.'
Eugenia, sending away Molly, said, 'Why should you not seize such an opportunity to address a few lines to our dear Mother? I may then have the satisfaction to see her answer: and if, ... as I cannot doubt, she tells you to return home with Miss Margland;—for she will not, I am sure, let you travel about alone;—what a relief will it be to me to know the distresses of my beloved sister are terminated! I shall paint your meeting in my "mind's eye," see you again restored to the sunshine of her fondness, and while away my solitary languor with reveries far more soothing than any that I have yet experienced at Belfont.'
Camilla embraced her generous Sister; and always readiest for what was speediest, wrote these lines, directed
To MissTyrold.I cannot continue silent, yet to whom may I address myself? I dare not apply to my Father—I scarce dare even think of my Mother—Encompassed with all of guilt with which imprudence could ensnare me, my courage is gone with my happiness! which way may I then turn? In pity to a wretched sister, drop, O Lavinia, at the feet of her I durst not name, but whom I revere, if possible, even more than I have offended, this small and humble memorial of my unhappy existence—my penitence, my supplication, my indescribable, though merited anguish!Camilla.
To MissTyrold.
I cannot continue silent, yet to whom may I address myself? I dare not apply to my Father—I scarce dare even think of my Mother—Encompassed with all of guilt with which imprudence could ensnare me, my courage is gone with my happiness! which way may I then turn? In pity to a wretched sister, drop, O Lavinia, at the feet of her I durst not name, but whom I revere, if possible, even more than I have offended, this small and humble memorial of my unhappy existence—my penitence, my supplication, my indescribable, though merited anguish!
Camilla.
Could the two sisters, even in this melancholy state, have continued together, they felt that yet from tender sympathy, consolation might revisit their bosoms. The day closed in; but they could not bear to part; and though, from hour to hour, they pronounced an adieu, they still sat on, talked on, and found a balm in their restored intercourse, so healing and so sweet, that the sun, though they hailed not its beams, rose while they were yet repeating Good Night!
They then thought it too late to retire, mutually agreeing with how much greater facility they might recover their lost rest, than an opportunity such as this for undisturbed conversation.
Every minute of this endearing commerce made separation seem harder; and the answer for which they waited from Etherington, anxiously and fearfully as it was expected, so whiled away the minutes, that it was noon, and no chaise had been ordered, when they heard one driving up to the house.
Alarmed, they listened to know what it portended. 'Mr. Bellamy,' said Eugenia, in a low voice, 'scarce ever comes home at this hour.'
'Can it be my Mother herself?' cried Camilla.
In a few minutes, however, Eugenia looked pale, ''Tis his step!' she whispered; and presently Bellamy opened the door.
Obliged to acknowledge his entrance, Camilla arose; but her parched lips and clammy mouth made her feel as if his sight had given her a fever, and she attempted not to force any speech.
He did not seem surprized at seeing her, asked how she did, rather cavalierly than civilly: rang the bell, and gave various orders; addressed scarce a word to his wife, and walked whistling about the room.
A change so gross and quick from the obsequious Bellamy Camilla had hitherto seen, was beyond even her worst expectations, and she conceived as low an opinion of his understanding and his manners, as of his morals.
Eugenia kept her eyes rivetted to the ground; and though she tried, from time to time, to say something to them both, evidently required her utmost fortitude to remain in the room.
At length; 'Miss Camilla,' he said, 'I suppose you know Miss Margland is gone?'
'Gone? whither?—how gone?'
'Why home. That is to her home, as she thinks it, Cleves. She set off this morning with the light.'
Camilla, astonished, was now called forth from her taciturnity; 'What possibly,' she cried, 'can have induced this sudden journey? Has my uncle sent for her?'
'No; your uncle has nothing to do with it. She had a letter last night from Mrs. Macdersey, with one enclosed for Sir Hugh, to beg pardon and so forth; and this morning she set off to carry it.'
Camilla was confounded. Why Miss Margland had not, at least, called at Belfont to enquire if she would proceed with her, was beyond all her conjecture.
Soon after, Bellamy's servant came in with a letter for Camilla, which had arrived after she left town, and was given to him by Mrs. Berlinton's butler. She retired into the next room to read it, where, to her great consternation, she found it was from Jacob, and had been written the day of Mr. Tyrold's arrest, though, as it was sent by a private hand, it had only now arrived. 'Things going,' he said, 'so bad at Cleves, on account of so many misfortunes, his master was denying himself all his natural comforts, and in particular he had sent to un-order a new pipe of Madeira, saying he would go without; though, as Miss might remember, it was the very wine the doctors had ordered for his stomach. This all the servants had taken so to heart, that they had resolved to buy it among 'em, and get it privately laid in, and not let his honour know but what it was always the same, till he had drunk so much he could not help himself. For this, they were to join, according to their wages or savings; Now I' says Jacob, 'being, by his gud honnur's genrosty, the ritchist ammung us, fur my kalling, wants to do the most, after nixt to the buttlur and huskippir, so, der Miss, awl I've gut beng in the funs, witch I cant sil out withowt los, if you can lit me have the munny fur the hurs, without ullconvenince, til Miss Geny that was can pay it, I shul be mutch obbleggd, poor Miss Geny nut hawing of a fardin, witch wil be a gret fevur to, Madm,
Yur humbbel survent til dethJaccub Mord.'
So touching a mark of the fond gratitude of the Cleves' servants to their kind master, mingled tenderness, in defiance of all horrour, in the tears of Camilla; but her total inability to satisfy the just claims of Jacob, since now her resource even in Eugenia failed, with the grief of either defeating his worthy project, or making it lastingly hurtful to him, was amongst the severest strokes which had followed her ill advised schemes. To proclaim such an additional debt, was a shame from which she shrunk; yet to fly immediately to Cleves, and try to soothe her oppressed uncle, was an idea that still seemed gifted with some power to soothe herself. Whither indeed else could she now go? she had no longer either carriage or protectress in town; and what she gathered of the re-admission of Bellamy to Grosvenor-square, made the cautions and opinions of Edgar burst forcibly upon her mind, to impede, though most mournfully, all future return to Mrs. Berlinton.
A pliancy so weak, or so wilful, seemed to announce in that lady an almost determined incorrigibility in wrong, however it might be checked, in its progress, by a mingled love of right, and a fear of ill consequences.
'Ah Edgar!' she cried, 'had I trusted you as I ought, from the moment of your generous declaration—had my confidence been as firm in your kindness as in your honour, what misery had I been saved!—from this connexion—from my debts—from every wide-spreading mischief!—I could then have erred no more, for I should have thought but of your approvance!'
These regrets were, as usual, resuming their absorbing powers;—for all other evils seemed fluctuating, but here misery was stationary; when the voice of Bellamy, speaking harshly to his unhappy wife, and some words she unavoidably caught, by which she found he was requesting that she would demand money of Sir Hugh, made her conclude him not aware he was overheard, and force herself back to the parlour. But his inattention upon her return was so near rudeness, that she soon felt convinced Mrs. Berlinton had acquainted him with her remonstrances and ill opinion: he seemed in guilty fear of letting her converse even a moment with Eugenia; and presently, though with an air of pretended unconcern, said: 'You have no commands for the chaise I came in, Miss Camilla?'
'No, Sir, ... What chaise?... Why?...' she stammered.
'It's difficult sometimes to get one at this place; and these horses are very fresh. I bid them stay till they asked you.'
This was so palpable a hint for her to depart, that she could not but answer she would make use of it, when she had taken leave of her sister; whom she now looked at with emotions near despair at her fate, and with difficulty restrained even its most unbridled expressions. But Bellamy kept close, and no private conference could take place. Eugenia merely said: 'Which way, my dear sister, shall you go?'
'I ... I am not, fixed—to ... to Cleves, I believe,' answered she, scarce knowing herself what she said.
'I am very glad of it,' she replied, 'for the sake of my poor—' she found her voice falter, and did not pronounce 'uncle;' but added, 'as Miss Margland has already left London, I think you right to go thither at once; it may abridge many difficulties; and with post-horses, you may be there before it is dark.'
They then embraced tenderly, but parted without any further speech, and she set off rather mechanically than designedly for Cleves.
Camilla, for some time, bestowed no thought upon what she was doing, nor whither she was going. A scene so dreadful as that she now quitted, and a character of such utter unworthiness as that with which her sister for life was tied, absorbed her faculties, and nearly broke her heart.
When she stopt, however, at Bagshot, for fresh horses, the obligation of giving directions to others, made her think of herself; and, bewildered with uncertainty whether the step she took were right or wrong, she regretted she had not, at least, desired to stay till the answer arrived from Etherington. Yet her journey had the sanction of Eugenia's concurrence; and Eugenia seemed to her oracular.
When she came upon the cross road leading from Winchester to Cleves, and felt her quick approach to the spot so loved yet dreaded, the horses seemed to her to fly. Twenty times she called out to the driver not to hurry; who as often assured her the bad roads prevented any haste; she wanted to form some appropriate plan and speech for every emergence; but she could suggest none for any. She was now at the feet of her Mother, now kissing the hands of her Father, now embraced again by her fond uncle;—and now rejected by them all. But while her fancy was at work alternately to soothe and to torture her, the park lodge met her eyes, with still no resolution taken.
Vehemently she stopt the chaise. To drive in through the park would call a general attention, and she wished, ere her arrival were announced, to consult alone with Lavinia. She resolved, therefore, to get out of the carriage, and run by a private path, to a small door at the back of the house, whence she could glide to the chamber commonly appropriated to her sister.
She told the postillion to wait, and alighting, walked quick and fearfully towards the lodge.
She passed through the park-gate for foot passengers without notice from the porter. It was twilight. She saw no one; and rejoiced in the general vacancy. Trembling, but with celerity, she 'skimmed,' like her celebrated name-sake, the turf; and annoyed only by the shadows of the trees, which all, as first they caught her eye, seemed the precursors of the approach of Mrs. Tyrold, speedily reached the mansion: but when she came to the little door by which she meant to enter, she found it fastened.
To the front door she durst not go, from the numerous chances by which she might surprise some of the family in the hall: and to present herself at the servant's gate would have an appearance degrading and clandestine.
She recollected, at last, the sash-door of a bow-window belonging to a room that was never occupied but in summer. Thither she went, and knowing the spring by which it could be opened on the outside, let herself into the house.
With steps not to be heard, and scarce breathing, she got thence into a long stone passage, whence she meant to mount the back stairs.
She was relieved by not meeting anyone in the way, though surprised to hear no foot-steps about the house, and no voices from any of the apartments.
Cautiously she went on, looking round at every step, to avoid any sudden encounter; but when she came to the bed-chamber gallery, she saw that the door of the room of Sir Hugh, by which she must necessarily pass, was wide open.
It was possible he might be in it: she had not courage to pass; her sight, thus unprepared, after so many heavy evils, might be too affecting for his weak frame. She turned short round, and entered a large apartment at the head of the stairs, called the billiard-room, where she resolved to wait and watch ere she ventured any further.
Its aspect was to the front of the house; she stole gently to a window, whence she thought the melancholy of her own mind pervaded the park. None of her uncle's horses were in sight; no one was passing to and fro; and she looked vainly even for the house-dog who ordinarily patrolled before the mansion.
She ventured to bend forwarder, to take a view of the side wings; these, however, presented not any sight more exhilarating nor more animated. Nothing was in motion, no one was visible, not even a fire blazed cheerfulness.
She next strove to catch a glance of the windows belonging to the chamber of Eugenia; but her sigh, though sad, was without surprise to see their shutters shut. Those of Indiana were closed also. 'How mournfully,' cried she, 'is all changed! what of virtues are gone with Eugenia! what of beauty with Indiana! the one so constantly interesting! the other looking always so lovely!'—
But deeper still was her sigh, since mingled with self-reproach, to perceive her own chamber also shut up. 'Alas!' she cried, 'my poor uncle considers us all as dead to him!' She durst not lean sufficiently forward to examine the drawing-room, in which she concluded the family assembled; but she observed, with wonder, that even the library was not open, though it was still too light for candles; and Dr. Orkborne, who usually sat there, from the forgetfulness of application, was the last to demand them.
The fear of discovery was now combated by an anxiety to see some one,—any one, ... and she returned to the passage. All there was still quiet, and she hazarded gliding past the open door, though without daring to look into the room; but when she came to the chamber of Lavinia, which she softly entered, all was dark, and it was evidently not in present use.
This was truly distressful. She concluded her sister was returned to Etherington, and knew not to whom to apply for counsel or mediation. She no longer, however, feared meeting her parents, who certainly had not made her sister quit Cleves without themselves; and, after a little hesitation, relying upon the ever sure lenity of her uncle, she determined to cast herself upon his kindness: but first to send in a short note, to avoid giving him any surprise.
She returned down the gallery, meaning to apply for pen and ink to the first person she could find: she could only, she knew, meet with a friend; unless, by ill fortune, she should encounter Miss Margland, the way to whose apartment she sedulously shunned.
No longer, however, quite so cautious, she stopt near the chamber of Sir Hugh, and convinced by the stillness it was empty, could not resist stepping into the apartment.
It looked despoiled and forsaken. Nothing was in its wonted order; his favourite guns hung not over the chimney-piece; the corners of the room were emptied of his sticks; his great chair was in a new place; no cushions for his dogs were near the fire; the bedstead was naked.
She now felt petrified; she sunk on the floor, to ejaculate a prayer for his safety, but knew not how to rise again, for terrour; nor which way next to turn, nor what even to conjecture.
Thus she remained, till suspense grew worse than certainty, and she forced herself from the room to seek some explanation. It was possible the whole family residence might be changed to the back front of the house. She descended the stairs with almost equal apprehension of meeting any one or seeing no one. The stone passage was now nearly dark. It was always the first part of the house that was lighted, as its windows were small and high: but no preparations were now making for that purpose. She went to the house-keeper's room, which was at the foot of the stairs she had descended. The door was shut, and she could not open it. She tried repeatedly, but vainly, to be heard by soft taps and whisperings; no one answered.
Amazed, confounded, she turned slowly another away; not a soul was in sight, not a sound within hearing. Every thing looked desolate, all the family seemed to be vanished.
Insensibly, yet irresistibly, she now moved on towards the drawing-room. The door was shut. She hesitated whether or not to attempt it. She listened. She hoped to catch the voice of her uncle: but all was inviolably still.
This was the only place of assembling in the evening; but her uncle might have dropt asleep, and she would not hazard startling him with her presence. She would sooner go to the hall at once, and be announced in the common way by a servant.
But what was her astonishment in coming to the hall, to find neither servant, light nor fire? and the marble pavement covered with trunks, packing mats, straw, ropes, and boxes? Terrified and astonished, she thought herself walking in her sleep. She could combine no ideas, either good or bad, to account for such a scene, and she looked at it bewildered and incredulous.
After a long hesitation, spent in wonder rather than thought, she at length determined to enter the breakfast parlour, and ring the bell: when the distant sound of a carriage, that was just entering the park, made her shut herself into the room, hastily, but silently.
It advanced rapidly; she trembled; it was surely, she thought, her Mother.
When it drove up to the portico, and she heard the house-bell ring, she instinctively barred her door; but finding no one approach to the call, while the bell was impatiently re-rung, her strong emotions of expectation were taking her again into the hall: but as her hand was upon the lock of the door, a light glimmered through the key hole. She heard some step advancing, and precipitately drew back.
The hall-door was now opened, and a man enquired for a young lady just come from Alresford.
'There's no young lady here at all,' was the answer, in the voice of Jacob.
Finding it only her own driver, she ventured out; crying 'O Jacob! where is my dear uncle?'
Jacob was, at first, incapable of all answer, through surprise at her strange appearance; but then said, 'O Miss Camilla! you'll go nigh to break your good heart when you knows it all! But how, you've got into the house is what I can't guess; but I wish, for my poor master's sake, it had been before now!'
Horrour crept through every vein of Camilla, in the explanation she awaited of this fearful mystery. She motioned to the driver to stay, returned back to the parlour, and beckoned, for she could not speak, to Jacob to follow her.
When he came, and, shutting the door, was beginning a diffuse lamentation, eagerness to avert lengthened suspense recovered her voice, and she passionately exclaimed: 'Jacob! in two words, where is my uncle?—Is he well?'
'Why, yes, Miss Camilla, considering—' he began; but Camilla, whose fears had been fatal, interrupted him with fervent thanksgiving, till she was called back from joy by the following words:
'He's gone away Miss Camilla! gone Lord knows where! given up all his grand house-keeping, turned off almost all his poor servants, left this fine place, to have it let to whoever will hire it, and is going to live, he says, in some poor little lodging, till he can scrape together wherewithal to pay off every thing for your papa.'
A thunder-bolt that had instantly destroyed her, would gratefully have been received, in preference to this speech, by Camilla, who, casting up her hands and eyes, exclaimed: 'Then am I the most detestable, as well as the most wretched of human beings! My Father I have imprisoned!—my Uncle I have turned from his house and home! and for thee, O my Mother!—this is the reception I have prepared!'
Jacob tried to console her; but his account was only added torture.
The very instant he told her, that his master had received the news of the arrest of Mr. Tyrold, he determined upon this violent plan; and though the so speedy release, through the generosity of Mr. Westwyn, had exceedingly calmed his first emotions, he would not change his purpose, and protested he would never indulge himself in peace nor comfort more, till he had cleared off their joint debts; of which he attributed the whole fault to himself, from having lived up to the very verge of his yearly income, when he ought, he said, considering there were so many young people, to have always kept a few odd sums at hand for accidents. 'We all did what we could,' continued Jacob, 'to put him off from such a thing, but all to no purpose; but if you'd been here, Miss Camilla, you'd have done more with him than all of us put together: but he called Miss Lavinia and all of us up to him, and said to us, I won't have nobody tell this to my poor little girl, meaning you, Miss Camilla, till I've got somewhere settled and comfortable; because of her kind heart, says he.'
Tenderness so partial, at so suffering an instant, almost killed Camilla. 'O Jacob,' she cried, 'where is now my dear generous uncle? I will follow him in this chaise (rushing out as she spoke) I will be his servant, his nurse, and attend him from morning to night!'
She hurried into the carriage as she spoke, and bade him give directions to the postillion. But when she heard he was, at present, only at Etherington, whence he was seeking a new abode, her head drooped, and she burst into tears.
Jacob remained, he said, alone, to take care of all the things, and to shew the place to such as might come.
Miss Margland had been at the house about three hours ago; and had met Sir Hugh, who had come over, to give directions about what he would have packed up; and he had read a letter from Miss Indy that was, and had forgiven her; but he was sore vexed Miss Margland had come without Miss Camilla; only she said Miss Camilla was at Mrs. Bellamy's, and she did not call, because she thought it would be better to go back again, and see more about Miss Indy, and so bring Miss Camilla next time; so she wheedled his master to spare the chaise again, and let her go off directly to settle every thing to Miss Indy's mind.
Camilla now repented she had not returned to Mrs. Berlinton's, there, notwithstanding all objections, to have waited her recall; since there her parents still believed her, and thence, under the protection of Miss Margland, would in all probability summon her. To present herself, after this barbarous aggravation of the calamities she had caused, undemanded and unforgiven at Etherington, she thought impossible. She enquired if, by passing the night at Cleves, she might have any chance of seeing her uncle the next day. Jacob answered, no; but that Mr. Tyrold himself, with a gentleman from Winchester, who thought of hiring the house, were to be there early in the morning to take a survey of the premises.
A meeting, thus circumstanced, with her Father, at a moment when he came upon so direful a business, as parting with a place of which she had herself occasioned the desertion, seemed to her insupportable: and she resolved to return immediately to Belfont, to see there if her answer from Lavinia contained any new directions; and if not, to again go to London, and await final commands; without listening ever more to any hopes, projects, or judgments of her own.
Beseeching the worthy Jacob to pardon her non-payment, with every kind assurance that her uncle should know all his goodness, she told the postillion to take her to Belfont.
He could go no further, he said, and that but a foot pace, than to Alresford. Jacob marvelled, but blessed her, and Camilla, ejaculating, 'Adieu, dear happy Cleves!' was driven out of the park.