men of fashion, hard pressed for their own failures, stated to Mr.
Tyrold the debts of honour owing them from Lionel: and three notorious
gamesters, who had drawn in the unthinking youth to his ruin, enforced
the same information, with a hint that, if they were left unsatisfied,
the credit of the young man would fall the sacrifice of their ill
treatment.
The absence of Mrs. Tyrold at this period, by sparing her daily
difficulty as well as pain, was rejoiced in by her husband; though
never so strongly had he wanted her aiding counsel, her equal interest,
and her consoling participation. Obliged to act without them, his
deliberation was short and decisive for his measures, but long and
painful for their means of execution. He at once determined to pay,
though for the last time, all the trades people; but the manner of
obtaining the money required more consideration.
The bills, when all collected, amounted to something above five hundred
pounds, which was but one hundred short of his full yearly income.
Of this, he had always contrived to lay by an hundred pounds annually,
which sum, with its accumulating interest, was destined to be divided
between Lavinia and Camilla. Eugenia required nothing; and Lionel was to
inherit the paternal little fortune. The portion of Mrs. Tyrold, which
was small, the estate of her father having been almost all entailed upon
Mr. Relvil, was to be divided equally amongst her children.
To take from the little hoard which, with so tender a care, he had
heaped for the daughters, so large a share for the son, and to answer
demands so unduly raised, and ill deserved, was repulsive to his
inclination, and shocked his strong sense of equal justice. To apply to
Mr. Relvil would be preposterous; for though upon him dwelt all his
ultimate hopes for Lionel, he knew him, at this moment, to be so
suffering and so irritated by his means, that to hear of any new
misdemeanours might incense him to an irrevocable disinheritance.
With regard to Sir Hugh, nothing was too much to expect from his
generous kindness; yet he knew that his bountiful heart had always kept
his income from overflowing; and that, for three years past, Lionel had
drained it without mercy. His preparations, also, for the double
marriages had, of late, much straitened him. To take up even the
smallest part of what, in less expensive times, he had laid by, he would
regard as a breach of his solemn vow, by which he imagined himself bound
to leave Eugenia the full property she would have possessed, had he died
instantly upon making it. Reason might have shewn this a tie of
supererogation; but where any man conceived himself obeying the dictates
of his conscience, Mr. Tyrold held his motives too sacred for dispute.
The painful result of this afflicting meditation, was laying before his
daughters the whole of his difficulties, and demanding if they would
willingly concur in paying their brother's bills from their appropriate
little store, by adopting an altered plan of life, and severe
self-denial of their present ease and elegance, to aid its speedy
replacement.
Their satisfaction in any expedient to serve their brother that seemed
to fall upon themselves, was sincere, was even joyful: but they jointly
besought that the sum might be freely taken up, and deducted for ever
more from the hoard; since no earthly gratification could be so great to
them, as contributing their mite to prevent any deprivation of domestic
enjoyment to their beloved parents.
His eyes glistened, but not from grief; it was the pleasure of virtuous
happiness in their purity of filial affection. But though he knew their
sincerity, he would not listen to their petition. 'You are not yet,'
said he, 'aware what your future calls may be for money. What I have yet
been able to save, without this unexpected seizure, would be inadequate
to your even decent maintenance, should any accident stop short its
encrease. Weep not, my dear children! my health is still good, and my
prospect of lengthened life seems fair. It would be, however, a temporal
folly as well as a spiritual presumption, to forget the precarious
tenure of human existence. My life, my dear girls, will be happier,
without being shorter, for making provisions for its worldly cessation.'
'But, Sir! but my father!' cried Camilla, hanging over him, and losing
in filial tenderness her personal distresses; 'if your manner of living
is altered, and my dear mother returns home and sees you relinquishing
any of your small, your temperate indulgencies, may it not yet more
embitter her sufferings and her displeasure for the unhappy cause? For
her sake then, if not for ours----'
'Do not turn away, dearest Sir!' cried Lavinia; 'what mother ever
merited to have her peace the first study of her children, if it is not
ours?'
'O Providence benign!' said Mr. Tyrold, folding them to his heart, 'how
am I yet blessed in my children!--True and excellent daughters of my
invaluable wife--this little narration is the solace I shall have to
offer for the grief I must communicate.'
He would not, however, hearken to their proposition; his peace, he said,
required not only immediate measures for replacing what he must borrow,
but also that no chasm should have lieu in funding his usual annual sum
for them. All he would accept was the same severe forbearance he should
instantly practice himself, and which their mother, when restored to
them, would be the first to adopt and improve. And this, till its end
was answered, they would all steadily continue, and then, with cheerful
self-approvance, resume their wonted comforts.
Mr. Tyrold had too frequent views of the brevity of human life to
postpone, even from one sun to another, any action he deemed essential.
A new general system, therefore, immediately pervaded his house. Two of
the servants, with whom he best could dispense, were discharged; which
hurt him more than any other privation, for he loved, and was loved by
every domestic who lived with him. His table, always simple though
elegant, was now reduced to plain necessaries; he parted with every
horse, but one to whose long services he held himself a debtor; and
whatever, throughout the whole economy of his small establishment,
admitted simplifying, deducting, or abolishment, received, without
delay, its requisite alteration or dismission.
These new regulations were quietly, but completely, put in practice,
before he would discharge one bill for his son; to whom, nevertheless,
though his conduct was strict, his feelings were still lenient. He
attributed not to moral turpitude his errours nor his crimes, but to the
prevalence of ill example, and to an unjustifiable and dangerous levity,
which irresistibly led him to treat with mockery and trifling the most
serious subjects. The punishment, however, which he had now drawn upon
himself, would yet, he hoped, touch his heart.
But the debts called debts of honour, met not with similar treatment. He
answered with spirited resentment demands he deemed highly flagitious,
counselling those who sent them, when next they applied to an unhappy
family to whose calamities they had contributed, to enquire first if its
principles, as well as its fortune, made the hazards of gaming amongst
its domestic responsibilities.
CHAPTER IX
_A Lover's Eye_
The serenity of virtue would now again have made its abode the breast of
Mr. Tyrold, but for the constant wretchedness to which he saw his
daughter a prey. With the benignest pity he strove to revive her; a pity
unabated by any wonder, unalloyed with any blame. His wonder fell all
upon Edgar, whom he considered as refining away mortal happiness, by
dissatisfaction that it was not divine; but his censure, which he
reserved wholly for vice, exonerated them both. Still, however, he
flattered himself that ere long, to her youthful mind and native
cheerfulness, tranquillity, if not felicity, would imperceptibly return,
from such a union for exertion of filial and sisterly duties: that
industry would sweeten rest, virtue gild privation, and self-approvance
convert every sacrifice into enjoyment.
But peace such as this was far from her bosom. While the desertion of
Edgar had tolled the death bell to all her hopes, an unremitting
contention disturbed her mind, whether to avow or conceal her situation
with regard to the money-lender. The reflections of every night brought
a dissatisfaction in her conduct, which determined her upon an openness
the most undisguised for the following morning: but timidity, and the
desire of reprieve from the fearful task, again, the following morning,
regularly postponed her purpose.
In the first horror occasioned by her father's distress from the bills
of her brother, she wrote a supplicating letter to Mrs. Mittin, to
intreat she would endeavour to quiet her creditors till she could
arrange something for their payment. And while this produced a
correspondence replete with danger, difficulty, and impropriety, a new
circumstance occurred, which yet more cruelly embittered her conflicting
emotions. Lavinia, in the virtuous eagerness of her heart to forward the
general oeconomy, insisted wholly to relinquish, for this year, her
appropriate allowance; declaring that, by careful management, she could
dispense with anything new, and that the very few expences she might
find utterly unavoidable, she would demand from time to time as they
occurred. Camilla, at this proposition, retreated, in agony, to her
chamber. To make the same was impossible; for how, then, find interest
for the money-lender? yet to withstand so just an example, seemed a
disgrace to every duty and every feeling.
Lavinia, who, in her countenance and abrupt departure, read the new
distress she had incautiously excited, with a thousand self-reproaches
followed her. She had considered but the common cause when she spoke,
without weighing the strange appearance of not being seconded by her
sister: But her mind was amongst the last to covet the narrow praise of
insidious comparison; and her concern for the proposal she had made,
when she saw its effect, was as deep as that of Camilla in hearing it,
though not attended with the same aggravations.
Mr. Tyrold remained utterly surprized. The generous and disinterested
nature of Camilla, made it impossible to suspect her restrained by a
greater love of money than Lavinia; and he could not endure to suppose
her late visits to public places, had rendered personal oeconomy more
painful. But he would make no enquiry that might seem a reproach; nor
suffer any privation or contribution that was not cheerful and
voluntary.
* * * * *
The purchases for the wedding of Miss Dennel being now made, that young
lady came down to the country to solemnize her nuptials, accompanied by
Mrs. Mittin, who instantly visited Camilla. She could settle nothing,
she said, with the money-lender, without the premium; but she had coaxed
all the creditors, by assuring them, that, as the debtor was a great
heiress, they were certain of their money when she came to her estate.
Camilla could not endure to owe their forbearance to a falsehood; though
to convince Mrs. Mittin of her errour, in contradiction to the assertion
of Lionel, was a vain attempt. The business, however, pressed; and to
keep back these but too just claimants was her present most fervent
desire. Mrs. Mittin was amongst the most expert of expedient-mongers,
and soon started a method for raising the premium. She asked to look at
what Camilla possessed of trinkets: and the prize ear-rings of
Tunbridge, the ear-rings and necklace of Southampton, and several small
toys occasionally given her, were collected. The locket she also
demanded, to make weight; but neither that, nor the peculiar gifts, as
keep-sakes, of her father, mother, or uncle, consisting of a seal, a
ring, and a watch, would she part with. What she would relinquish,
however, Mrs. Mittin disposed of to one of her numerous friends; but
they raised only, when intrinsically valued, sixteen pounds. Lavinia
then insisted upon coming forward with a contribution of every trinket
she was worth, save what had the same sacred motives of detention: and
the twenty pounds, without any ceremony of acknowledgment, were
delivered to Mr. Clykes; who then took into his own hands the payment of
the hundred and eighteen pounds; for which he received a bond, signed by
Camilla, and witnessed by Mrs. Mittin; and another note of hand,
promising ten per cent. interest for the sum, till the principal were
repaid. These two notes, he acknowledged, were mere pledges of honour,
as the law would treat her as an infant: but he never acted without
them, as they prevented mistakes in private dealings.
This important affair arranged, Camilla felt somewhat more at ease; she
was relieved from hourly alarms, and left the mistress to make her
confession as circumstances directed. But she obtained not for nothing
the agency of Mrs. Mittin, who was not a character to leave self out of
consideration in her transactions for others; and at every visit made at
Etherington from this time, she observed something in the apparel of
Camilla that was utterly old fashioned, or too mean for her to wear; but
which would do well enough for herself, when vamped up, as she knew how.
Her obligations and inexperience made it impossible to her to resist,
though, at this season of saving care, she gave up nothing which she
could not have rendered useful, by industry and contrivance.
* * * * *
During this unhappy period at Etherington, a brighter, though not
unclouded scene, was exhibited at Cleves. Melmond arrived; he was
permitted to pay his addresses to the fair Indiana, and believed
felicity celestial accorded to him even upon earth.
But this adored object herself suffered some severe repining at her
fate, when she saw, from her window, her lover gallop into the park
without equipage, without domestics, and mounted on a hired horse. The
grimacing shrugs of Miss Margland shewed she entered into this
mortification; and they were nearly conspiring to dismiss the ignoble
pretender, when a letter, which he modestly sent up, from his sister,
inviting Indiana to pass a few weeks in Grosvenor Square, once again
secured the interest of the brother. She suffered, therefore, Sir Hugh
to hand her down stairs, and the enamoured Melmond thought himself the
most blest of men.
The sight of such eager enjoyment, and the really amiable qualities of
this youth, soon completely reconciled the Baronet to this new business;
for he saw no reason, he said, in fact, why one niece had not as good a
right to be married first as another. The generous and sentimental
Eugenia never ceased her kind offices, and steadily wore an air of
tolerable cheerfulness all day, though her pillow was nightly wetted
with tears for her unfortunate lot.
Nor, with all her native equanimity and acquired philosophy, was this a
situation to bring back serenity. The enthusiastic raptures of Melmond
elevated him, in her eyes, to something above human; and while his
adoration of Indiana presented to her a picture of all she thought most
fascinating, his grateful softness of respect to herself, was
penetratingly touching to her already conquered heart.
Indiana, meanwhile, began ere long, to catch some of the pleasure she
inspired. The passionate animation of Melmond, soon not only resumed its
first power, but became even essential to her. No one else had yet
seemed to think her so completely a goddess, except Mr. Macdersey, whom
she scarce expected ever to see again. With Melmond she could do nothing
that did not make her appear to him still more lovely: and though her
whims, thus indulged, became almost endless, they but kindled with fresh
flame his admiration. If she fretted, he thought her all sensibility; if
she pouted, all dignity; if her laughter was unmeaning, she was made up
of innocent gaiety; if what she said was shallow, he called her the
child of pure nature; if she were angry, how becoming was her spirit! if
illiberal, how noble was her frankness! Her person charmed his eye, but
his own imagination framed her mind, and while his enchanted faculties
were the mere slaves of her beauty, they persuaded themselves they were
vanquished by every other perfection.
* * * * *
Mr. Tyrold had not yet related Edgar's defection to Sir Hugh; though
from the moment the time of hope was past, he wished to end that of
expectation. But the pressure of the affairs of Lionel detained him at
Etherington, and he could not bear to give grief to his brother, till he
could soften its effect by the consolation of some residence at Cleves.
This time now arrived; and the next day was fixed for his painful task,
in which he meant to spare Camilla any share, when Jacob begged
immediate admittance into the study, where Mr. Tyrold and his daughters
were drinking tea.
His scared look instantly announced ill news. Mr. Tyrold was alarmed,
Lavinia was frightened, and Camilla exclaimed, 'Jacob, speak at once!'
He begged to sit down.
Camilla ran to get him a chair.
'Is my brother well, Jacob?' cried Mr. Tyrold.
'Why, pretty well, considering, Sir,--but these are vast bad times for
us!'
'O! if my uncle is but well,' cried Camilla, relieved from her first
dreadful doubt, 'all, I hope, will do right!'
'Why, ay, Miss,' said Jacob, smiling, 'I knew you'd be master's best
comfort; and so I told him, and so he says, for that matter himself, as
I've got to tell you from him. But, for all that, he takes on prodigious
bad. I never saw him in the like way, except just that time when Miss
Geny had the small pox.'
They all supplicated him to forbear further comments, and then gathered,
that a money-agent, employed by young Lynmere, had just arrived at
Cleves; where, with bitter complaints, he related that, having been
duped into believing him heir to Sir Hugh Tyrold, he had been prevailed
with to grant him money, from time to time, to pay certain bills,
contracted not only there, but in London, for goods sent thence by his
order, to the amount of near thirteen hundred pounds, without the
interest, of which he should give a separate account; that he had vainly
applied to the young gentleman for re-imbursement, who finally assured
him he was just disinherited by his uncle. No hope, therefore, remained
to save him from the ruin of this affair, but in the compassion of the
Baronet, which he now came to most humbly solicit.
While Mr. Tyrold, in silent surprise and concern, listened to an
account that placed his brother in difficulties so similar to his own,
Camilla, sinking back in her chair; looked pale, looked almost lifeless.
The history of the debts she already knew, and had daily expected to
hear; but the circumstance of the money-lender, and the delusion
concerning the inheritance, so resembled her own terrible, and yet
unknown story, that she felt personally involved in all the shame and
horror of the relation.
Mr. Tyrold, who believed her suffering all for her uncle, made further
enquiries, while Lavinia tenderly sustained her. 'Don't take on so, dear
Miss,' said Jacob, 'for all our hope is in you, as Master and I both
said; and he bid me tell your papa, that if he'd only give young 'Squire
Mandlebert a jog, to egg him on, that he might not be so shilly shally,
as soon as ever the wedding's over, he'd accept his kind invitation to
Beech Park, and bide there till he got clear, as one may say.'
Mr. Tyrold now required no assigned motive for the excessive distress of
his daughter, and hastened to turn Jacob from this too terribly trying
subject, by saying, 'My brother then means to pay these demands?'
'Lauk, yes, Sir! his honour pays every thing as any body asks him; only
he says he don't know how, because of having no more money, being so
hard run with all our preparations we have been making this last
fortnight.'
Camilla, with every moment encreasing agitation, hid her face against
Lavinia; but Mr. Tyrold, with some energy, said: 'The interest, at
least, I hope he will not discharge; for those dangerous vultures, who
lie in wait for the weak or erring, to encourage their frailties or
vices, by affording them means to pursue them, deserve much severer
punishment, than merely losing a recompense for their iniquitous
snares.'
This was quite too much for the already disordered Camilla; she quitted
her sister, glided out of the room, and delivered herself over as a prey
no longer to sorrow but remorse. Her conduct seemed to have been
precisely the conduct of Clermont, and she felt herself dreadfully
implicated as one of the _weak or erring_, guilty of _frailties or
vices_.
That an uncle so dearly loved should believe she was forming an
establishment which would afford him an asylum during his difficulties,
now every prospect of that establishment was over, was so heart-piercing
a circumstance, that to her father it seemed sufficient for the whole
of what she endured. He made her over, therefore, to Lavinia, while he
hastened to Cleves; for Jacob, when he had said all he was ordered to
say, all he had gathered himself, and all he was able to suggest,
finished with letting him know that his master begged he would set out
that very moment.
The time of his absence was spent by Camilla in an anguish that, at his
return, seemed quite to have changed her. He was alarmed, and redoubled
his tenderness; but his tenderness was no longer her joy. He knows not,
she thought, whom he caresses; knows not that the wounds just beginning
to heal for the son, are soon to be again opened for the daughter!
Yet her affections were all awake to enquire after her uncle; and when
she heard that nothing could so much sooth him as her sight, all fear of
his comments, all terror of exertion, subsided in the possible chance of
consoling him: and Mr. Tyrold, who thought every act of duty led to
cheerfulness, sent to desire the carriage might fetch her the next
morning.
He passed slightly over to Camilla the scene he had himself gone
through; but he confessed to Lavinia its difficulty and pain. Sir Hugh
had acknowledged he had drawn his bankers dry, yet had merely current
cash to go on till the next quarter, whence he intended to deduct the
further expences of the weddings. Nevertheless, he was determined upon
paying every shilling of the demand, not only for the debts, but for all
the complicate interest. He would not listen to any reasoning upon this
subject, because, he said, he had it upon his conscience that the first
fault was his own, in letting poor Clermont leave the kingdom, without
clearing up to him that he had made Eugenia his exclusive heiress. It
was in vain Mr. Tyrold pointed out, that no future hopes of wealth could
exculpate this unauthorized extravagance in Clermont, and no dissipation
in Clermont could apologize for the clandestine loan, and its illegal
interest: 'The poor boy,' said he, 'did it all, knowing no better, which
how can I expect, when I did wrong myself, being his uncle? Though, if I
were to have twenty more nephews and nieces in future, the first word I
should say to them would be to tell them I should give them nothing; to
the end that having no hope, they might all be happy one as another.'
All, therefore, that was left for Mr. Tyrold, was to counsel him upon
the best and shortest means of raising the sum; and for this purpose,
he meant to be with him again the next day.
This affair, however, with all its reproach for the past, and all its
sacrifices for the time to come, by no means so deeply affected Sir Hugh
as the blow Mr. Tyrold could no longer spare concerning Edgar. It sunk
to his heart, dispirited him to tears, and sent him, extremely ill, to
bed.
The chaise came early the next morning, and Mr. Tyrold had the pleasure
to see Camilla exert herself to appear less sad. Lavinia was also of the
party, as he meant to stay the whole day.
Eugenia met them in the hall, with the welcome intelligence that Sir
Hugh, though he had passed a wretched night, was now somewhat better,
and considerably cheered, by a visit from his old Yorkshire friend, Mr.
Westwyn.
Nevertheless, Sir Hugh dismissed him, and everybody else, to receive
Camilla alone.
She endeavoured to approach him calmly, but his own unchecked emotions
soon overset her borrowed fortitude, and the interview proved equally
afflicting to both. The cruel mischiefs brought upon him by Clermont,
were as nothing in the balance of his misfortunes, when opposed to
the sight of sorrow upon that face which, hitherto, had so
constantly enlivened him as an image of joy: and with her, every
self-disappointment yielded, for the moment, to the regret of losing so
precious a blessing, as offering a refuge, in a time of difficulty, to
an uncle so dear to her.
Mr. Tyrold would not suffer this scene to be long uninterrupted; he
entered, with a cheering countenance, that compelled them to dry their
tears, and told them the Westwyns could not much longer be left out,
though they remained, well contented, for the present, with Miss
Margland and his other daughters. 'Melmond and Indiana,' added he,
smiling, 'seem at present not beings of this lower sphere, nor to have a
moment to spare for those who are.'
'That, my dear brother,' answered the Baronet, 'is all my comfort; for
as to all the rest of my marrying, you see what it's come to! who could
have thought of young Mr. Edgar's turning out in the same way? I can't
say but what I take it pretty unkind of him, letting me prepare at this
rate for nothing; besides Beech Park's being within but a stone's throw,
as one may say, as well as his own agreeableness. However, now I've
seen a little more of the world, I can't say I find much difference
between the good and the bad, with respect to their all doing alike. The
young boys now-a-days, whatever's come to 'em, don't know what they'd be
at. They think nothing of disappointing a person if once they've a mind
to change their minds. All one's preparations go for nothing; which they
never think of.'
Mr. Tyrold now prevailed for the re-admission of Mr. Westwyn, who was
accompanied by his son, and followed by the Cleves family.
The cheeks of Camilla recovered their usual hue at the sight of Henry,
from the various interesting recollections which occurred with it. She
was seen herself with their original admiration, both by the father and
the son, though with the former it was now mingled with anger, and with
the latter no longer gilded with hope. Yet the complaints against her,
which, upon his arrival, Mr. Westwyn meant to make, were soon not merely
relinquished, but transformed into pity, upon the view of her dejected
countenance, and silent melancholy.
The Baronet, however, revived again, by seeing his old friend, whose
humour so much resembled his own, that, in Yorkshire, he had been always
his first favourite. Each the children of untutored nature, honest and
open alike in their words and their dealings, their characters and their
propensities were nearly the same, though Sir Hugh, more self-formed,
had a language and manner of his own; and Mr. Westwyn, of a temper less
equal and less gentle, gave way, as they arose, to such angry passions
as the indulgent Baronet never felt.
'My dear friend,' said Mr. Westwyn, 'you don't take much notice of my
Hal, though, I'll give you my word, you won't see such another young
fellow every day. However, it's as well not, before his face, for it
might only make him think himself somebody: and that, while I am alive,
I don't intend he should do. I can't bear a young fellow not dutiful.
I've always a bad opinion of him. I can't say he pleases me.'
'My dear Westwyn,' answered the Baronet, 'I've no doubt but what master
Hal is very good, for which I am truly glad. But as to much
over-rejoicing, now, upon the score of young boys, it's what I can't do,
seeing they've turned out so ill, one after another, as far as I have
had to do with them; for which, however, I hope I bear 'em no malice.
They've enough to answer for without that, which, I hope, they'll think
of in time.'
'Why to be sure, Sir Hugh, if you set about thinking of a young fellow
by the pattern of my friend Clermont, I can't say I'm much surprised you
don't care to give him a good word; I can't say I am. I am pretty much
of the same way of thinking. I love to speak the truth.' He then took
Mr. Tyrold apart, and ran on with a history of all he had gathered,
while at Leipsic, of the conduct and way of life of Clermont Lynmere.
'He was a disgrace,' said he, 'even to the English name, as a Professor
told me, that I can't remember the name of, it's so prodigious long;
but, if it had not been for my son, he told me, they'd have thought all
the English young fellows good for nothing, except extravagance, and
eating and drinking! "They'd all round have got an ill name," says he,
"if it had not been for your son," were his words which I shall never
forget. I sent him over a noble pipe of Madeira, which I'd just got for
myself, as soon as I came home. I took to him very much, I can't say but
I did; he was a very good man; he had prodigiously the look of an
Englishman. He said Hal was an ornament to the university. I took it
very well of him. I wish he had not such a hard name. I can never call
it to mind. I hate a hard name. I can never speak it without a blunder.'
Sir Hugh now, who had been talking with Henry, called upon Mr. Westwyn,
to beg his pardon for not speaking of him more respectfully, saying: 'I
see he's quite agreeable, which I should have noticed from the first,
only being what I did not know; which I hope is my excuse; my head, my
dear friend, not getting on much, in point of quickness: though I can't
say it's for want of pains, since you and I used to live so much
together; but to no great end, for I always find myself in the back,
however it happens: which your son, Master Hal, is, I see, quite the
contrary.'
Mr. Westwyn was so much gratified by this praise, that he immediately
confessed the scheme and wish he had formed of marrying Hal to Camilla,
only for her not approving it. Sir Hugh protested nothing could give him
more pleasure than such a connexion, and significantly added, he had
other nieces, besides Camilla.
'Why, yes,' said Mr. Westwyn, 'and I can't keep from looking at 'em; I
like 'em all mightily. I'm a great friend to taking from a good stock. I
chuse to know what I'm about. That girl at Southampton hit my fancy
prodigiously. But I'm not for the beauty. A beauty won't make a good
wife. It takes her too much time to put her cap on. That little one,
there, with the hump, which I don't mind, nor the limp, neither, I like
vastly. But I'm afraid Hal won't take to her. A young man don't much
fancy an ugly girl. He's always hankering after something pretty.
There's that other indeed, Miss Lavinia, is as handsome a girl as I'd
wish to see. And she seems as good, too. However, I'm not for judging
all by the eye. I'm past that. An old man should not play the fool.
Which I wish somebody would whisper to a certain Lord that I know of,
that don't behave quite to my mind. I'm not fond of an old fool: nor a
young one neither. They make me sick.'
Sir Hugh heard and agreed to all this, with the same simplicity with
which it was spoken; and, soon after, Yorkshire becoming their theme,
Mr. Tyrold had the pleasure of seeing his brother so much re-animated by
the revival of old scenes, ideas, and connexions, that he heartily
joined in pressing the Mr. Westwyns to spend a fortnight at Cleves, to
which they consented with pleasure.
CHAPTER X
_A Bride's Resolves_
With every allowance for a grief in which so deeply he shared, Mr.
Tyrold felt nearly bowed down with sorrow, when he observed his own
tenderness abate of its power to console, and his exhortations of their
influence with his miserable daughter, whose complicated afflictions
seemed desperate to herself, and to him nearly hopeless.
He now began to fear the rigid oeconomy and retirement of their
present lives might add secret disgust or fatigue to the disappointment
of her heart. He sighed at an idea so little in unison with all that had
hitherto appeared of her disposition; yet remembered she was very young
and very lively, and thought that, if caught by a love of gayer scenes
than Etherington afforded, she was at a season of life which brings its
own excuse for such venial ambition.
He mentioned, therefore, with great kindness, their exclusion from all
society, and proposed making an application to Mrs. Needham, a lady high
in the esteem of Mrs. Tyrold, to have the goodness to take the charge of
carrying them a little into the world, during the absence of their
mother. 'I can neither exact nor desire,' he said, 'to sequester you
from all amusement for a term so utterly indefinite as that of her
restoration; since it is now more than ever desirable to regain the
favour of your uncle Relvil for Lionel, who has resisted every
profession for which I have sought to prepare him; though his idle and
licentious courses so little fit him for contentment with the small
patrimony he will one day inherit.'
The sisters mutually and sincerely declined this proposition; Lavinia
had too much employment to find time ever slow of passage; and Camilla,
joined to the want of all spirit for recreation, had a dread of
appearing in the county, lest she should meet with Sir Sedley Clarendel,
whose two hundred pounds were amongst the evils ever present to her. The
money which Eugenia meant to save for this account had all been given to
Lionel; and now her marriage was at an end, and no particular sum
expected, she must be very long in replacing it; especially as Jacob was
first to be considered; though he had kindly protested he was in no
haste to be paid.
Mr. Tyrold was not sorry to have his proposition declined; yet saw the
sadness of Camilla unabated, and suggested, for a transient diversity, a
visit to the Grove; enquiring why an acquaintance begun with so much
warmth and pleasure, seemed thus utterly relinquished. Camilla had
herself thought with shame of her apparently ungrateful neglect of Mrs.
Arlbery; but the five guineas she had borrowed, and forgotten to pay,
while she might yet have asked them of Sir Hugh, and which now she had
no ability any where to raise, made the idea of meeting with her
painful. And thus, overwhelmed with regret and repentance for all
around, her spirits gone, and her heart sunk, she desired never more,
except for Cleves, to stir from Etherington.
Had he seen the least symptom of her revival, Mr. Tyrold would have been
gratified by her strengthened love of home; but this was far from being
the case; and, upon the marriage of Miss Dennel, which was now
celebrated, he was glad of an opportunity to force her abroad, from the
necessity of making a congratulatory visit to the bride's aunt, Mrs.
Arlbery.
The chariot, therefore, of Sir Hugh being borrowed, she was compelled
into this exertion; which was ill repaid by her reception from Mrs.
Arlbery, who, hurt as well as offended by her long absence and total
silence, wore an air of the most chilling coldness. Camilla felt sorry
and ashamed; but too much disturbed to attempt any palliation for her
non-appearance, and remissness of even a note or message.
The room was full of morning visitors, all collected for the same
complimentary purpose; but she was relieved with respect to her fears of
Sir Sedley Clarendel, in hearing of his tour to the Hebrides.
Her mournful countenance soon, however, dispersed the anger of Mrs.
Arlbery. 'What,' cried she, 'has befallen you, my fair friend? if you
are not immeasurably unhappy, you are very seriously ill.'
'Yes,--no,--my spirits--have not been good--' answered she,
stammering;--'but yours may, perhaps, assist to restore them.'
The composition of Mrs. Arlbery had no particle of either malice or
vengeance; she now threw off, therefore, all reserve, and taking her by
the hand, said: 'shall I keep you to spend the day with me? Yes, or no?
Peace or war?'
And without waiting for an answer, she sent back the chariot, and a
message to Mr. Tyrold, that she would carry home his daughter in the
evening.
'And now, my faithless Fair,' cried she, as soon as they were alone,
'tell me what has led you to this abominable fickleness? with me, I
mean! If you had grown tired of any body else, I should have thought
nothing so natural. But you know, I suppose, that the same thing we
philosophise into an admirable good joke for our neighbours, we moralise
into a crime against ourselves.'
'I thought,' said Camilla, attempting to smile, 'none but country
cousins ever made apologies?'
'Nay, now, I must forgive you without one word more!' answered Mrs.
Arlbery, laughing, and shaking hands with her; 'a happy citation of one
_bon mot_, is worth any ten offences. So, you see, you have nine to
commit, in store, clear of all damages. But the pleasure of finding one
has not said a good thing only for once, thence to be forgotten and die
away in the winds, is far greater than you can yet awhile conceive. In
the first pride of youth and beauty, our attention is all upon how we
are looked at. But when those begin to be somewhat on the wane--when
that barbarous time comes into play, which revenges upon poor miserable
woman all the airs she has been playing upon silly man--our ambition,
then, is how we are listened to. So now, cutting short reproach and
excuse, and all the wearying round of explanation, tell me a little of
your history since we last met.'
This was the last thing Camilla meant to undertake: but she began, in a
hesitating manner, to speak of her little debt. Mrs. Arlbery, eagerly
interrupting her, insisted it should not be mentioned; adding: 'I go on
vastly well again; I am breaking in two ponies, and building a new
phaeton; and I shall soon pay for both, without the smallest
inconvenience,--except just pinching my servants, and starving my
visitors. But tell me something of your adventures. You are not half so
communicative as Rumour, which has given me a thousand details of you,
and married you and your whole set to at least half a dozen men a piece,
since you were last at the Grove. Amongst others, it asserts, that my
old Lord Valhurst was seriously at your feet? That prating Mrs. Mittin,
who fastened upon my poor little niece at Tunbridge, and who is now her
factotum, pretends that my lord's own servants spoke of it publicly at
Mrs. Berlinton's.'
This was a fact that, being thus divulged, a very few questions made
impossible to deny; though Camilla was highly superior to the indelicacy
and ingratitude of repaying the preference of any gentleman by
publishing his rejection.
'And what in the world, my dear child,' said Mrs. Arlbery, 'could
provoke you to so wild an action as refusing him?'
'Good Heaven, Mrs. Arlbery!'
'O, what--you were not in love with him? I believe not!--but if he was
in love with you, take my word for it, that would have done quite as
well. 'Tis such a little while that same love lasts, even when it is
begun with, that you have but a few months to lose, to be exactly upon a
par with those who set out with all the quivers of Cupid, darting from
heart to heart. He has still fortune enough left for a handsome
settlement; you can't help outliving him, and then, think but how
delectable would be your situation! Freedom, money at will, the choice
of your own friends, and the enjoyment of your own humour!'
'You would but try me, my dear Mrs. Arlbery; for you cannot, I'm sure,
believe me capable of making so solemn an engagement for such mercenary
hopes, and selfish purposes.'
'This is all the romance of false reasoning. You have not sought the
man, but the man you. You would not have solicited his acceptance, but
yielded to his solicitation of yours. The balance is always just, where
force is not used. The man has his reasons for chusing you; you have
your reasons for suffering yourself to be chosen. What his are, you have
no business to enquire; nor has he the smallest right to investigate
yours.'
This was by no means the style in which Camilla had been brought up to
think of marriage; and Mrs. Arlbery presently added: 'You are grave? yet
I speak but as a being of the world I live in: though I address one that
knows nothing about it. Tell me, however, a little more of your affairs.
What are all these marriages and no marriages, our neighbourhood is so
busy in making and unmaking?'
Camilla returned the most brief and quiet answers in her power; but was
too late to save the delicacy of Eugenia in concealing her late double
disappointments, the abortive preparations of Sir Hugh having travelled
through all the adjoining country. 'Poor little dear ugly thing!' cried
Mrs. Arlbery, 'she must certainly go off with her footman;--unless,
indeed, that good old pedant, who teaches her that vast quantity of
stuff she will have to unlearn, when once she goes a little about, will
take compassion upon her and her thousands, and put them both into his
own pockets.'
This raillery was painful nearly to disgust to Camilla; who frankly
declared she saw her sister with no eyes but those of respect and
affection, and could not endure to hear her mentioned in so ridiculous a
manner.
'Never judge the heart of a wit,' answered she, laughing, 'by the
tongue! We have often as good hearts, ay, and as much good nature, too,
as the careful prosers who utter nothing but what is right, or the heavy
thinkers who have too little fancy to say anything that is wrong. But we
have a pleasure in our own rattle that cruelly runs away with our
discretion.'
She then more seriously apologized for what she had said, and declared
herself an unaffected admirer of all she had heard of the good qualities
of Eugenia.
Other subjects were then taken up, till they were interrupted by a visit
from the young bride, Mrs. Lissin.
Jumping into the room, 'I'm just run away,' she cried, 'without saying a
word to any body! I ordered my coach myself, and told my own footman to
whisper me when it came, that I might get off, without saying a word of
the matter. Dear! how they'll all stare when they miss me! I hope
they'll be frightened!'
'And why so, you little chit? why do you want to make them uneasy?'
'O! I don't mind! I'm so glad to have my own way, I don't care for
anything else. Dear, how do you do, Miss Camilla Tyrold? I wonder you
have not been to see me! I had a great mind to have invited you to have
been one of my bride's maids. But papa was so monstrous cross, he would
not let me do hardly any thing I liked. I was never so glad in my life
as when I went out of the house to be married! I'll never ask him about
any one thing as long as I live again. I'll always do just what I
chuse.'
'And you are quite sure Mr. Lissin will never interfere with that
resolution?'
'O, I sha'n't let him! I dare say he would else. That's one reason I
came out so, just now, on purpose to let him see I was my own mistress.
And I told my coachman, and my own footman, and my maid, all three, that
if they said one word, I'd turn 'em all away. For I intend always to
turn 'em away when I don't like 'em. I shall never say anything to Mr.
Lissin first, for fear of his meddling. I'm quite determined I won't be
crossed any more, now I've servants of my own. I'm sure I've been
crossed long enough.'
Then, turning to Camilla, 'Dear,' she cried, 'how grave you look! Dear,
I wonder you don't marry too! When I ordered my coach, just now, I was
ready to cry for joy, to think of not having to ask papa about it. And
to-day, at breakfast, I dare say I rung twenty times, for one thing or
another. As fast as ever I could think of any thing, I went to ringing
again. For when I was at papa's, every time I rang the bell, he always
asked me what I wanted. Only think of keeping one under so!'
'And what in the world said Mr. Lissin to so prodigious an uproar?'
'O, he stared like any thing. But he could not say much: I intend to use
him to it from the first, that he may never plague me, like papa, with
asking me what's the reason for every thing. If I don't like the dinner
to-day, I'll order a new one, to be dressed for me on purpose. And Mr.
Lissin, and papa, and Mrs. Mittin, and the rest of 'em, may eat the old
one. Papa never let me order the dinner at home; he always would know
what there was himself, and have what he chose. I'm resolved I'll have
every thing I like best, now, every day. I could not get at the cook
alone this morning, because so many of 'em were in the way; though I
rung for her a dozen times. But to-morrow, I'll tell her of some things
I intend to have the whole year through; in particular, currant tarts,
and minced veal, and mashed potatoes. I've been determined upon that
these three years, for against I was married.'
Then, taking Camilla by the hand, she begged she would accompany her to
next room, saying, 'Pray excuse me, Aunt Arlbery, because I want to talk
to Miss Tyrold about a secret.'
When they came to another apartment, after carefully shutting the door,
'Only think,' she cried, 'Miss Camilla Tyrold, of my marrying Mr. Lissin
at last! Pray did you ever suspect it? I'm sure I did not. When papa
told me of it, you can't think how I was surprised. I always thought it
would have been Colonel Andover, or Mr. Macdersey, or else Mr. Summers;
unless it had been Mr. Wiggan; or else your brother; but Mr. Lissin
never once came into my head, because of his being so old. I dare say
he's seven and twenty! only think!--But I believe he and papa had
settled it all along, only papa never told it me, till just before hand.
I don't like him much; do you?'
'I have not the pleasure to know him: but I hope you will endeavour to
like him better, now.'
'I don't much care whether I do or not, for I shall never mind him. I
always determined never to mind a husband. One minds one's papa because
one can't help it: But only think of my being married before you! though
you're seventeen years old--almost eighteen, I dare say--and I'm only
just fifteen. I could not help thinking of it all the time I was
dressing for a bride. You can't think how pretty my dress was. Papa made
Mrs. Mittin buy it, because, he said, she could get every thing so
cheap: but I made her get it the dearest she could, for all that. Papa's
monstrous stingy.'
This secret conference was broken up by a violent ringing at the gate,
succeeded by the appearance of Mr. Lissin, who, without any ceremony,
opened the door of the chamber into which the ladies had retired.
'So, ma'am!' said he, visibly very angry, 'I have the pleasure at last
to find you! dinner has waited till it is spoilt, and I hope, therefore,
now, you will do us the favour to come and sit at the head of your
table.'
She looked frightened, and he took her hand, which she had not courage
to draw back, though in a voice that spoke a sob near at hand, 'I'm
sure,' she cried, 'this is not being treated like a married woman! and
I'm sure if I'd known I might not do as I like, and come out when I'd a
mind, I would not have married at all!'
Mr. Lissin, with little or no apology to Mrs. Arlbery, then conveyed his
fair bride to her coach.
'Poor simple girl!' exclaimed Mrs. Arlbery. 'Mr. Lissin, who is a
country squire of Northwick, will soon teach her another lesson, than
that of ordering her carriage just at dinner time! The poor child took
it into her head that, because, upon marrying, she might say, "my
house," "my coach," and "my servants," instead of "my papa's;" and ring
her bell for [whom] she pleased, and give her own orders, that she was
to arrive at complete liberty and independence, and that her husband had
merely to give her his name, and lodge in the same dwelling: and she
will regard him soon, as a tyrant and a brute, for not letting her play
all day long the part of a wild school girl, just come home for the
holidays.'
The rest of the visit passed without further investigation on the part
of Mrs. Arlbery, or embarrassment on that of Camilla; who found again
some little pleasure in the conversation which, at first, had so much
charmed, and the kindness which even her apparent neglect had not
extinguished.
* * * * *
Mrs. Arlbery, in two days, claimed her again. Mr. Tyrold would not
permit her to send an excuse, and she found that lady more kindly
disposed to her than ever; but with an undisguised compassion and
concern in her countenance and manner. She had now learnt that Edgar was
gone abroad; and she had learnt that Camilla had private debts, to the
amount of one hundred and eighteen pounds.
The shock of Camilla, when spoken to upon this subject, was terrible.
She soon gathered, she had been betrayed by Mrs. Mittin, who, though she
had made the communication as a profound secret to Mrs. Arlbery, with
whom she had met at Mrs. Lissin's, there was every reason to suppose
would whisper it, in the same manner, to an hundred persons besides.
Mrs. Arlbery, seeing her just uneasiness, promised, in this particular,
to obviate it herself, by a conference with Mrs. Mittin, in which she
would represent, that her own ruin would be the consequence of divulging
this affair, from the general opinion which would prevail, that she had
seduced a young lady under age, to having dealings with a usurer.
Camilla, deeply colouring, accepted her kind offer; but was forced upon
a confession of the transaction; though with a shame for her trust in
such a character as Mrs. Mittin, that made her deem the relation a
penance almost adequate to its wrong.
CHAPTER XI
_The Workings of Sorrow_
The visit of the Westwyns to Sir Hugh shewed Lavinia in so favourable a
light, that nothing less than the strong prepossession already conceived
for Camilla could have guarded the heart of the son, or the wishes of
the father, from the complete captivation of her modest beauty, her
intrinsic worth, and the cheerful alacrity, and virtuous self-denial,
with which she presided in the new oeconomy of the rectory. But though
the utter demolition of hope played with Henry its usual part of
demolishing, also, half the fervour of admiration, he still felt, in
consequence of his late failure, a distaste of any similar attempt: and
Mr. Westwyn, unbribed by the high praise of his son, which had won him
in Camilla, left him master of his choice. Each, however, found a
delight in the Tyrold society, that seconded the wishes of the Baronet
to make them lengthen their visit.
The retrenchments, by which the debts of Clermont were to be paid,
could no longer, nevertheless, be deferred; and Mr. Tyrold was just
setting out for Cleves, to give his counsel for their arrangement, when
his daughters were broken in upon by Mrs. Mittin.
Camilla could scarcely look at her, for displeasure at her conduct; but
soon observed she seemed herself full of resentment and ill humour. She
desired a private interview; and Camilla then found, that Mrs. Arlbery
had not only represented her fault, and frightened her with its
consequences, but occasioned, though most undesignedly, new disturbances
and new dangers to herself: for Mrs. Mittin at length learnt, in this
conference, with equal certainty, surprise, and provocation, that the
inheritance of Sir Hugh was positively and entirely settled upon his
youngest niece; and that the denials of all expectation on the part of
Camilla, which she had always taken for closeness, conveyed but the
simple truth. Alarmed lest she should incur the anger of Mr. Clykes, who
was amongst her most useful friends, she had written him word of the
discovery, with her concern at the mistake: and Mr. Clykes, judging now
he had no chance of the gratuity finally promised for _honour_ and
_secrecy_, and even that his principal was in danger, had sent an
enraged answer, with an imperious declaration, that he must either
immediately be repaid all he had laid out, or receive some security for
its being refunded, of higher value than the note of a minor of no
fortune nor expectations.
Mrs. Mittin protested she did not know which way to turn, she was so
sorry to have disobliged so good a friend; and broke forth into a
vehement invective against Mr. Dubster, for pretending he knew the truth
from young Squire Tyrold himself.
Long as was her lamentation, and satisfied as she always felt to hear
her own voice, her pause still came too soon for any reply from Camilla,
who now felt the discovery of her situation to be inevitable,
compulsatory and disgraceful. Self-upbraidings that she had ever
listened to such an expedient, assailed her with the cruellest
poignancy, mingling almost self-detestation with utter despair.
In vain Mrs. Mittin pressed for some satisfaction; she was mute from
inability to devise any; till the coachman of Mr. Lissin sent word he
could wait no longer. She then, in a broken voice, said, 'Be so good as
to write to Mr. Clykes, that if he will have the patience to wait a few
days, I will prepare my friends to settle my accounts with him.'
Mrs. Mittin then, recovering from her own fright in this business,
answered, 'O, if that's the case, my dear young lady, pray don't be
uneasy, for it grieves me to vex you; and I'll promise you I'll coax my
good friend to wait such a matter as that; for he's a vast regard for
me; he'll do any thing I ask him, I know.'
She now went away; and Lavinia, who ran to her sister, found her in a
state of distress, that melted her gentle heart to behold: but when she
gathered what had passed, 'This disclosure, my dearest Camilla,' she
cried, 'can never be so tremendous as the incessant fear of its
discovery. Think of that, I conjure you! and endeavour to bear the one
great shock, that will lead to after peace and ease.'
'No, my dear sister, peace and ease are no more for me!--My happiness
was already buried;--and now, all that remained of consolation will be
cut off also, in the lost good opinion of my father and mother!--that
destroyed--and Edgar gone--what is life to me?--I barely exist!'
'And is it possible you can even a moment doubt their forgiveness? dear
as you are to them, cherished, beloved!--'
'No--not their forgiveness--but their esteem, their confidence, their
pleasure in their daughter will all end!--think, Lavinia, of my
mother!--when she finds I, too, have contributed to the distress and
disturbance of my father--that on my account, too, his small income is
again straitened, his few gratifications are diminished--O Lavinia! how
has she strove to guard her poor tottering girl from evil! And how has
her fondness been always the pride of my life! What a conclusion is this
to her cares! what a reward to all the goodness of my father!'
In this state of desperate wretchedness, she was still incapable to make
the avowal which was now become indispensable, and which must require
another loan from the store her father held so sacred. Lavinia had even
less courage; and they determined to apply to Eugenia, who, though as
softly feeling as either, mingled in her character a sort of heroic
philosophy, that enabled her to execute and to endure the hardest tasks,
where she thought them the demand of virtue. They resolved, therefore,
the next morning, to send a note to Cleves for the carriage, and to
commit the affair to this inexperienced and youthful female sage.
Far from running, as she was wont, to meet her father upon his entrance,
Camilla was twice sent for before she could gain strength to appear in
his presence; nor could his utmost kindness enable her to look up.
The heart of Mr. Tyrold was penetrated by her avoidance, and yet more
sunk by her sight. His best hopes were all defeated of affording her
parental comfort, and he was still to seek for her revival or support.
He related what had passed at Cleves, with the accustomed openness with
which he conversed with his children as his friends. Clermont, he said,
was arrived, and had authenticated all the accounts, with so little of
either shame or sense, that a character less determined upon indulgence
than that of Sir Hugh, must have revolted from affording him succour, if
merely to mortify him into repentance. The manner of making payment,
however, had been the difficult discussion of the whole day. Sir Hugh
was unequal to performing any thing, though ready to consent to every
thing. When he proposed the sale of several of his numerous horses, he
objected, that what remained would be hard worked: when he mentioned
diminishing his table, he was afraid the poor would take it ill, as they
were used to have his orts: and when he talked of discharging some of
his servants, he was sure they would think it very unkind. 'His heart,'
continued Mr. Tyrold, 'is so bountiful, and so full of kindness, that he
pleads his tender feelings, and regretting wishes, against the sound
reason of hard necessity. What is right, however, must only in itself
seek what is pleasant; and there, when it ceases to look more abroad, it
is sure to find it.'
He stopt, hearing a deep sigh from Camilla, who secretly ejaculated a
prayer that this sentence might live, henceforward, in her memory. He
divined the wish, which devoutly he echoed, and continued:
'There is so little, in fine, that he could bear to relinquish, that,
with my utmost efforts, I could not calculate any retrenchment, to which
he will agree, at more than an hundred a year. Yet his scruples
concerning his vow resist all the entreaties of our disinterested
Eugenia, to either sell out for the sum, or cut down any trees in
Yorkshire. These difficulties, too potent for his weak frame, were again
sinking him into that despondence which we should all sedulously guard
against, as the most prevailing of foes to active virtue, when, to
relieve him, I made a proposal which my dear girls will both, I trust,
find peculiar pleasure in seconding.'
Camilla had already [attempted] to raise her drooping head, conscience
struck at what was said of despondence; and now endeavoured to join in
the cheerful confidence expressed by Lavinia, that he could not be
mistaken.
'The little hoard, into which already we have broken for Lionel,' he
went on, 'I have offered to lend him for present payment, as far as it
will go, and to receive it again at stated periods. In the mean while, I
shall accept from him the same interest as from the bank. For this I am
to have also security. I run no risk of the little all I have to leave
to my two girls.'
He now looked at them both, expecting to see pleasure even in Camilla,
that what was destined, hereafter, for herself, could prove of the
smallest utility to Sir Hugh; but his disappointment, and her shock were
equal. Too true for the most transitory disguise, the keenest anguish
shot from her eye; and Mr. Tyrold, amazed, said: 'Is it Camilla who
would draw back from any service to her uncle?'
'Ah no!' cried she, with clasped hands, 'I would die to do him any good!
and O!--that my death at this moment----'
She stopt, affrighted, for Mr. Tyrold frowned. A frown upon a face so
constantly benign, was new, was awful to her; but she instantly
recollected his condemnation of wishes so desperate, and fearfully
taking his hand, besought his forgiveness.
His brow instantly resumed its serenity. 'I have nothing,' said he, 'my
dearest child, to forgive, from the moment you recollect yourself. But
try, for your own sake, to keep in mind, that the current sorrows,
however acute, of current life, are but uselessly aggravated by vain
wishes for death. The smallest kind office better proves affection than
any words, however elevated.'
The conference here broke up; something incomprehensible seemed to Mr.
Tyrold to be blended with the grief of Camilla; and though from her
birth she had manifested, by every opportunity, the most liberal
disregard of wealth, the something not to be understood seemed always to
have money for its object. What this might be, he now fervently wished
to explore; yet still hoped, by patient kindness, to receive her
confidence voluntarily.
Camilla now was half dead; Lavinia could with difficulty sustain, but by
no possible means revive her. What a period was this to disclose to her
Father that she must deprive him, in part, even of his promised solace
in his intended assistance to his brother, to satisfy debts of which he
suspected not the existence!
When forced down stairs, by a summons to supper, Mr. Tyrold, to console
her for his momentary displeasure, redoubled his caresses; but his
tenderness only made her weep yet more bitterly, and he looked at her
with a heart rent with anguish. For Lavinia, for Eugenia, he would have
felt similar grief; but their far less gay, though equally innocent
natures, would have made the view of their affliction less strikingly
oppressive. Camilla had, hitherto, seemed in the spring of joy yet more
than of life. Anxiety flew at her approach, and animation took its
place. Nothing could shake his resignation; yet to behold her constant
sadness, severely tried his fortitude. To see tears trickling
incessantly down the pale cheeks so lately blooming; to see her youthful
countenance wear the haggard expression of care; to see life, in its
wish and purposes seem at an end, 'ere, in its ordinary calculation, it
was reckoned to have begun, drew him from every other consideration, and
filled his whole mind with monopolizing apprehension.
He now himself pressed her, for change of scene, to accept an invitation
she had received from Mrs. Berlinton to Grosvenor Square, whither
Indiana was going in a few days, to spend a fortnight or three weeks
before her marriage. But she declined the excursion, as not more
unseasonable in its expence, than ungenial to her feelings.
* * * * *
The following morning, while they were at their melancholy breakfast, a
letter arrived from Lisbon, which Mr. Tyrold read with visible
disturbance, exclaiming, from time to time, 'Lionel, thou art indeed
punished!'
The sisters were equally alarmed, but Lavinia alone could make any
enquiry.
Mr. Tyrold then informed them, their uncle Relvil had just acknowledged
to their Mother, that he could no longer, in justice, conceal that,
previously to his quitting England, he had privately married his
house-keeper, to induce her to accompany him in his voyage: and that,
during his first wrath upon the detection of Lionel, he had disinherited
him in favour of a little boy of her own, by a former marriage, whom
they had brought with them to Lisbon.
Mr. Tyrold, though it had been his constant study to bring up his
children without any reference to their rich uncles, had never
internally doubted, but that the bachelor brother of Mrs. Tyrold would
leave his fortune to the son of his only sister, who was his sole near
relation. And Lionel, he knew, in defiance of his admonitions, had built
upon it himself, rather as a certainty than a hope. 'He will now see,'
said Mr. Tyrold, 'his presumption, and feel, by what he suffers, what he
has earned. Yet culpable as he has been, he is now, also, unfortunate;
and where crimes are followed by punishment, it is not for mortal man to
harbour unabating resentment. I will write a few lines of comfort to
him.'
Camilla, in this concession, experienced all she could feel of
satisfaction; but the short sensation died away at the last words of the
letter of her Mother, which Mr. Tyrold read aloud.
'You, I well know, will immediately in this evil, find for yourself, and
impart to our children, something of instruction, if not of comfort.
Shall I recollect this without emulation? No, I will bear up from this
stroke, which, at least, permits my return to Etherington; where, in the
bosom of my dear family, and supported by its honoured chief, I will
forget my voyage, my painful absence, and my disappointment, in
exertions of practical oeconomy, strict, but not rigid, which our good
children will vie with each other to adopt: sedulous, all around, to
shew in what we can most forbear. I hope almost immediately to claim my
share in these labours, which such motives will make light, and such
companions render precious.'
In agony past repression at these words, Camilla glided out of the room.
The return of her Mother was now horrour to her, not joy; her shattered
nerves could not bear the interview, while under a cloud threatening to
burst in such a storm; and she entreated Lavinia to tell her Father that
she accepted his proposal for going to Mrs. Berlinton's; 'and there,'
she cried, 'Lavinia, I will wait, till Eugenia has told the dreadful
history that thus humbles me to the dust!'
Lavinia was too timid to oppose reason to this suffering; and Mr.
Tyrold, already cruelly apprehensive the obscurity of their recluse
lives contributed to her depression, and believing she compared her
present privations to the lost elegancies of Beech Park, sighed
heavily, yet said he was glad she would remove from a spot in which
reminiscence was so painful. This was not, indeed, he added, the period
he should have selected for her visiting the capital, or residing at
Mrs. Berlinton's; but she was too much touched by the state of her
family, not to be guarded in her expences; and the pressure of her even
augmenting sadness, was heavier upon his mind than any other alarm.
The conscience-struck Camilla could make no profession, no promise; nor
yet, though ardently wishing it, refuse his offered advance of her next
quarter's allowance, lest she should be reduced again to the necessity
of borrowing.
This step once decided, brought with it something like a gloomy
composure. 'I shall avoid,' she cried, 'at least, with my Mother, these
killing caresses of deluded kindness that break my heart with my Father.
She, too, would soon discover there was something darker in my sadness
than even grief! She would be sure that even my exquisite loss could not
render me ungrateful to all condolement; she would know that a daughter
whom she had herself reared and instructed, would blush so unceasingly
to publish any personal disappointment, let her feel it how she might. O
my loved Mother! how did the delight of knowing your kind expectations
keep me, while under your guidance in the way I ought to go! O Mother of
my heart! what a grievous disappointment awaits your sad return! To
find, at the first opening of your virtuous schemes of general
saving--that I, as well as Lionel, have involved my family in
debts--that I, as well as Clermont, have committed them clandestinely to
a usurer!'
Lavinia undertook to give Eugenia proper instructions for her
commission; but news arrived, the next day, that Sir Hugh would take no
denial to Eugenia's being herself of the party. This added not, however,
to the courage of Camilla for staying, and her next determination was to
reveal the whole by letter.
Mr. Tyrold would not send her to Cleves to take leave, that her uncle
might not be tempted to exercise his wonted, but now no longer
convenient generosity, nor yet be exposed to the pain of withholding it.
'You will go, now, my dear girl,' he said, 'in your pristine simplicity,
and what can so every way become you? It is not for a scheme of
pleasure, but for a stimulus to mental exertion, I part with you. When
you return, your excellent Mother will aid your task, and reward its
labour. Remember but, while in your own hands, that open oeconomy,
springing from discretion, is always respected. It is false shame alone
that begets ridicule.'
Weeping and silent she heard him, and his fears gained ground that her
disappointment, joined to a view of gayer life, had robbed Etherington
of all charms to her. Bitterly he regretted he had ever suffered her to
leave his roof, though he would not now force her stay. Compulsion could
only detain her person; and might heighten the disgust of her mind.
The little time which remained was given wholly to packing and
preparing; and continued employment hid from Mr. Tyrold her emotion,
which encreased every moment, till the carriage of Sir Hugh stopt at the
gate. Lost, then, to all sensation, but the horrour of the avowal that
must intervene 'ere they met again, with incertitude if again he would
see her with the same kindness, she flew into his arms, rather agonised
than affectionate; kissed his hands with fervour, kissed every separate
finger, rested upon his shoulder, hid her face in his bosom, caught and
pressed to her lips even the flaps of his coat, and scarce restrained
herself from bending to kiss his feet; yet without uttering a word,
without even shedding a tear.
Strangely surprised, and deeply affected, Mr. Tyrold, straining her to
his breast, said: 'Why, my dear child, why, my dearest Camilla, if thus
agitated by our parting, do you leave me?'
This question brought her to recollection, by the impossibility she
found to answer it; she tore herself, therefore, away from him, embraced
Lavinia, and hurried into the coach.
BOOK X
CHAPTER I
_A Surprise_
Camilla strove to check her grief upon entering the carriage, in which
Miss Margland had again the charge of the young party; but the
interrogatory of her Father, _Why will you leave me?_ was mentally
repeated without ceasing. Ah! why, indeed! thought she, at a moment when
every filial duty called more than ever for my stay!--Well, might he not
divine the unnatural reason! can I believe it myself?--Believe such an
hour arrived?--when my Mother--the best of Mothers!--is expected--when
she returns to her family, Camilla seeks another abode! is not this a
dream? and may I not one day awake from it?
Miss Margland was in the highest good humour at this expedition: and
Indiana was still enraptured to visit London, from old expectations
which she knew not how to relinquish; though they were fixed to no
point, and as fantastic as vague. Eugenia, whose dejection had made Sir
Hugh press her into the party, found nothing in it to revive her; and
Camilla entered Grosvenor-square with keen dissatisfaction of every
sort. The cautions of Edgar against Mrs. Berlinton broke into all the
little relief she might have experienced upon again seeing her. She had
meant to keep his final exhortations constantly in her mind, and to make
all his opinions and counsels the rule and measure of her conduct: but a
cruel perversity of events seemed to cast her every action into an
apparent defiance of his wishes.
Mrs. Berlinton, who, in a mansion the most splendid, received her with
the same gentle sweetness she had first sought her regard, was delighted
by the unexpected sight of Eugenia, whose visit had been settled too
late to be announced by letter; and caressed Indiana immediately as a
sister. Miss Margland, who came but for two days, sought with much
adulation to obtain an invitation for a longer stay; but Mrs. Berlinton,
though all courtesy and grace, incommoded herself with no society that
she did not find pleasing.
Melmond, who had accompanied them on horseback, was eager to engage the
kindness of his sister for Indiana; and Mrs. Berlinton, in compliment to
her arrival, refused all parties for the evening, and bestowed upon her
an almost undivided attention.
This was not quite so pleasant to him in proof as in hope. Passionless,
in this case, herself, the delusions of beauty deceived not her
understanding; and half an hour sufficed to shew Indiana to be
frivolous, uncultivated, and unmeaning. The perfection, nevertheless, of
her face and person, obviated either wonder or censure of the choice of
her brother; though she could not but regret that he had not seen with
mental eyes the truly superior Eugenia.
The wretched Camilla quitted them all as soon as possible, to retire to
her chamber, and ruminate upon her purposed letter. She meant, at first,
to write in detail; but her difficulties accumulated as she weighed
them. 'What a season,' cried she, 'to sink Lionel still deeper in
disgrace! What a treachery, after voluntarily assisting him, to complain
of, and betray him! ah! let my own faults teach me mercy for the faults
of others!' yet, without this acknowledgment, what exculpation could she
offer for the origin of her debts? and all she had incurred at
Tunbridge? those of Southampton she now thought every way unpardonable.
Even were she to relate the vain hopes which had led to the expence of
the ball dress, could she plead, to an understanding like that of her
Mother, that she had been deceived and played upon by such a woman as
Mrs. Mittin? 'I am astonished now myself,' she cried, 'at that passive
facility!--but to me, alas, thought comes only with repentance!' The
Higden debt, both for the rent and the stores, was the only one at which
she did not blush, since, great as was her indiscretion, in not
enquiring into her powers before she plighted her services, it would be
palliated by her motive.
Vainly she took up her pen; not even a line could she write. 'How
enervating,' she cried, 'is all wrong! I have been, till now, a happy
stranger to fear! Partially favoured, and fondly confiding, I have
looked at my dear Father, I have met my beloved Mother, with the same
courage, and the same pleasure that I looked at and met my brother and
my sisters, and only with more reverence. How miserable a change! I
shudder now at the presence of the most indulgent of Fathers! I fly
with guilty cowardice from the fondest of Mothers!'
Eugenia, when able, followed her; and had no sooner heard the whole
history, than, tenderly embracing her, she said, 'Let not this distress
seem so desperate to you, my dearest sister! your own account points out
to me how to relieve it, without either betraying our poor Lionel, or
further weighing down our already heavily burthened friends.'
'And how, my dear Eugenia?' cried Camilla, with fearful gratitude, and
involuntarily reviving by the most distant idea of such a project.
By adopting, she said, the same means that had been invented by Mrs.
Mittin. She had many valuable trinkets, the annual offerings of her
munificent uncle, the sale of which would go far enough, she could not
doubt, towards the payment of the principal, to induce the money-lender
to accept interest for the rest, till the general affairs of their house
were re-established; when what remained of the sum could be discharged,
without difficulty, by herself; now no longer wanting money, nor capable
of receiving any pleasure from it, but by the pleasure she might give.
Camilla pressed her in her arms, almost kneeling with fond
acknowledgments, and accepted, without hesitation, her generous offer.
'All, then, is arranged,' said Eugenia, with a smile so benign it seemed
nearly beautiful; 'and to friendship, and each other, we will devote our
future days. My spirits will revive in the revival of Camilla. To see
her again gay will be renovation to my uncle; and who knows, my dear
sister, but our whole family may again be blest, 'ere long, with peace?'
* * * * *
The next morning they sent off a note to the money-lender, whose
direction Camilla had received from Mrs. Mittin, entreating his patience
for a fortnight, or three weeks, when he would receive the greatest part
of his money, with every species of acknowledgment.
Camilla, much relieved, went to sit with Mrs. Berlinton, but on entering
the dressing room, was struck by the sight of Bellamy, just quitting
it.
Mrs. Berlinton, upon her appearance, with a look of soft rapture
approaching her, said: 'Felicitate me, loveliest Camilla!--my friend, my
chosen friend is restored to me, and the society for which so long I
have sighed in vain, may be once more mine!'
Camilla, startled, exclaimed with earnestness, 'My dearest Mrs.
Berlinton, pardon me, I entreat--but is Mr. Bellamy known to Mr.
Berlinton?'
'No!' answered she, disdainfully; 'but he has been seen by him. Mr.
Berlinton is a stranger to merit or taste; and Alphonso, to him, is but
as any other man.'
'They are, however, acquainted with each other?' said Camilla.
Mrs. Berlinton answered, that, after her marriage, she remained three
months in Wales with her aunt, where Bellamy was travelling to view the
country, and where, almost immediately after that unhappy enthralment,
she first knew him, and first learnt the soothing charms of friendship;
but from that period they had met no more, though they had constantly
corresponded.
Camilla was now first sensible to all the alarm with which Edgar had
hitherto striven to impress her in vain. The impropriety of such a
connexion, the danger of such a partiality, filled her with wonder and
disturbance. She hesitated whether to relate or not the adventure of
Bellamy with her sister; but the strong repugnance of Eugenia to having
it named, and the impossibility of proving the truth of the general
opinion of his base scheme, decided her to silence. Upon the plans and
the sentiments, however, of Mrs. Berlinton herself, she spared not the
extremest sincerity; but she gained no ground by the contest, though she
lost not any kindness by the attempt.
At dinner, she felt extremely disturbed by the re-appearance of Bellamy,
[who] alone, she found, had been excepted by Mrs. Berlinton, in the
orders of general denial to company. He seemed, himself, much struck at
the sight of Eugenia, who blushed and looked embarrassed by his
presence. He did not, however, address her; he confined his attentions
to Mrs. Berlinton, or Miss Margland.
The former received them with distinguishing softness; the latter, at
first, disdainfully repelled them, from the general belief at Cleves of
his attempted elopement with Eugenia; but afterwards, finding she was
left wholly to a person who had no resources for entertaining her,
namely, herself,--and knowing Eugenia safe while immediately under her
eye, she deigned to treat him with more consideration.
The opera was proposed for the evening, Mrs. Berlinton, having both
tickets and her box at the service of her fair friends, as the lady with
whom she had subscribed was out of town. Indiana was enchanted, Miss
Margland was elevated, and Eugenia not unwilling to seek some
recreation, though hopeless of finding it. But Camilla, notwithstanding
she was lightened, at this moment, from one of her most corrosive cares,
was too entirely miserable for any species of amusement. The same strong
feelings that gave to pleasure, when she was happy, so high a zest,
rendered it nearly abhorrent to her, when grief had possession of her
mind.
After dinner, when the ladies retired to dress, Camilla, with some
uneasiness, conjured Eugenia to avoid renewing any acquaintance with
Bellamy.
Eugenia blushing, while a tear started into either eye, said she was but
too well guarded from Bellamy, through a late transaction; which had
exalted her to a summit of happiness, from which she could never now
descend to any new plan of life, beyond the single state and retirement.
* * * * *
At night, the whole party went to the Opera, except Camilla, who, in
spending the evening alone, meant to ruminate upon her affairs, and
arrange her future conduct: but Edgar, his virtues, and his loss, took
imperious possession of all her thoughts; and while she dwelt upon his
honour, his sincerity, and his goodness, and traced, with cherished
recollection, every scene in which she had been engaged with him, he and
they recurred to her as visions of all earthly felicity.
Awakened from these reveries, by the sound of the carriage, and the
rapping at the street door, she was hastening down stairs to meet her
sister, when she heard Melmond call out from the coach: 'Is Miss Eugenia
Tyrold come home?'
'No;' the man answered; and Melmond exclaimed; 'Good Heaven!--I must run
then back to the theatre. Do not be alarmed, my Indiana, and do not
alarm Miss Camilla, for I will not return without her.'
They all entered but himself; while Camilla, fixed to the stair upon
which she had heard these words, remained some minutes motionless. Then,
tottering down to the parlour, with a voice hollow from affright, and a
face pale as death, she tremulously articulated, 'where is my sister?'
They looked all aghast, and not one of them, for some time, was capable
to give any account that was intelligible. She then gathered that, in
coming out of the theatre, to get to the coach, they had missed her.
None of them knew how, which way, in what manner.
'And where's Mr. Bellamy?' cried she, in an agony of apprehension; 'was
he at the Opera? where--where is he?'
Miss Margland looked dismayed, and Mrs. Berlinton amazed, at this
interrogatory; but they both said he had only been in the box at the
beginning of the Opera, and afterwards to help them out of the crowd.
'And who did he help? who? who?' exclaimed Camilla.
'Me,--first--' answered Miss Margland,--'and, when we got into a great
crowd, he took care of Miss Eugenia too.' She then added, that in this
crowd, both she and Eugenia had been separated from Mrs. Berlinton and
Indiana, who by Melmond and another gentleman had been handed straight
to the carriage, without difficulty; that soon after, she had lost the
arm of Bellamy, who, by some mistake, had turned a wrong way; but she
got to the coach by herself; where they had waited full half an hour,
Melmond running to and fro and searching in every direction, but in
vain, to find Eugenia. Nor had Bellamy again appeared. They then came
home, hoping he had put her into a chair, and that she might be arrived
before them.
'Dreadful! dreadful!' cried Camilla, sinking on the floor, 'she is
forced away! she is lost!'
When again her strength returned, she desired that some one might go
immediately to the house or lodgings of Bellamy, to enquire if he were
come home.
This was done by a footman, who brought word he had not been seen there
since six o'clock in the evening, when he dressed, and went out.
Camilla now, confirmed in her horrible surmise, was nearly frantic. She
bewailed her sister, her father, her uncle; she wanted herself to rush
forth, to search Eugenia in the streets; she could scarce be detained
within, scarce kept off from entire delirium.
CHAPTER II
_A Narrative_
It was four o'clock in the morning when Melmond returned. Camilla rushed
to the street-door to meet him. His silence and his mournful air
announced his ill success. She wrung her hands in anguish, and besought
him to send instantly an express to Etherington, with the fatal tidings.
He went himself to the nearest stables, desiring she would prepare a
letter while he got a man and horse for the journey.
In scrawling and indistinct characters she then wrote:
'O my Father--our Eugenia has disappeared! she was lost last night
at the Opera--Mr. Bellamy was conducting her to Mrs. Berlinton's
coach--but we have seen neither of them since!--what--what must we
do?'
Melmond wrote the address, which her hand could not make legible; and
Miss Margland prepared for the post a laboured vindication to Sir Hugh
of her own conduct upon this occasion.
Indiana was long gone to bed. She was really very sorry; but she was
really much tired; and she could do, as she said, no good.
But Mrs. Berlinton felt an alarm for Eugenia, and an astonishment
concerning Bellamy, that would fully have wakened her faculties, had she
been wholly unmoved by the misery of Camilla. Far other was, however,
her nature, gentle, compassionate, and sympathising; and her own
internal disturbance, though great even beyond her own conception why,
sunk at sight of the excess of wretchedness which disordered her poor
friend.
There could be but one possible opinion of this disastrous adventure,
which was, that Bellamy had spirited this young creature away, to secure
her fortune, by her hand. Melmond again went forth, to make enquiry at
all the stables in London, for any carriage that might have been hired
for a late hour. And at six o'clock, in great perturbation, he came
back, saying, he had just traced that she was put into a chaise and four
from a hackney coach; that the chaise was hired in Piccadilly, and
engaged for a week. He was now determined to ride post himself in the
pursuit, that, if any accidental delay retarded them, he might recover
her before she arrived at Gretna Green, whither he could not doubt she
was to be conveyed: but as she could not be married by force, his
presence might yet be in time to prevent persecution, or foul play.
Camilla nearly embraced him with transport at this ray of hope, and,
leaving his tenderest condolements for Indiana, whom he implored his
sister to watch sedulously, he galloped northwards.
His heart was most sincerely in the business; what he owed to the noble
conduct which the high sentiments and pure regard of Eugenia had
dictated, had excited a tender veneration, which made him hold his life
as too small an offering to be refused for her service, if its sacrifice
could essentially shew his gratitude. And often his secret mind had
breathed a wish, that her love of literature had been instilled into her
cousin; though he studiously checked, as profane, all that was not
admiration of that most exquisite workmanship of nature.
Mrs. Berlinton wanted not to be told this proceeding was wrong, yet
still found it impossible to persuade herself Eugenia would not soon
think it right; though Eugenia was the creature that she most revered in
the whole world, and though, with Bellamy himself she felt irritated and
disappointed.
Camilla in every evil reverted to the loss of Edgar, whose guardian
care, had she preserved him, would have preserved, she thought, her
loved Eugenia.
The express from Etherington brought back only a few lines written by
Lavinia, with an account that Mr. Tyrold, in deep misery, was setting
out post for Scotland.
A week past thus in suspence, nearly intolerable to Camilla, before
Melmond returned.
Always upon the watch, she heard his voice, and flew to meet him in the
dressing room. He was at the feet of Indiana, to whom he was pouring
forth his ardent lamentations at this long deprivation of her sight.
But joy had evidently no part in his tenderness; Camilla saw at once
depression and evil tidings, and, sinking upon a chair, could scarcely
pronounce, 'Have you not then found her?'
'I have left her but this minute,' he answered, in a tone the most
melancholy.
'Ah! you have then seen her! you have seen my dearest Eugenia?--O, Mr.
Melmond, why have you left her at all?'
It was long before he could answer; he besought her to compose herself;
he expressed the extremest solicitude for the uneasiness of Indiana,
whose eternal interruptions of 'Dear! where is she?--Dear! why did not
she come back?--Dear! who took her away?' he attributed to the agitation
of the fondest friendship, and conjured, while tears of terror started
into his eyes, that she would moderate the excess of her sensibility. It
seems the peculiar province of the lover, to transfuse all that he
himself most prizes, and thinks praise-worthy, into the breast of his
chosen object; nor is he more blind to the defects with which she may
abound, than prodigal in gifts of virtues which exist but in his own
admiration.
'And my Father? my poor Father!' cried Camilla, 'you have seen nothing
of my Father?'
'Pardon me; I have just left him also.'
'And not with Eugenia?'
'Yes; they are together.'
Rapture now defied all apprehension with Camilla; the idea of Eugenia
restored to her Father, was an idea of entire happiness; but her joy
affected Melmond yet more than her alarm: he could not let her fasten
upon any false expectations; he bid his sister aid him to support
Indiana, and then, with all the gentleness of the sincerest concern,
confessed that Eugenia was married before she was overtaken.
This was a blow for which Camilla was still unprepared. She concluded it
a forced marriage; horror froze her veins, her blood no longer flowed,
her heart ceased to beat, she fell lifeless on the ground.
Her recovery was more speedy than it was happy, and she was assisted to
her chamber, no longer asking any questions, no longer desiring further
information. All was over of hope: and the particulars seemed
immaterial, since the catastrophe was as irreversible as it was
afflicting.
Mrs. Berlinton still attended her, grieved for her suffering, yet
believing that Eugenia would be the happiest of women; though an
indignation the most forcible mingled with her surprise at the conduct
of Bellamy.
This dread sort of chasm in the acuteness of the feelings of Camilla
lasted not long; and Mrs. Berlinton then brought from Melmond the
following account.
With the utmost speed he could use, he could not, though a single
horseman, overtake them. They never, as he learnt by the way, remitted
their journey, nor stopt for the smallest refreshment but at some
cottage. At length, in the last stage to Gretna Green, he met them upon
their return. It was easy to him to see that his errand was vain, and
the knot indissolubly tied, by the blinds being down, and the easy air
with which Bellamy was looking around him.
Eugenia sat back in the chaise with a handkerchief to her eyes. He stopt
the vehicle, and told Bellamy he must speak with that lady. 'That lady,
Sir,' he proudly answered, 'is my wife; speak to her, therefore; ... but
in my hearing.' Eugenia at this dropt her handkerchief, and looked up.
Her eyes were sunk into her head by weeping, and her face was a living
picture of grief. Melmond loudly exclaimed: 'I come by the authority of
her friends, and I demand her own account of this transaction.' 'We are
now going to our friends,' replied he, 'ourselves, and we shall send
them no messages.' He then ordered the postillion to drive on, telling
him at his peril to stop no more; Eugenia, in a tone but just audible,
saying: 'Adieu, Mr. Melmond! Adieu!'
To have risked his life in her rescue, at such a moment, seemed to him
nothing, could he but more certainly have ascertained her own wishes,
and real situation: but as she attempted neither resistance nor
remonstrance, he concluded Bellamy spoke truth; and if they were
married, he could not unmarry them; and if they were going to her
friends, they were doing all he could now exact. He resolved, however,
to follow, and if they should turn any other road, to call for
assistance till he could investigate the truth.
They stopt occasionally for refreshments at the usual inns, and
travelled no more in the dark; but Bellamy never lost sight of her; and
Melmond, in watching, observed that she returned to the chaise with as
little opposition as she quitted it, though weeping always, and never,
for a voluntary moment, uncovering her face. Bellamy seemed always most
assiduous in his attentions: she never appeared to repulse him, nor to
receive from him any comfort.
On the second day's journey, just as Bellamy had handed her from the
chaise, at the inn where they meant to dine, and which Melmond, as
usual, entered at the same time, he saw Mr. Tyrold--hurrying, but so
shaking he could scarcely support himself, from a parlour, whence he had
seen them alight, into the passage. The eyes, ever downcast, of
Eugenia, perceived him not, till she was clasped, in mute agony, in his
arms. She then looked up, saw who it was, and fainted away. Bellamy,
though he knew him not, supposed who he might be, and his reverend
appearance seemed to impress him with awe. Nevertheless, he was himself
seizing the now senseless Eugenia, to convey her to some room; when Mr.
Tyrold, reviving from indignation, fixed his eyes upon his face, and
said: 'By what authority, Sir, do you presume to take charge of my
daughter?'--'By the authority,' he answered, 'of a husband.' Mr. Tyrold
said no more; he caught at the arm of Melmond, though he had not yet
seen who he was, and Bellamy carried Eugenia into the first vacant
parlour, followed only by the woman of the house.
Melmond then, respectfully, and filled with the deepest commiseration,
sought to make himself known to Mr. Tyrold; but he heard him not, he
heeded no one; he sat down upon a trunk, accidentally in the passage
where all this had passed, saying, but almost without seeming conscious
that he spoke aloud: 'This, indeed, is a blow to break both our hearts!'
Melmond then stood silently by, for he saw, by his folded hands and
uplighted eyes, he was ejaculating some prayer: after which, with a
countenance more firm, and limbs better able to sustain him, he rose,
and moved towards the parlour into which the fainting Eugenia had been
carried.
Melmond then again spoke to him by his name. He recollected the voice,
turned to him, and gave him his hand, which was of an icy coldness. 'You
are very kind, Mr. Melmond,' he said; 'my poor girl'--but stopt,
checking what he meant to add, and went to the parlour-door.
It was locked. The woman of the house had left it, and said, the lady
was recovered from her fit. Mr. Tyrold, from a thousand feelings, seemed
unable to demand admission for himself: he desired Melmond to speak, and
claim an audience alone for him with his daughter.
Bellamy opened the door with a look evidently humbled and frightened,
yet affecting perfect ease. When Melmond made known his commission,
Eugenia, starting up, exclaimed: 'Yes, yes! I will see my dear Father
alone!--and O! that this poor frame might sink to rest on his loved
bosom!'
'In a moment! in a moment!' cried Bellamy, motioning Melmond to
withdraw; 'tell Mr. Tyrold he shall come in a moment.'
Melmond was forced to retreat; but heard him hastily say, as again he
fastened the door, 'My life, O Eugenia! is in your hands--and is it thus
you requite my ardent love and constancy?'
Mr. Tyrold now would wait but a few minutes: it was palpable Bellamy
feared the interview; and he could fear it but from one motive: he sent
him, therefore, word by Melmond, that if he did not immediately retire,
and leave him to a conference alone with his daughter, he would apply no
more for a meeting till he claimed it in a court of justice.
Bellamy soon came out, bowed obsequiously to Mr. Tyrold, who passed him
without notice, and who was then for half an hour shut up with Eugenia.
Longer Bellamy could not endure; he broke in upon them, and left the
room no more.
Soon after, Mr. Tyrold came out, his own eyes now as red as those of the
weeping bride. He took Melmond apart, thanked him for his kindness, but
said nothing could be done. He entreated him therefore to return to his
own happier affairs; adding, 'I cannot talk upon this miserable event.
Tell Camilla, her sister is, for the present, going home with me--though
not, alas! alone! Tell her, too, I will write to her upon my arrival at
Etherington.'
'This,' concluded Mrs. Berlinton, 'is all my brother has to relate; all
that for himself he adds, is, that if ever, to something human, the mind
of an angel was accorded--that mind seems enshrined in the heart of
Eugenia!'
Nothing that Camilla had yet experienced of unhappiness, had penetrated
her with feelings of such deadly woe as this event. Eugenia, from her
childhood, had seemed marked by calamity: her ill health, even from
infancy, and her subsequent misfortunes, had excited in her whole house
the tenderest pity, to which the uncommon character with which she grew
up, had added respect and admiration. And the strange, and almost
continual trials she had had to encounter, from the period of her
attaining her fifteenth year, which, far from souring her mind, had
seemed to render it more perfect, had now nearly sanctified her in the
estimation of them all. To see her, therefore, fall, at last, a
sacrifice to deceit or violence,--for one, if not both, had palpably put
her into the possession of Bellamy, was a grief more piercingly wounding
than all she had yet suffered. Whatever she had personally to bear, she
constantly imagined some imprudence or impropriety had provoked; but
Eugenia, while she appeared to her so blameless, that she could merit no
evil, was so amiable, that willingly she would have borne for her their
united portions.
How it had been effected, since force would be illegal, still kept
amazement joined to sorrow, till the promised letter arrived from Mr.
Tyrold, with an account of the transaction.
Eugenia, parted from Miss Margland by Bellamy, in the crowd, was obliged
to accept his protection, which, till then, she had refused, to restore
her to her company. The coach, he said, he knew, had orders to wait in
Pall Mall, whither the other ladies would be conveyed in chairs, to
avoid danger from the surrounding carriages. She desired to go, also, in
a chair: but he hurried her by quick surprize into a hackney-coach,
which, he said, would be more speedy, and bidding the man drive to Pall
Mall, seated himself opposite to her. She had not the most remote
suspicion of his design, as his behaviour was even coldly distant,
though she wondered Pall Mall was so far off, and that the coachman
drove so fast, till they stopt at a turnpike----and then, in one quick
and decided moment, she comprehended her situation, and made an attempt
for her own deliverance--but he prevented her from being heard.--And the
scenes that followed she declined relating. Yet, what she would not
recount, she could not, to the questions of her Father, deny, that
force, from that moment, was used, to repel all her efforts for
obtaining help, and to remove her into a chaise.
Mr. Tyrold required to hear nothing more, to establish a prosecution,
and to seize her, publickly, from Bellamy. But from this she recoiled.
'No, my dear Father,' she continued, 'the die is cast! and I am his!
Solemn has been my vow! sacred I must hold it!'
She then briefly narrated, that though violence was used to silence her
at every place where she sought to be rescued, every interval was
employed, by Bellamy, in the humblest supplications for her pardon, and
most passionate protestations of regard, all beginning and all ending in
declaring, that to live longer without her was impossible, and pledging
his ardent attachment for obtaining her future favour; spending the
period from stage to stage, or turnpike to turnpike, in kneeling to
beseech forgiveness for the desperation to which he was driven, by the
most cruel and hopeless passion that ever seized the heart of man. When
they were near their journey's end, he owned that his life was in her
hands, but he was indifferent whether he lost it from the misery of
living without her, or from her vengeance of this last struggle of his
despair. She assured him his life was safe, and offered him pardon upon
condition of immediate restoration to her friends; but, suddenly
producing a pistol, 'Now then,' he said, O! amiable object of my
constant love! bless me with your hand, or prepare to see me die at your
feet!' And, with a terrifying oath, he bound himself not to lose her and
outlive her loss. She besought him to be more reasonable, with the
gentlest prayers; but his vehemence only encreased; she offered him
every other promise he could name; but he preferred death to every other
she should grant. She then pronounced, though in trembling, a positive
refusal. Instantly he lifted up his pistol, and calling out; 'Forgive,
then, O hard-hearted Eugenia, my uncontroulable passion, and shed a tear
over the corpse I am going to prostrate at your feet!' was pointing it
to his temple, when, overcome with horror, she caught his arm,
exclaiming; 'Ah! stop! I consent to what you please!' It was in vain she
strove afterwards to retract; one scene followed another, till he had
bound her by all she herself held sacred, to rescue him from suicide, by
consenting to the union. He found a person who performed the marriage
ceremony on the minute of her quitting the chaise. She uttered not one
word; she was passive, scared, and scarce alive; but resisted not the
eventful ring, with which he encircled her finger, and seemed rousing as
from a dream, upon hearing him call her his wife. He professed eternal
gratitude, and eternal devotion; but no sooner was all conflict at an
end, than, consigning herself wholly to grief, she wept without
intermission.
When Mr. Tyrold had heard her history, abhorrence of such barbarous
force, and detestation of such foul play upon the ingenuous credulity of
her nature, made him insist, yet more strongly, upon taking legal
measures for procuring an immediate separation, and subsequent
punishment; but the reiterated vows with which, since the ceremony, he
had bound her to himself, so forcibly awed the strict conscientiousness
of her principles, that no representations could absolve her opinion of
what she now held her duty; and while she confessed her unhappiness at a
connection formed by such cruel means, she conjured him not to encrease
it, by rendering her, in her own estimation, perjured.
'Patiently, therefore,' continued Mr. Tyrold, 'we must bear, what vainly
we should combat, and bow down to those calamities of which the purpose
is hidden, nor fancy no good is answered, because none is obvious. Man
develops but little, though he experiences much. The time will come for
his greater diffusion of knowledge; let him meet it without dread, by
using worthily his actual portion. I resign myself, therefore, with
reverence to this blow; though none yet has struck so hardly at my
heart. We must now do what we can for this victim to her own purity, by
seeking means to secure her future independence, and by bettering--if
possible!--her betrayer. What a daughter, what a sister, what a friend,
has her family thus lost! How will your poor Mother receive such killing
tidings! Misfortune, sickness, and poverty, she has heroism to endure;
but innocence oppressed through its own artlessness, and inexperience
duped by villainy, will shake her utmost firmness, and harass into
disorder her, as yet, unbroken powers of encountering adversity.
Alas!--no evils that visited the early years of this loved child, have
proved to her so grievous as the large fortune with which they were
followed! We repined, my Camilla, at the deprivation you sustained at
that period.--We owe to it, perhaps, that you have not as treacherously
been betrayed!
'How has the opening promise of our Eugenia more than answered our
fondest expectations! Her knowledge is still less uncommon than her
simplicity, her philosophy for herself than her zeal in the service of
others. She is singular with sweetness, peculiar, yet not impracticable;
generous without parade, and wise without consciousness. Yet now, so
sacrificed seems all,--that I dwell upon her excellencies as if
enumerating them over her tomb!'
A letter from Lavinia contained some further particulars. Their Father,
she said, finding the poor victim resolute, meant to spare Sir Hugh all
that was possible of the detestable craft of Bellamy; and Eugenia was
already struggling to recover her natural serenity, that she might
appear before him without endangering his own. Bellamy talked of nothing
but love and rapture; yet the unsuspicious Eugenia was the only person
he deceived; for so little from the heart seemed either his looks or his
expressions, that it was palpable he was acting a part, to all who
believed it possible words and thoughts could be divided.
A postscript to this letter was added by Eugenia herself.
'Ah, my Camilla!... where now are all our sweet promised
participations? But let me not talk of myself; nor do you, my
affectionate sister, dwell upon me at this period. One thing I
undertook shall yet be performed; the moment I am able to go to
Cleves, I will deliver, through Lavinia, what I mentioned. Does
anything else remain that is yet in my power? Tell me, my Camilla,
and think but with what joy you will give joy again to your
EUGENIA.'
Broken hearted over these letters, Camilla spent her time in their
perpetual perusal, in wiping from them her tears, and pressing with fond
anguish to her lips the signature of her hapless sister, self-beguiled
by her own credulous goodness, and self-devoted by her conscientious
scruples.
CHAPTER III
_The Progress of Dissipation_
Mr. Clykes, by the promised payment and reward, being for the present
appeased, Camilla still admitted some hope of waiting a more favourable
moment for her cruel confession. She received, also, a little, though
mournful, reprieve from terror, by a letter from Lisbon, written to
again postpone the return of Mrs. Tyrold, at the earnest request of Mr.
Relvil; and she flattered herself that, before her arrival, she should
be enabled to resume those only duties which could draw her from
despondence. She lived, meanwhile, wholly shut up from all company,
consigned to penitence for her indiscretions, to grief for the fate of
her sister, and to wasting regret of her own causelessly lost felicity.
Indiana smiled not more sweetly upon Melmond, for Miss Margland's
advising her to consider in time, whether the promises made by Miss
Eugenia Tyrold would be binding to Mrs. Bellamy. She saw, nevertheless,
no good, she said, it could do her cousin, that she should neglect such
an opportunity of seeing London: and Miss Margland, in aid of this
desire, spared so much trouble to Mrs. Berlinton, who soon wearied of
Indiana, that she had the satisfaction of being invited to remain in
Grosvenor-square till the two young ladies returned into the country.
Mrs. Berlinton, who indulged, in full extent, every feeling, but
investigated none, had been piqued and hurt to extreme unhappiness at
the late conduct of Bellamy. Attracted by his fine person, and caught by
the first flattery which had talked to her of her own, she had easily
been captivated by his description of the sympathy which united, and
penetrated by his lamentations at the destiny which parted them. His
request for her friendship had been the first circumstance, after her
marriage, which had given her any interest in life; and soon, with the
common effect of such dangerous expedients to while away chagrin, had
occupied all her thoughts, and made the rest of the universe seem to her
as a blank. But their continued separation from each other, made the day
soon too long for mere regret; and her pliant mind, in this state of
vacancy, had readily been bent to the new pursuit pressed upon her by
Mrs. Norfield; which, however, upon the re-appearance of Bellamy, would
speedily have given way to the resumption of his influence, had not his
elopement with Eugenia left her again all at large. It destroyed an
illusion strong though not definable; demolished a friendship ill
conceived, and worse understood; and brought with it a disappointment
which confused all her ideas. To be inactive was, however, impossible;
simplicity, once given up, returned to the dissipated no more; or
returns but when experience brings conviction. That all is hollow where
the heart bears no part; all is peril where principle is not the guide.
The Faro Table was now re-opened, and again but too powerfully sharpened
the faculties which mortification had blunted. A company the most
miscellaneous composed her evening assemblies, which were soon,
nevertheless, amongst the most fashionable, as well as crowded of the
metropolis. Whatever there, is new and splendid, is sure of a run for at
least a season. Enquiries into what is right, or strictures upon what is
wrong, rarely molest popularity, till the rise of some fresher luminary
gives fashion another abode.
Calamity requires not more fortitude than pleasure. What she began but
to divert disappointment and lassitude, she continued to attain
celebrity; and the company which Faro and Fashion brought together, she
soon grew ambitious to collect by motives of more appropriate flattery.
All her aim, now, was to be universally alluring; and she looked from
object to object, in smiling discourse, till one by one, every object
could look only at her: and grace and softness which had been secretly
bewitching while she had the dignity to keep admiration aloof, were
boldly declared to be invincible, since she permitted such professions
to reach her ear.
Long surrounded by gazing admirers, she became now encircled by avowed
adorers; and what for victory she had essayed, she pursued ardently for
pleasure. Coquetry is as fascinating to those who practise it, as to
those whom it seduces; and she found herself, shortly, more happy by a
conquest effected by wiles and by art, than by any devotion paid
straight forward, and uncourted. The generality of her new ambition
protected it from permanent ill consequences; aiming at everyone, she
cared for no one; mortified by Bellamy, she resolved to mortify others,
and in proportion as her smiles grew softer her heart became harder.
Indiana, at this period, immersed at once from the most private retreat
into the gayest vortex of pleasure, thought herself in the upper
regions, where happiness, composed by her own ideas, consisted of
perpetual admiration to unfading beauty: but though the high qualities
with which the devotion of Melmond had gifted her had enslaved his
reason and understanding from suspecting that so fair a form could
enclose aught short of its own perfection, his heart was struck, and all
his feelings were offended, when he saw her capable of dissipation upon
a season of calamity to Eugenia; Eugenia, whom though he could not love,
he venerated; Eugenia, whose nature he thought divine, though her
person, unhappily, was but too human; Eugenia, to whom he owed the union
upon which hung all his wishes ... to seek pleasure while Eugenia
suffered, was astonishing, was incomprehensible. He felt as if every
principle of his love were violated; he looked another way, to disguise
his shock;--but when he looked at her again, it was forgotten.
* * * * *
Camilla soon after learnt, from Lavinia, that Sir Hugh had been deeply
affected by the history of the elopement, though it had been softened
to him by all possible means, at the desire of the heroic Eugenia
herself; who would now own to no one the force with which she had been
carried off. Bellamy continued the most unremitting demonstrations of
affection, which she received with gentleness, and appeared entirely to
credit as sincere; but he had already absolutely refused a residence
offered for them both at Cleves, and made Eugenia herself ask a separate
provision of her uncle, though she could not even a moment pretend that
the desire was her own. Sir Hugh, nevertheless, had yielded; and
notwithstanding his present embarrassments from Clermont, had insisted
upon settling a thousand pounds a year upon her immediately; in
consequence of which, Bellamy had instantly taken a house at Belfont, to
which they were already removing. Eugenia had recovered her gentle
fortitude, seemed to submit to her destiny, and repined solely she could
not, yet, keep her engagement with respect to the trinkets, which though
she had openly told Bellamy were promised to a friend, he had seized to
pack up, and said, 'he could not re-deliver till they were arranged in
their new dwelling.' But she charged Lavinia to express her hopes that
the detention would not last long.
* * * * *
When the given three weeks expired, Indiana, infatuated with London,
begged and obtained leave to stretch her residence there to a month.
Eugenia was now settled at Belfont; but still Camilla received no
intelligence of the promised boon, and spent her lingering hours in her
chamber, no longer even invited thence, except at meals, by Mrs.
Berlinton; whose extreme and encreasing dissipation, from first allowing
no time, took off, next, all desire for social life. Surprised and hurt,
Camilla was called off a little from herself, through concern. She
sincerely loved Mrs. Berlinton, whom it was difficult to see and know
with indifference, and she softly represented to her how ill she felt at
ease in the falling off she experienced in her partiality.
Mrs. Berlinton tenderly embraced her, protesting she was dear to her as
ever; and feeling, while she spoke, her first affection return; but not
a moment had she to bestow from her new mode of life: some party was
always formed which she had not force of mind to break; an internal
restlessness, from the want of some right pursuit, joined to a
disappointment she could not own, made that party induce another; and
though none gave her real pleasure, which her strong, however
undisciplined and unguided feelings, shut out from such a species of
vague life, all gave employment to expectation, and were preferable to a
regret at once consuming and mortifying.
Her gentleness, however, and her returned personal kindness, encouraged
Camilla to repeat her admonitions, and engage assistance from Melmond,
who, at any other period, would, uncalled, have given his whole
attention to a sister dear at once to his honour and his heart; but
Indiana more than occupied, she engrossed him. She now expected an
adoration so unremitting, that if she surprised his eyes turned any
other way even a moment, she reproached him with abated love, and it was
the business of a day to obtain a reconciliation.
Gratefully, however, at the instigation of Camilla, he resumed the
vigilance with which, upon her first entering London the preceding year,
he had attended to all the actions of his sister. But the difference
already produced by the effect of flattery, the hardening of example,
and the sway of uncontrolled early power, astonished and alarmed him. At
her first setting out, she had hearkened to all counsel, frightened by
every representation of danger, and humbled by every remonstrance
against impropriety. But she now heard him with little or no emotion;
and from beginning to listen unmoved, soon proceeded to reply and
resist. A search, rather than a love, of pleasure had seized her young
mind, which had now gained an ascendant that rendered contest less
shocking, than yielding would have been painful.
The tribulation of Melmond at this ill success, rested not solely upon
his sister; he saw yet more danger for Indiana, who now seemed scarce to
live but while arraying, or displaying herself. His passion had lost its
novelty, and her eyes lost their beaming pleasure in listening to it;
and the regard he had fondly expected to take place of first ecstacy, he
now found unattainable, from want of all materials for its structure.
His discourse, when not of her beauty, but strained her faculties; his
reading, when compelled to hear it, but wearied her intellects. She had
no genius to catch his meaning, and no attention to supply its place.
Deeply he now thought of Eugenia, with that regret ever attached to
frail humanity, for what is removed from possible possession. The purity
of her love, the cultivation of her mind, and the nobleness of her
sentiments, now bore forth a contrast to the general mental and
intellectual littleness of Indiana, which made him blame the fastidious
eyes that could dwell upon her face and form; and feel that, even with
the matchless Indiana, he must sigh at their mutual perversity of fate.
Nor missed he more in soul, than Indiana in adoration, who turned from
what she now resented as coldness, to the violent praises of Macdersey,
who became, at this period, a frequenter of Mrs. Berlinton's assemblies.
She understood not the inevitable difference of the altered situation;
that he who was accepted might be grateful, but could not be anxious;
and that Melmond, while in suspense, wore the same impassioned air, and
spoke the same impassioned feelings as Macdersey. To her, all seemed the
change not from doubt to security, but from love to insensibility.
To live always at her feet, while he thought her all-divine, was his own
first joy and greatest pride: but when once he found his goddess had
every mortal imperfection, his homage ceased, with amazement that ever
it could have been excited. Those eyes, thought he, which I have gazed
at whole days with such unreflecting admiration; and whose shape,
colour, size, and sweet proportion still hold their pre-eminence, now,
while retaining their first lustre, have lost all their illusory charm!
I meet them--but to deplore their vacancy of the soul's intelligence--I
fondly--vainly seek!
* * * * *
Even when again the time arrived for returning to Cleves, Indiana,
hanging languidly upon every minute she could steal from it, petitioned
for a few days more from the ever-granting Baronet, which, while by her
devoted to coquetry, admiration, and dress, were consumed by Camilla in
almost every species of wretchedness. Mrs. Mittin wrote her word that
Mr. Clykes was become more uneasy than ever for his money, as she had
thought it indispensable to acquaint him of the reports in the
neighbourhood, that Mr. Tyrold had met with misfortunes, and was
retrenching: if he could not, therefore, be paid quickly, he must put in
his claims elsewhere.
The same post brought from Lavinia an account so afflicting of Eugenia,
as nearly to annihilate even this deep personal distress. It was known,
through Molly Mill, who, by the express insistance of Sir Hugh,
continued to live with her young Mistress, that Bellamy had already, at
Belfont, cast off the mask of pretended passion, and grossly demanded of
her Mistress to beg money for him of Sir Hugh; acknowledging, without
scruple, large debts, that demanded speedy payment, and pressing her to
ask for the immediate possession of the Yorkshire estate. Her Mistress,
though mildly, always steadily refused; which occasioned reproaches so
rude and violent as almost to frighten her into fits; and so loud, that
they were often heard by every servant in the house.