Camilla, at this dreadful history, grew nearly indifferent to all else,

and would have relinquished, almost unrepining, her expectations of

personal relief, but that Lavinia, in the name of their unhappy sister,

bid her still cherish them; assuring her she hoped yet to perform her

engagement, as Mr. Bellamy never disputed her already given promise,

though he had mislaid the key of the box in which the trinkets were

deposited.

Nor even here rested the misery of Camilla: another alarm stole upon her

mind, of a nature the most dreadful.

Upon the first evening of this newly-granted stay, while she was

conversing alone with Mrs. Berlinton before the nocturnal _toilette_ of

that lady, a servant announced Mr. Bellamy. Mrs. Berlinton blushed high,

evidently with as much of anger as surprise; Camilla hastily

withdrawing, to avoid an object abhorrent to her, wondered she would

admit him: yet, anxious for any intelligence that could relate to her

sister, enquired when he was gone, and ran towards the dressing-room to

ask what had passed: but before she reached the door, the sound of his

voice re-entering the hall, and of his step re-ascending the stairs,

made her fly into the adjoining apartment, not to encounter him; where

the instant he had shut the door, and before she could move, she heard

him exclaim, 'You weep still, my lovely friend? Ah! can one doubt so

injurious remain upon your mind as to suppose any thing but the cruel

necessity of my misfortunes could have made me tarnish our celestial

friendship with any other engagement? Ah! look at her ... and look at

yourself!'

Camilla, who, at first, had been immoveable from consternation, now

recovered sufficiently to get back to her room. But she returned no more

to Mrs. Berlinton, though Bellamy soon departed; her eagerness for

information subsided in indignant sorrow. That Eugenia, the injured, the

inestimable Eugenia, should be spoken of, by the very violator who had

torn her from her friends, as a mere burthen attached to the wealth she

procured him, struck at her heart as a poniard. And the impropriety to

herself, and the wrong to Eugenia, of Mrs. Berlinton, in listening to

such a discourse, totally sunk that lady in her esteem; though it

determined her, as a duty due to them all around, to represent what she

felt upon this subject; and the next day, the instant she was visible,

she begged an audience.

Mrs. Berlinton was pensive and dejected, but, as usual, open and

unguarded; she began herself to speak of the visit of Bellamy, and to

ask why she ran away.

Camilla, without answer or hesitation, related what she had overheard;

adding: 'O, Mrs. Berlinton! can you suffer him to talk thus? Can you

think of my injured Eugenia--lately your own favourite friend--and bear

to hear him?'

'How injured, my ever-dear Camilla? Does she know what he says? Can it

hurt her unheard? Can it affect her unimagined? He but solaces his

sadness by a confidence he holds sacred; 'tis the type of our

friendship, now dearer, he says, than ever, since reciprocated by such

sympathy.'

'You affright me, Mrs. Berlinton! what a perversion of reason to talk of

sympathy in your situations? Did Eugenia press him to the altar? Did any

friends solicit the alliance? Oh, Mrs. Berlinton! think but a moment,

and your own feeling mind will paint his conduct in colours I have not

the skill to attain!'

'You are right!' cried she, blushing in her unwilling conviction: 'I

know not how he could delude me to believe our fates resembled.

Certainly nothing can be less similar.'

Camilla was happy in this victory; but the following day, Bellamy, at

the same hour was announced, and in the same manner was admitted;

Camilla flying, and Mrs. Berlinton protesting she should attack his

mistaken comparison with severity.

Severity, however, was a quality with which she was unacquainted;

Camilla, anxious in every way, hastened to her when he was gone, but

found her dissolved in tender tears, shed, she declared, in regret of

the uneasiness she had given him, for he had now made her fully

sensible his destiny alone was to blame.

The understanding of Camilla was highly superior to being duped by such

flimsy sophistry, which she heard with added detestation of the

character of Bellamy; yet perceived that no remonstrance could prevent

his admittance, and that every interview regularly destroyed the effect

of every exhortation.

In this melancholy period, the sole satisfaction she received was

through a letter written by Lionel from Ostend, in which he told her

that the dread of imprisonment, or want, in a foreign country, made him

lead a life so parsimonious, so totally deprived of all pleasure and all

comfort, that he was almost consumed with regret for the wilfulness with

which he had thrown away his innumerable advantages; and so much struck

with the retrospection of the wanton follies and vices which had

involved him in such dishonour and ruin, that he began now to think he

had rather been mad than wicked;--so unmeaning, unreflecting, and

unprovoked, as well as worthless, had been the course he had pursued.

Camilla sent this letter immediately to her Father, who remitted to

Lionel such a sum as must obviate distress, with such intimation for the

future as he hoped would best encourage more solid reformation.

Thus passed the time, improperly, or unhappily to all, till the third

period fixed for the return to the country elapsed: and Camilla, finding

the whole view of her journey abortive, saw the accumulated yet useless

suffering involved through her ill-judged procrastination. Yet, as

Eugenia still did not despair, even her confession was unwritten; and as

Miss Margland and Indiana granted her request of going round by Belfont,

which she had previously arranged from an ardent desire to embrace her

loved sister, she still dwelt on a last hope from that interview.

CHAPTER IV

_Hints upon National Prejudice_

With mingled disquietude and distaste, Melmond saw the reluctance of

Indiana to quit town, and that he was less than a cypher with her upon

the last evening's assembly, where, without deigning to bestow one look

upon him, she chatted, smiled, and fluttered with every one else;

undisguisedly betraying that [he] whom she should soon have alone, and

have always, should not rob of even one precious moment this last

splendid blaze of general admiration. He sighed; and in common with the

hapless perverseness of mortals, thought he had _thrown away_, in

Eugenia, _a gem richer than all her tribe_![5]

[Footnote 5: Shakespeare]

Camilla, whose heart, however dead to joy, was invariably open to

tenderness, was melted with fond emotions in the idea of again meeting

her beloved Eugenia, and ready for her journey nearly with the light.

Soon after she was dressed, a house maid, tapping at her door, said,

'Pray, Ma'am, is Miss Lynmere with you?'

'No.'

Presently Miss Margland came herself.

'Pray, Miss Camilla, do you know any thing of Miss Lynmere? It's the

oddest thing in the world where she can be!'

Camilla, now, went forth to aid the search; Melmond, who was waiting to

hand her into the carriage, looked amazed at the enquiry. It soon,

however, was clear, that she was no where in the house; and, after

sundry examinations and researches, one of the maids was brought to

confess having aided her, in the middle of the night, to go into the

street, where she was handed into a post chaise by Mr. Macdersey.

Melmond appeared thunder struck. An action so unexpected at the period

of a solemn engagement which waited but the journey to Cleves for being

compleated, seemed to him, at first, incredible. But, when Miss Margland

exclaimed 'O pursue her; Mr. Melmond! order your horse, and gallop to

Scotland immediately!' he gravely, and rather drily answered: 'By no

means, Ma'am! The man who has the honour of her preference, is the only

one who can have any hope to make her happy. I have no ambition for a

hand that has been voluntarily held out to another.'

He then returned, quietly, to his own lodgings; far more indignant than

hurt at this abrupt conclusion of a connexion which, though it had

opened to him as a promise of Elysium, was closing with every menace of

mutual discontent.

Camilla was truly concerned; and not merely for the future risk run by

her Cousin, in this rash flight, but for the new disappointment to her

Uncle. She was obliged, however, to bestow her whole attention upon Miss

Margland, whose tribulation was yet greater, and who, in losing thus her

pupil, lost the expected reward of near thirteen years of unwilling

attendance. She had, by no means, indeed, merited this treachery from

Indiana, whom though incapable to instruct in much good, she had

sedulously guarded from all evil.

To return to Sir Hugh without her charge, without indeed either of the

young ladies who were put under her care, she had not courage. Nor could

Camilla so little feel for her distress as to request it. An express,

therefore, was ordered to Cleves, for informing him of these ill

tidings, with a very elaborate panegyric from Miss Margland of her own

conduct; and a desire to know if she should remain in town till

something transpired concerning Indiana.

The express was but just gone, when a packet, which ought to have

arrived two days before, by the stage, was delivered to Camilla. Its

intention was merely to convey more speedily a letter from Lavinia,

containing the terrible information that Mr. Clykes had just been at

Etherington himself, to deliver in his accounts, and press immediate

payment! Their Father, Lavinia said, conceived the whole some

imposition, till the man produced the paper signed by his daughter. She

had then been called in, and obliged to confess her knowledge of the

transaction. She would avoid, she said, particulars that could be only

uselessly afflicting; but the interview had ended in their Father's

agreeing to pay, when it should be possible, the sums actually delivered

to the creditors, and for which Mr. Clykes could produce their own

receipts; but refusing, positively and absolutely, any gratuity

whatsoever, from detestation of so dangerous and seductive a species of

trade, as clandestine and illegal money-lending to minors: The man, much

provoked, said a friend of his had been used far more handsomely by Sir

Hugh Tyrold; but finding his remonstrances vain, acknowledged the law

against him for the interest; but threatened to send in an account for

his own trouble, in collecting and paying the bills, that he would

dispute, for validity, in any court of justice to which he could be

summoned: and, in leaving the house, he menaced an immediate writ, if

all he could legally claim were not paid the next day; unless a new

bond were properly signed, with a promise to abide by that already

drawn up. Their Father, she was forced to confess, had now lent his

every guinea, for the debts of Clermont, to Sir Hugh; and was at this

instant, deliberating to whom he should apply; but desired, meanwhile,

an exact statement of the debts which this man had in commission to

discharge. The letter concluded with Lavinia's unfeigned grief in the

task of writing it.

Camilla read it with a distraction that made it wholly unintelligible to

her; yet could not read it a second time; her eyes became dim, her

faculties confused, and she rather felt deprived of the power of

thinking, than filled with any new and dreadful subjects for rumination.

In this state, the letter on the floor, her eyes staring around, yet

looking vacant, and searching nothing she was called to Lord O'Lerney,

who begged the honour of a conference with her upon business.

She shook her head, in token of denial, but could not speak. The servant

looked amazed; yet brought her a second message, that his Lordship was

extremely sorry to torment her, but wished to communicate something

concerning Mr. Macdersey.

She then faintly articulated, 'I can see nobody.'

Still the same dreadful vacuity superseded her sensibility, till, soon

after, she received a note from Lady Isabella Irby, desiring to be

admitted to a short conversation with her upon the part of Lord

O'Lerney.

With the name of Lady Isabella Irby recurred the remembrance that she

was a favourite of Edgar--and bursting into tears, she consented to the

interview; which took place immediately.

The terrible state in which she appeared was naturally, though not

justly, attributed by her ladyship to the elopement of her Cousin: while

Camilla, called by her sight to softer regrets, beheld again, in mental

view, the loved and gentle image of Edgar.

Lady Isabella apologised politely, but briefly, for her intrusion,

saying: 'My Lord O'Lerney, whose judgment is never in any danger, but

where warped by his wish of giving pleasure, insists upon it that you

will be less incommoded by a quick forced admission of me than of

himself. Nobody else will think so: but it is not easy to refuse him: so

here I am. The motive of this intrusion you can but too readily divine.

Lord O'Lerney is truly concerned at this rash action in his kinsman,

which he learnt by an accidental call at his lodgings, where various

circumstances had just made it known. He could not rest without desiring

to see some part of the young lady's family, and making an offer of his

own best services with respect to some arrangement for her future

establishment. It is for this purpose, you have been so importunately

hurried; Lord O'Lerney wishing to make the first news that is sent to

Sir Hugh Tyrold less alarming, by stating, at once, what he can

communicate concerning Mr. Macdersey.'

Camilla, who only now recollected that Mr. Macdersey was related to Lord

O'Lerney, was softened into some attention, and much gratitude for his

goodness, and for her Ladyship's benevolence in being its messenger.

'Will you, then,' said Lady Isabella, 'now you understand the purport of

his visit, see Lord O'Lerney himself? He can give you much better and

clearer documents than I can; and it is always the best and shortest

mode to deal with principals.'

Camilla mechanically complied, and Lady Isabella sent her footman with a

note to his Lordship, who was waiting at her house in Park-lane.

The discourse still fell wholly upon Lady Isabella; Camilla, lost

alternately in misery and absence, spoke not, heard not; yet former

scenes, though not present circumstances, were brought to her mind by

the object before her, and almost with reverence, she looked at the

favourite of Edgar, in whose sweetness of countenance, good sense,

delicacy, and propriety, she conceived herself reading every moment the

causes of his approbation. Ah, why, thought she, while unable to reply,

or to listen to what was said, why knew I not this charming woman, while

yet he took an interest in my conduct and connexions! Perhaps her gentle

wisdom might have drawn me into its own path! how would he have

delighted to have seen me under such influence! how now, even now,--lost

to him as I am!--would he generously rejoice, could he view the

condescending partiality of looks and manner that seem to denote her

disposition to kindness!

Lord O'Lerney soon joined them; and after thanking Camilla for granting,

and his Ambassadress for obtaining him an audience, said; 'I have been

eager for the honour of a conference with Miss Tyrold, in the hope of

somewhat alleviating the fears for the future, that may naturally join

with displeasure for the present, from the very unadvised step of this

morning. But, however wrong the manner in which this marriage may be

effected, the alliance in itself will not, I hope, be so

disadvantageous, as matches of this expeditious character prove in

general. The actual possessions of Macdersey are, indeed, far beneath

what Miss Lynmere, with her uncommon claims, might demand; but his

expectations are considerable, and well founded; and his family will all

come forward to meet her, with every mark of respect, for which, as its

head, I shall lead the way. He is honest, honourable, and good natured;

not particularly endowed, with judgment or discretion, but by no means

wanting in parts, though they are rather wild and eccentric.'

His Lordship then gave a full and satisfactory detail of the present

state, and future hopes of his kinsman; and added, that it should be his

own immediate care to endeavour to secure for the fair bride a fixed

settlement, from the rich old cousin who had long promised to make

Macdersey his heir. He told Camilla to write this, without delay, to the

young lady's Uncle, with full leave to use his name and authority.

'At all times,' he continued, 'it is necessary to be quick, and as

explicit as possible, in representing what can conciliate an adventure

of this sort, of which the clandestine measure implies on one side, if

not on both, something wrong; but most especially it is necessary to use

speed where the flight is made with an Hibernian; for with the English

in general, it is nearly enough that a man should be born in Ireland, to

decide him for a fortune-hunter. If you lived, however, in that country,

you would see the matter pretty equally arranged; and that there are not

more of our pennyless beaux who return laden with the commodity of rich

wives, than of those better circumstanced who bring home wives with more

estimable dowries.'

He then added, that it was from Miss Lynmere herself he had learnt the

residence of Camilla in Grosvenor Square; for, having made some

acquaintance with her at one of Mrs. Berlinton's evening parties, he had

heard she was a niece of Sir Hugh Tyrold, and immediately enquired after

her fair kinswoman, whom he had seen at Tunbridge.

Camilla thanked him for remembering her; and Lady Isabella, with a

countenance that implied approbation in the remark, said; 'I have never

once heard of Miss Tyrold at the assemblies of this house.'

She quietly replied she had never been present at them; but a look of

sensibility with which her eyes dropt, spoke more than she intended, of

concern at their existence, or at least frequency.

'Your lovely young Hostess,' said Lord O'Lerney, 'has entered the world

at too early an hour to be aware of the surfeit she is preparing

herself, by this unremitting luxury of pleasure; but I know so well her

innocence and good qualities, that I doubt not but the error will bring

its own cure, and she will gladly return to the literary and elegant

intercourse, which she has just now given up for one so much more

tumultuous.'

'I am glad you still think so, my Lord;' said Lady Isabella, also

looking down; 'she is a very sweet creature, and the little I have seen

of her, made me, while in her sight, warmly her well-wisher.

Nevertheless I should rather see any young person, for whom I was much

interested,--unless endowed with the very remarkable forbearance of Miss

Tyrold,--under her influence after the period your Lordship expects to

return, than during its _interregnum_!'

Camilla disavowed all claim to such praise, blushing both for her friend

and herself at what was said. Lord O'Lerney, looking concerned, paused,

and then answered, 'You know my partiality for Mrs. Berlinton: yet I

always see with fresh respect the courage with which my dear Lady

Isabella casts aside her native reserve and timidity, where she thinks a

hint--an intimation--may do good, or avert dangers.'

His eye was then fixed upon Camilla, who surprized, turned hastily to

Lady Isabella, and saw a tender compassion in her countenance, that

confirmed the interpretation of Lord O'Lerney; joined with a modest

confusion that seemed afraid, or ashamed, of what had escaped her.

Grateful for herself, but extremely grieved for the idea that seemed to

have gone forth of Mrs. Berlinton, she felt a tear start into her eye.

She chaced it, with as little emotion as she could shew; and Lord

O'Lerney, with an air of gayer kindness, said; 'As we must now, Miss

Tyrold, account ourselves to be somewhat allied, you permit me, I hope,

to recommend my gallant Cousin to your protection with Sir Hugh? That he

has his share of the wildness, the blunders, the eccentricities, and the

rhodomontade, which form, with you English, our stationary national

character, must not be denied; but he has also, what may equally, I

hope, be given us in the lump, generosity, spirit, and good intentions.

With all this....'

He was here interrupted; the door being suddenly burst open by Mrs.

Mittin, who entered, exclaiming, 'Lord, Miss, what a sad thing this is!

I declare it's put me quite into a quiver! And all Winchester's quite in

an uproar, as one may say. You never see how every body's in a turmoil!'

Here ended the little interval of horrour in Camilla. Mrs. Mittin and

Mr. Clykes seemed to her as one; yet that, already, her Cousin's

elopement should have spread so near home, seemed impossible. 'When,'

she cried, 'were you in Winchester? And how came this affair known to

you?'

'Known? why, my dear Miss, it was there it all happened. I come through

it with Mr. Dennel, who was so obliging as to bring me to town, for a

little business I've got to do; and next week he'll take me back again;

for as to poor little Mrs. Lissin, she'll be quite lost without me. She

don't know her right hand from her left, as one may say. But how should

she, poor child? Why she is but a baby. What's fifteen? And she's no

more.'

'We'll talk of that,' said Camilla, colouring at her loquacious

familiarity, 'some other time.' And attempted to beg Lord O'Lerney would

finish what he was saying. But Mrs. Mittin, somewhat affronted, cried;

'Lord, only think of your sitting here, talking, and making yourself so

comfortable, just as if nothing was the matter! when every body else is

in such a taking as never was the like! I must say, as to that, a

gentleman more liked, and in more respect never was, I believe; and I

can't say but what I'm very sorry myself for what Mr. Clykes has done;

however, I told you, you know, you'd best not provoke him; for though

there can't be a better sort of man, he'll leave no stone unturned to

get his money.'

'For Heaven's sake,' cried Camilla, startled, 'what....'

'What?... Why, Lord, Miss! don't you know your Papa's took up? He's put

in Winchester Prison, for that debt, you know.'

The breath of Camilla instantly stopt, and senseless, lifeless, she sunk

upon the floor.

Lord O'Lerney quitted the room in great concern, to call some female

assistants; but Lady Isabella remained, contributing with equal

tenderness and judgment to her aid, though much personally affected by

the incident.

Her recovery was quick, but it was only to despair; to screams rather

than lamentations, to cries rather than tears. Her reason felt the shock

as forcibly as her heart; the one seemed tottering on its seat, the

other bursting its abode. Words of alarming incoherency proclaimed the

danger menacing her intellects, while agonies nearly convulsive

distorted her features, and writhed her form.

Unaffectedly shocked, yet not venturing, upon so slight an acquaintance,

to interfere, Lady Isabella uttered gently but impressively her good

wishes and concern, and glided away.

The nearly distracted Camilla saw not that she went; and knew no longer

that she had been in the room. She held her forehead one moment; called

for death the next; and the next wildly deprecated eternal punishment.

But as the horrour nearly intolerable of this first abrupt blow gave

way, the desire of flying instantly to her Father was the symptom of

restored recollection.

Hastening then to Miss Margland, she conjured her, by all that was most

affecting, to set off immediately for Winchester. But Miss Margland,

though she spared not the most severe attacks upon the already

self-condemned and nearly demolished Camilla, always found something

relative to herself that was more pressing than what could regard any

other, and declared she could not stir from town till she received an

answer from Sir Hugh.

Camilla besought at least to have the carriage; but of this she asserted

herself at present the indisputable mistress, and as the express might

come back in a few hours, with directions that she should set off

immediately, she would not listen to parting with it. Camilla, frantic

to be gone, flew then down stairs, and called to the porter in the hall,

that some one should instantly seek her a chaise, coach, or any

conveyance whatever, that could carry her to Winchester.

She perceived not that Lady Isabella, waiting for her footman, who had,

accidentally, gone on further, upon some message, now opened the door of

the parlour, where Lord O'Lerney was conversing with her upon what had

happened; she was flying back, though not knowing whither nor which way

she turned, when Lord O'Lerney, gently stopping her, asked, why she

would not, on such an emergence, apply for the carriage of Mrs.

Berlinton? Lady Isabella seconded the motion, by a soft, but just hint,

of the danger of her taking such a journey, in a hired carriage,

entirely unprotected.

She had scarce consideration enough left to either thank or understand

them, yet mechanically followed their counsel, and went to Mrs.

Berlinton; Lord O'Lerney, deeply touched by her distress, sending in a

servant at the same time with his name, and following: while Lady

Isabella, too much interested to go till something was decided, quietly

shut herself into the parlour, there to wait his Lordship's information.

The request for the carriage was, indeed, rather made by him than by

Camilla, who, when she entered the room, and would have spoken, found

herself deprived of the power of utterance, and looked a picture of

speechless dismay.

The tender feelings of Mrs. Berlinton were all immediately awakened by

this sight, and she eagerly answered Lord O'Lerney, that both her

carriage and herself should be devoted to her distressed friend: yet,

the first emotion over, she recollected an engagement she could not

break, though one she hesitated to mention, and at last only alluded to

unexplained, though making known it was insurmountable; while the

colour, of which her late hours had robbed her lovely cheeks, returned

to them as she stammered her retractation.

The next day, however, she was beginning to promise,--but Camilla, to

whom the next minute seemed endless, flew down again to the hall, to

supplicate the first footman she could meet, to run and order any sort

of carriage he could find; with but barely sufficient recollection to

refrain running out with that view herself.

Lady Isabella, again coming forth, entreated to know if there were any

commission, any possible service she could herself perform. Camilla

thanked her, without knowing what she said; and Lord O'Lerney, who was

descending the stairs, repeated similar offers. But wild with affright,

or shuddering with horrour, she passed without hearing or observing him.

To see a young creature in a state so deplorable, and to consider her as

travelling without any friend or support, in so shaken a condition, to

visit an imprisoned Father, touched these benign observers with the

sincerest commiseration; and the connexion of a part of his family

forming at this moment with a branch of her own, induced Lord O'Lerney

to believe he was almost bound to take care of her himself. 'And yet,'

said he to Lady Isabella, 'though I am old enough to be her grandfather,

the world, should I travel with her, might impute my assistance to a

species of admiration which I hope to experience no more--as witness my

trusting myself so much with Lady Isabella Irby!'

Lady Isabella, from the quick coincidence of similar feelings, instantly

conceived his wishes, and paused to weigh their possibility. A short

consideration was sufficient for this purpose. It brought to her memory

her various engagements; but it represented at the same time to her

benevolence that they would be all, by the performance of one good

action,

More honour'd in the breach than the observance:

She sent, therefore, a message after Camilla, entreating a short

conference.

Camilla, who was trying to comprehend some further account from Mrs.

Mittin, silently, but hastily obeyed the call; and her look of wild

anguish would have fixed the benign intention of Lady Isabella, had it

been wavering. In a simple phrase, but with a manner the most delicate,

her Ladyship then offered to conduct her to Winchester. A service so

unexpected, a goodness so consoling, instantly brought Camilla to the

use of her frightened away faculties, but with sensations of gratitude

so forcible, that Lord O'Lerney with difficulty saved her from falling

at the feet of his amiable friend, and with yet more difficulty

restrained his own knees from doing her that homage. And still the more

strongly he felt this active exertion, from the disappointment he had

just endured through the failure of his favourite Mrs. Berlinton.

No time was to be lost; Lady Isabella determined to do well what she

once undertook to do at all; she went to Park-lane, to make known her

excursion, and arrange some affairs, and then instantly returned, in her

own post-chaise, and four horses, for Camilla; who was driven from the

metropolis.

CHAPTER V

_The Operation of Terror_

Lady Isabella, for the first two or three miles, left Camilla

uninterruptedly to her own thoughts; she then endeavoured to engage her

in some discourse, but was soon forced to desist. Her misery exceeded

all measure of restraint, all power of effort. Her Father in prison! and

for her own debts! The picture was too horrible for her view, yet too

adhesive to all her thoughts, all her feelings, all her faculties, to be

removed from them a moment. Penetrated by what she owed to Lady

Isabella, she frequently took her hand, pressed it between her own,

pressed it to her lips; but could shew her no other gratitude, and force

herself to no other exertion.

It was still early, they travelled post, and with four horses, and

arrived at Winchester before eight o'clock.

Shaking, she entered the town, half fainting, half dead. Lady Isabella

would have driven straight on to Etherington, which was but a stage

further; but to enter the rectory, whence the Rector himself was

torn--'No!' cried she, 'no! there where abides my Father, there alone

will I abide! No roof shall cover my head, but that which covers his! I

have no wish but to sink at his feet--to crawl in the dust--to confine

myself to the hardest labour for the remnant of my miserable existence,

so it might expiate but this guilty outrage!'

Lady Isabella took not any advantage of the anguish that was thus

bursting forth with secret history; she was too delicate and too good to

seize such a moment for surprising confidence, and only enquired if she

had any friend in the town, who could direct her whither to go, and

accompany as well as direct.

She knew no one with sufficient intimacy to endure presenting herself to

them upon such an occasion; and preferred proceeding alone to the sad

and cruel interview. Lady Isabella ordered the chaise to an hotel, where

she was shewn into a room upstairs, whence she sent one of her own

servants to enquire out where debtors were confined, and if Mr. Tyrold

were in custody: charging him not to name, from whom or why he came, and

begging Camilla to get ready a note to prepare her Father for the

meeting, and prevent any affecting surprise. She then went to chuse

herself a chamber, determined not to quit her voluntary charge, till she

saw her in the hands of her own friends.

Camilla could not write: to kneel, to weep, to sue, was all she could

bear to plan; to present to him the sight of her hand writing she had

not courage.

Presently she heard a chaise drive rapidly through the inn gate: it

might be him, perhaps released; she flew down the stairs with that wild

hope; but no sooner had descended them, than a dread of his view took

its place, and she ran back: she stopt, however, in the landing place,

to hear who entered.

Suddenly a voice struck her ear that made her start; that vibrated quick

to her heart, and there seemed to arrest the springs of life; she

thought it the voice of her Mother----

It ceased to speak; and she dropt on one knee, inwardly, but fervently

praying her senses might deceive her.

Again, however, and more distinctly, it reached her; doubt then ceased,

and terrour next to horrour took its place. What was said she knew not,

her trepidation was too great to take in more than the sound.

Prostrate she fell on the floor; but hearing a waiter say, 'Up stairs,

madam, you may have a room to yourself.' She started, rose, and rushing

violently back to the apartment she had quitted, bolted herself in;

exclaiming, 'I am not worthy to see you, my Mother! I have cast my

Father into prison--and I know you will abhor me!'

She then sat down against the door, to listen if she were pursued; she

heard a footstep, a female step; she concluded it that of her Mother;

'She can come,' cried she, 'but to give me her malediction!' And flew

frantic about the room, looking for any means of escape, yet perceiving

only the window, whence she must be dashed to destruction.

She now heard a hand upon the lock of the door. 'O that I could die!

that I could die!' she cried, madly advancing to the window, and

throwing up the sash, yet with quick instinctive repentance pulling it

down, shuddering and exclaiming: 'Is there no death for me but

murder--no murder but suicide?'

A voice now found its way through her cries to her ear, that said, 'It

is me, my dear Miss Tyrold; will you not admit me?'

It was Lady Isabella; but her Mother might be with her: she could not,

however, refuse to open the door, though desperately she said to

herself: If she is there, I will pass her, and rush into the streets!

Seeing, however, Lady Isabella alone, she dropt on her knees,

ejaculating 'Thank Heaven! thank Heaven! one moment yet I am spared!'

'What is it, my dear Miss Tyrold,' said Lady Isabella, 'that causes you

this sudden agony? what can it be that thus dreadfully disorders you?'

'Is she with you?' cried she, in a voice scarce audible, 'does she

follow me? does she demand my Father?'

'Rise, dear madam, and compose yourself. If you mean a Lady whom this

minute I have passed, and whose countenance so much resembles yours,

that I thought her at once some near relation, she is just gone from

this house.'

'Thank Heaven! thank Heaven!' again ejaculated the prostrate Camilla;

'My Mother is spared a little longer the dreadful sight of all she must

now most abominate upon earth!'

She then begged Lady Isabella instantly to order the chaise, and return

to town.

'On the contrary,' answered her Ladyship, extremely surprised at so wild

a request, 'Let me rather, myself, carry you to your family.'

'O no, Lady Isabella, no!' cried Camilla, speaking with frightful

rapidity, and shaking in every limb, 'all now is changed. I came to wait

upon my Father--to humble myself at his feet--not to obtrude myself upon

my Mother!--O Lady Isabella!--I shall have broken her heart--and I dare

not offend her with my sight!'

Lady Isabella, with the most judicious gentleness, endeavoured to render

her more reasonable. 'I pretend not,' she said, 'to decide upon your

situation, though I comprehend its general affliction: yet still, and at

all events, its termination must be a meeting. Suffer me, therefore,

rather to hasten than retard so right a measure. Allow of my mediation,

and give me the infinite pleasure of leaving you in the hands of your

friends.'

Camilla, though scarcely able to articulate her words, declared again

the motive to her journey was at an end; that her Father had now one to

watch, soothe, and attend him, who had none of her dreadful drawbacks to

consoling powers; and that she would remain at Mrs. Berlinton's till

summoned home by their immediate commands.

Lady Isabella began pleading their own rights to decide if or not the

meeting should be deferred: but wildly interrupting her, 'You know not,'

she cried, 'what it is you ask. I have not nerves, I have not hardiness

to force myself into such a presence. An injured Father ... an offended

Mother ... O Lady Isabella! if you knew how I adore--and how I have

ruined them!...'

'Let me go to them from you, myself; let me represent your situation.

They are now probably together. That Lady whom I saw but from the

stairs, though her countenance so much struck me, and whom I now

conclude to be Mrs. Tyrold, said, as she passed, I shall walk; I only

want a guide;'--

'They had not, then, even met!' cried Camilla, starting up with fresh

horrour; 'she is but just arrived--has but just been at Etherington--and

there heard--that her husband was in prison--and in prison for the debts

of her daughter! her guilty ... perhaps reprobated daughter!'--

Again, wringing her hands, half distracted, 'O, that the earth,' she

cried, 'had received me, ere I quitted the parental roof! Innocent I had

then died, beloved, regretted,--no shame would have embittered my

Father's sorrow--no wrath my Mother's--no culpable misconduct would have

blighted with disgrace their so long--long wished-for meeting!'

The compassionating, yet judicious Lady Isabella, willing to shorten the

sufferings she pitied, made yet another effort to prevent this unadvised

return, by proposing they should both sleep this night at Winchester,

that Camilla might gather some particulars of her family, and some

composure for herself, to better judge what step to pursue. But all

desire of meeting was now converted into horrour; she was too much known

in the neighbourhood to escape being recognized if she stayed till the

morning, and her shattered intellects, she declared, could not bear

passing a whole night in expectation of a discovery through some

accident. 'Have I not already,' cried she, 'heard her voice and fled its

sound? Judge then, Lady Isabella, if I can present myself before her!

No, I must write, first. I have a long and dreadful history to

relate--and then, when she has heard it--and when the rectory has again

its reverend master--and when they find some little palliation, where

now they can see only guilt--and when all is committed without disguise

to their goodness--their mercy--they may say to me perhaps themselves:

Unhappy Camilla! thou hast paid thy just penalty; come home, then, to

thy parents' roof, thou penitent child!'

Lady Isabella knew too little of the characters with which she had to

deal, to judge if it would be right to insist any further: she ordered,

therefore, fresh horses to her chaise, and as soon as her footman came

back, who brought the now useless direction where Mr. Tyrold was to be

found, they galloped out of Winchester.

At Alton they stopt to sleep; and, her immediate terrour removed, she

became more sensible of what she owed to Lady Isabella, to whom, in the

course of the evening, she recounted frankly the whole history of her

debts, except what related to Lionel.

'Your Ladyship hears me,' said she, in conclusion, 'with the patience of

benevolence, though I fear, with the censure of all judgment. What evils

have accrued from want of consideration and foresight! My errours have

all been doubled by concealment--every mischief has been augmented by

delay. O, Lady Isabella! how sad an example shall I add to your powers

of benign instruction!--From day to day, from hour to hour, I planned

expedients, where I ought to have made confessions! To avoid one

dreadful--but direct evil, what I have suffered has been nearly

intolerable--what I have inflicted, unpardonable!'

Lady Isabella, much touched by her openness and confidence, repaid them

by all that compassion could suggest, or that a sincere disposition

towards esteem could anticipate of kindness. She gathered the amount of

the sum for which Mr. Tyrold was confined, and besought Camilla to let

it less weigh upon her spirits, as she could herself undertake that Lord

O'Lerney would accommodate him with it immediately, and wait his perfect

leisure for re-payment. 'I have known him,' said she, 'from a child, and

have always seen, with respect and admiration, the prompt pleasure with

which he rather seizes than accepts every opportunity to do good.'

Camilla returned the most grateful thanks; but acknowledged she had no

apprehension but that the writ would immediately be withdrawn, as the

county was almost filled with friends to her Father, who would come

forward upon such an occasion. 'What rests thus upon my mind,' said she,

'and what upon his--and upon my Mother's will rest--is the disgrace--and

the cause! the one so public, the other so clandestine! And besides,

though this debt will be easily discharged, its payment by a loan is

but incurring another: and how that is to be paid, I know not indeed.

Alas! Lady Isabella!--the Father I have thus dreadfully involved, has

hitherto, throughout his exemplary life, held it a sacred duty to adapt

his expences to his income!'

Again Lady Isabella gave what consolation she could bestow; and in

return for her trust, said she would speak to her with sincerity upon a

point of much delicacy. It was of her friend, Mrs. Berlinton; 'who now,'

said she, 'you are not, perhaps, aware, is become a general topic of

discourse. To the platonics, with which she set out in life, she has, of

late, joined coquetry; nor even there stops the ardour with which she

seeks to animate her existence; to two characters, hitherto thought the

most contradictory, the sentimental and the flirting, she unites yet a

third, till now believed incompatible with the pleasures and pursuits of

either; this, I need not tell you, is that of a gamestress. And when to

three such attributes is added an open aversion to her husband, a

professed, an even boasted hatred of his person, his name, his very

being--what hope can be entertained, be her heart, her intentions what

they may, that the various dangers she sets at defiance, will not

ultimately take their revenge, and surprise her in their trammels?'

Edgar himself seemed, to Camilla, to be speaking in this representation;

and that idea made it catch her attention, in the midst of her utmost

misery. She urged, however, all she knew, and could suggest, in favour

of Mrs. Berlinton; and Lady Isabella expressed much concern in

occasioning her any painful sensations. 'But who,' said she, 'can see

you thus nearly, and not be interested in your happiness? And I have

known, alas!--though I am still under thirty, instances innumerable of

self-deluded young women, who trusting to their own pure intentions,

have neither feared nor heeded the dangers which encircled them, till

imperceptibly, from the insidious influence of levity, they have pursued

the very course they began with disclaiming, and followed the very steps

from which at first they unaffectedly recoiled.'

Instructed and grateful, though incapable of being tranquillised,

Camilla the next day reached Grosvenor Square long before her fair

friend had left her downy pillow. Lady Isabella exacted a promise to be

informed of her proceedings, and, loaded with merited acknowledgments,

returned to her own mansion.

Camilla took possession of the first room in which she found a pen and

ink, and wrote instantly to Lavinia a short, rapid, and incoherent

letter, upon the distraction of her mind at the dreadful calamity she

had occasioned her Father, and the accumulated horrours to which her

Mother had returned. She durst not present herself before them uncalled,

not even by letter; but she would live in the strictest retirement and

penance till they ordered her home, for which epoch, not more longed

[for] than dreaded, she besought her sister's mediation.

This sent off, she forced herself to wait upon Miss Margland, who had

received an answer from Cleves to continue in town till Indiana wrote or

re-appeared. She was put immediately into uncommon good-humour, by the

ill success at the journey of Camilla, which she protested was exactly

what she expected.

Camilla then strove to recollect all she had been told by Lord O'Lerney

of Mr. Macdersey, and to relate it to Miss Margland, who, pleased and

surprised, undertook to write it to Sir Hugh.

To three days of dreadful suspense she now saw herself inevitably

condemned, in waiting an answer from Lavinia: but as her eyes were

opened to remark, by the admonitions of Lady Isabella, and her attention

was called back to the earlier cautions of Edgar, her time, though spent

with misery, hung not upon her unoccupied. She thought herself called

upon by every tie of friendship, faithfully and courageously to

represent to Mrs. Berlinton her impropriety of conduct with regard to

Bellamy, and the reports that were spread abroad to her more general

disadvantage.

Her reception from that Lady, she had thought, for the first time, cold.

She had welcomed her, indeed, with an accustomed embrace, but her

kindness seemed strained, her smile was faint, and the eyes which so

softly used to second it, were averted.

As soon as they were alone together, Camilla took her hand; but, without

returning its pressure, Mrs. Berlinton presented her with a new poem for

her evening's amusement.

Camilla put it down, but while hesitating how to begin, Bellamy was

announced. She started, and flew away, but returned when he was gone,

and begged a conference.

Mrs. Berlinton answered certainly; though she looked embarrassed, and

added not immediately, as she was obliged to dress for the evening.

Camilla entreated she might speak with her before dinner the next day.

To this she received a gentle assent: but no interview at the time

appointed took place; and when at dinner they met, no notice was taken

of the neglect.

She now saw she was pointedly avoided. Her courage, however, was called

upon, her gratitude was indebted for past kindnesses, and her honour

felt a double engagement. The opportunity therefore she could not obtain

by request, she resolved to seize by surprise.

Bellamy was again, however, announced; but the moment that, from her own

chamber, she heard him descend the stairs, she flew to the

dressing-room, and abruptly entered it.

The surprise she gave was not greater than that she received. Mrs.

Berlinton, her fine eyes streaming with tears, and her white hands

uplifted with an air of supplication, was evidently in an act of

devotion. Camilla drew back, and would have retired, but she hastily

dried her eyes, and said: 'Miss Tyrold? Do you want me? where's

Miss--Miss Margland?'

'Ah! my dearest Mrs. Berlinton! my friend, as I had hoped, and by me,

surely I trust loved for ever,' cried Camilla, throwing her arms round

her neck, 'why this sorrow? why this distance? why this unkind

avoidance?'

Mrs. Berlinton, who, at first, had shrunk from her embrace, now fell, in

trembling agitation, upon her breast. Camilla hoped this was the instant

to improve; when she appeared to be, herself, calling religion to her

aid, and when the tenderness of her appeal seemed to bring back a

movement of her first partiality. 'Suffer, suffer me,' she therefore

cried, 'to speak to you now! hear me, my dear and amiable friend, with

the sweetness that first won my affection!'

Mrs. Berlinton, affrighted, drew back, acknowledging herself unhappy;

but shrinking from all discourse, and starting when Camilla named

Bellamy, with a confusion she vainly strove to repress.

Unhackneyed in the world as was Camilla, her understanding and sense of

right stood here in the place of experience, to point out the danger and

impropriety surrounding her friend; and catching her by the gown, as she

would have quitted the room, 'Mrs. Berlinton,' she emphatically cried,

'if you persist in this unhappy, this perilous intercourse, you risk

your reputation, you risk my sister's peace, you risk even your own

future condemnation!--O forgive me, forgive me! I see how I have

affected you--but you would listen to no milder words!'

Mrs. Berlinton had sunk upon a chair, her hands clasped upon her

forehead, and tears running rapidly down her cheeks. Brought up with

religious terrours, yet ill instructed in religious principles, the

dread of future punishment nearly demolished her, though no regular

creed of right kept her consistently or systematically in any uniform

exercise of good. But thus forcibly surprised into sudden conscientious

recollections, she betrayed, rather than opened her heart, and

acknowledged that she was weeping at a denial she had given to Bellamy;

who, molested by the impossibility of ever conversing with her

undisturbed, had entreated her to grant him, from time to time, a few

hours society, in a peaceful retirement. 'Nor should I--nor could I--'

she cried, 'refuse him--for I have every reliance in his honour--but

that the guilty world, ignorant of the purity of our friendship, might

causelessly alarm my brother for my fame. And this, and the fear of

any--though so groundless--uneasiness to your sister, makes me resist

his powerful eloquence, and even my own notions of what is due to our

exalted league of friendship.'

Camilla listened with horrour to this avowal, yet saw, with compassion,

that her friend endeavoured to persuade herself she was free from wrong;

though with censure that she sought to gloss over, rather than

investigate, every doubt to the contrary: but while fear was predominant

for the event of such a situation to herself, abhorrence filled her

whole mind against Bellamy, in every part, every plan, and every

probability of the business.

'O Mrs. Berlinton!' she cried, 'conquer this terrible infatuation, which

obscures danger from your sight, and right from your discernment! Mr.

Bellamy is married; and if you think, yourself, my sister would be hurt

to know of these unhallowed leagues and bonds, you must be sure, with

the least reflection, that they are wrong; you too, are married; and if

Mr. Melmond would join with the world in contemning the extraordinary

project you mention, you must feel, with the least reflexion, it ought

not to be granted. Even were you both single, it would be equally

improper, though not so wide spreading in its mischief. I have committed

many errours; yet not one of them wilfully, or against conviction:

nevertheless, the ill consequences that have ensued, tear me at this

moment with repentant sorrow:--Ah! think then, what you--so tender, so

susceptible, so feeling, will suffer, if with your apprehensions all

awake, you listen to any request that may make my sister unhappy, or

involve your deserving brother in any difficulty or hazard!'

Mrs. Berlinton was now subdued. Touched, terrified, and convinced, she

embraced Camilla, wept in her arms, and promised to see Bellamy no more.

The next day arrived an answer from Lavinia, long, minute, and

melancholy, but tenderly affectionate and replete with pity.

'Ah, my sister,' she began, 'we cannot yet meet! Our Mother is in no

state to bear any added emotion. The firmness of her whole character,

the fortitude of her whole life, hitherto unbroken by any passion, and

superior to any misfortune, have both given way, suddenly and

dreadfully, to the scene following her arrival.'

She then went back to particulars.

Mr. Clykes, she had heard, finding his bill for his own trouble

positively refused, had conceived the Tyrold family in danger of

bankruptcy, by the general rumours of the joint claimants of Lionel and

Clermont; and imagining he had no time to lose, hoped by an arrest to

frighten their Father to terms, in order to obviate the disgrace of such

a measure. Their Father would, however, hear of none, nor pay any thing

above the exact amount of the signed receipts of the various creditors;

and submitted to the confinement, in preference to applying to any

friend to be his bail, till he could consult with a lawyer. He was

already at Winchester, where he had given Clykes a meeting, when the

writ was served against him. He sent a dispatch to Etherington, to

prevent any surprise at his not returning, and to desire the affair

might not travel to Cleves, where Lavinia was then with Sir Hugh. This

note, addressed to the upper servant, fell into the hands of Mrs. Tyrold

herself, the next evening, upon her sudden arrival. She had been thus

unexpectedly brought back by the news of the flight of Bellamy with

Eugenia: her brother was still ill; but every consideration gave way to

the maternal; and in the hope to yet rescue her daughter from this

violator, she set off in a packet which was just sailing. But what, upon

descending from the chaise, was the horrour of her first news! She went

on instantly to Winchester, and alighting at an hotel, took a guide and

went to the place of confinement.

'The meeting that ensued,' continued Lavinia, 'no one witnessed, but

everyone may imagine. I will not therefore, wound your feelings, my

dearest Camilla, with even touching upon my own. The impression,

however, left upon the mind of our poor Mother, I should try vainly to

disguise, since it has given her a shock that has forced from me the

opening of this letter.'

She then besought her to take, nevertheless, some comfort, since she had

the unspeakable satisfaction to inform her that their Father was

returned to the rectory. He had been liberated, from the writ's being

withdrawn; though without his consent, without even his knowledge, and

contrary to his wishes. Nor was it yet ascertained by whom this was

done, though circumstances allowed no division to their conjectures.

Harry Westwyn had learnt the terrible event in a ride he had

accidentally taken to Winchester; and, upon returning to Cleves, had

communicated it, with the most feeling circumspection, to herself. The

excess of grief with which she had heard him, had seemed to penetrate to

his quickly sensitive soul, 'for he is yet more amiable,' she added,

'than his Father's partiality paints him;' they agreed not to name it to

Sir Hugh; though Harry assured her that no less than five gentlemen in

the vicinity had already flown to Mr. Tyrold, to conjure to be accepted

as his bail: but he chose first to consult his lawyer upon the validity

of the claim made against him. All their care, however, was ineffectual;

through some of the servants, Sir Hugh was informed of the affair, and

his affliction was despair. He accused himself as being the cause of

this evil, from the money he had borrowed for Clermont, which might

wholly have been avoided, had he followed his brother's advice in

immediate and severe retrenchments. These, however, he now began, in a

manner that threatened to rob him of every comfort; and Mr. Westwyn was

so much affected by his distress, that, to relieve him, at least, from

the expence of two guests and their servants, he instantly took leave,

promising nevertheless, to yet see him again, before he returned for the

rest of his days to his native home. In a few hours after the departure

of these gentlemen, news arrived that Mr. Tyrold was again at the

rectory. Mr. Clykes had suddenly sent his receipt, in full of all

demands, and then set off for London.

'There cannot be a doubt this was the deed of the generous Mr. Westwyn,

in compact with his deserving Son,' continued Lavinia; 'they have been

traced to Winchester; but we none of us know where, at present, to

direct to them. The delight of my Uncle at this act of his worthy old

friend, has extremely revived him. My Father is much dissatisfied the

wretched Clykes should thus be paid all his fraudulent claims; but my

Mother and my Uncle would, I believe, scarce have supported life under

his longer confinement.'

The letter thus concluded.

'My Mother, when first she heard you were in town, was herself

going to send for you; but when she understood that Miss Margland

was with you, and you lived in utter seclusion from company, she

said; "Since she is safe, I had rather not yet see her." Our

beloved Father acquiesces, for he thinks you, at present, too much

shaken, as well as herself, for so agitating an interview, till her

mind is restored to its usual firmness. Judge then, my sister,

since even he is for the delay, if your Lavinia can gather courage

to plead against it?

'You know, my dearest Camilla, her extreme and tender fondness; you

cannot, therefore, doubt, but her displeasure will soon pass away.

But when, to the dreadful pangs of finding the hapless fate of

Eugenia irremediable, was added the baneful sight of an adored

Husband in custody, you cannot wonder such complicate shocks should

have disordered her frame, and taught her,--even her, as my

imcomparable Father has just said to me, "that always to be

superior to calamity, demands a mental strength beyond the frail

texture of the human composition; though to wish, and to try for

it, shews we have _that within_, which aspires at a higher state,

and prepares us for fuller perfection".'

'Can I better finish my letter than with words such as these?

Adieu, then, my dear sister, I hope soon to write more cheerful

tidings.

'Our poor Mother is gone to Belfont. What a meeting again there!

LAVINIA TYROLD.'

A wish for death, immediate death, in common with every youthful

mourner, in the first paroxysm of violent sorrow, was the sole sensation

which accompanied the reading, or remained after the finishing of this

letter, with Camilla. 'Here,' she cried, falling prostrate, 'here might

I but at once expire! close these unworthy eyes, forbidden to raise

themselves to the authors of my existence! finish my short and culpable

career, forgotten--since no longer cherished--by the parents I have

offended--by the Mother who no longer wishes to see me!'

She laid down her head, and her sight became dim; a convulsive

shivering, from feelings over-strained, and nerves dreadfully shattered,

seized her; she sighed short and quick, and thought her prayer already

accomplishing; but the delusion soon ceased; she found life still in its

vigour, though bereft of its joy; and death no nearer to her frame, for

being called upon by her wishes.

In the heaviness of disappointment, 'I have lived,' she cried, 'too

long, and yet I cannot die! I am become an alien to my family, and a

burthen to myself! ordered from my home by my Father, lest my sight

should be destructive to my Mother--while my sister durst not even plead

for me.... O happy Edgar! how great has been thy escape not to have

taken for thy wife this excommunicated wretch!'--

To live thus, seemed to her impossible; to pass even the day in such

wretchedness she believed impracticable. Any, every period appeared to

her preferable, and in the desperation of her heart, she determined

instantly to pursue her Mother to Belfont; and there, by the gentle

intercession of Eugenia, to obtain her pardon, or, which she thought

immediately would follow its refusal, to sink to death at her feet.

Relieved from the intenseness of her agony by this plan, and ever eager

to pursue the first idea that arose, she flew to borrow from Mrs.

Berlinton her post-chaise for the next morning, and to supplicate that

Miss Margland would accompany her to Belfont; whence, if she missed Mrs.

Tyrold, they could easily return the same day, as the distance was not

more than thirteen miles.

The chaise was accorded promptly by Mrs. Berlinton, and no regret

expressed at the uncertainty of Camilla whether or not she should

return; but Miss Margland, though burning with curiosity to see Eugenia

as Mrs. Bellamy, would not quit town, from continual expectation of some

news of Indiana.

At an early hour the following morning, and feeling as if suspended but

by a thread between life and death, Camilla set off for Belfont.

CHAPTER VI

_The Reverse of a Mask_

The plan of Camilla was to stop within twenty yards of the house of

Bellamy, and then send for Molly Mill. But till she gave this direction

to the driver, she was not aware of the inconvenience of being without a

servant, which had not previously occurred either to Mrs. Berlinton or

herself. The man could not leave his horses, and she was compelled to

let him draw up to the gate. There, when he rang at a bell, her terrour,

lest she should suddenly encounter Mrs. Tyrold, made her bid him open

the chaise door, that she might get out and walk on, before he enquired

for Molly. But, in stepping from the carriage, she discerned, over a

paling at some distance, Eugenia herself, alone, slowly walking, and her

head turned another way.

Every personal, and even every filial idea, was buried instantly in this

sight. The disastrous state of this beloved and unhappy sister, and her

own peculiar knowledge of the worthless character of the wretch who had

betrayed her into his snares, penetrated her with an anguish that took

thought from all else; and darting through the great gate, and thence

through a smaller one, which opened to the spot where she saw her

walking, she flew to her in a speechless transport of sorrow, folded her

in her arms, and sobbed upon her shoulder.

Starting, shaking, amazed, Eugenia looked at her; 'Good Heaven!' she

exclaimed, 'is it my Sister?--Is it Camilla?--Do I, indeed, see one so

dear to me?' And, too weak to sustain herself, she sunk, though not

fainting, upon the turf.

Camilla could not articulate a syllable. The horrour she had conceived

against Bellamy chilled all attempt at consolation, and her own misery

which, the preceding moment, seemed to be crushing the springs of life,

vanished in the agonized affection with which she felt the misfortunes

of her sister.

Eugenia soon recovered, and rising, and holding her by the hand, yet

seeming to refuse herself the emotion of returning her embraces, said,

with a faint effort to smile; 'You have surprised me, indeed, my dear

Camilla, and convicted me to myself of my vain philosophy. I had thought

I should never more be moved thus again. But I see now, the affections

are not so speedily to be all vanquished.'

The melancholy conveyed by this idea of believed apathy, in a young

creature so innocent, and but just dawning into life, still beyond

speech, and nearly beyond sufferance, affected Camilla, who hanging over

her, sighed out: 'My dearest!... dearest Eugenia!'

'And what is it has brought to me this unexpected, but loved sight? Does

Mr. Bellamy know you are here?'

'No,' she answered, shuddering at his name.

Eugenia looked pensive, looked distressed; and casting down her eyes and

hesitating, with a deep sigh said: 'I, ... I have not the trinkets for

my dear Sister ... Mr. Bellamy ...' she stopt.

Called to her sad self by this shock, of which she strove to repress the

emotion, Camilla recollected her own 'almost blunted purpose[6],' and

fearfully asked if their Mother were yet at Belfont.

[Footnote 6: Hamlet]

'Ah, no!' she answered, clasping her hands, and leaning her head upon

her sister's neck: 'She is gone!--The day before yesterday she was with

me,--with me only for one hour!--yet to pass with her such another, I

think, my dear Camilla, would soon lead me where I might learn a better

philosophy than that I so vainly thought I had already acquired here!'

Camilla, struck with awe, ventured not even at an enquiry; and they

both, for some little time, walked on in silence.

'Did she name to you,' at length, in broken accents, she asked, 'did she

name to you, my Eugenia, ... the poor, banished ... Camilla?----'

'Banished? No. How banished?'

'She did not mention me?'

'No. She came to me but upon one subject. She failed in her purpose, ...

and left me.'

A sigh that was nearly a groan finished this short little speech.

'Ah, Heaven! my Eugenia,' cried Camilla, now in agony unresisted, 'tell

me, then, what passed! what new disappointment had my unhappy Mother to

sustain? And how, and by what cruel fatality, has it fallen to your

lot ... even to yours ... to suffer her wishes to fail?'

'You know nothing, then,' said Eugenia, after a pause, 'of her view--her

errand hither?'

'Nothing; but that to see you brought her not only hither, but to

England.'

'Blessed may she be!' cried Eugenia, fervently, 'and rewarded where

rewards are just, and are permanent!'

Camilla zealously joined in the prayer, yet besought to know if she

might not be informed of the view to which she alluded?

'We must go, then,' said Eugenia, 'into the house; my poor frame is yet

feebler than my mind, and I cannot support it unaided while I make such

a relation.'

Camilla, affrighted, now gave up her request; but the generous Eugenia

would not leave her in suspense. They went, therefore, to a parlour,

where, shutting the doors and windows, she said, 'I must be concise, for

both our sakes; and when you understand me, we must talk instantly of

other things.'

Camilla could give only a tacit promise; but her air shewed she would

hold it sacred as any bond.

'The idea which brought over this inestimable Parent, and which brought

her, at a moment when she knew me to be alone, to this sad house, these

sad arms ... Camilla! how shall I speak it? It was to exonerate me from

my vows, as forced! to annul all my engagements, as compulsatory! and to

restore me again ... O, Camilla! Camilla! to my Parents, my Sisters, my

Uncle, my dearly-loved Cleves!'

She gasped almost convulsively; yet though Camilla now even conjured her

to say no more, went on: 'A proposal such as this, pressed upon me by

one whose probity and honour hold all calamity at nought, if opposed to

the most minute deviation from right--a proposal such as this ... ah!

let me not go back to the one terrible half instant of demur! It was

heart-rending, it was killing! I thought myself again in the bosom of my

loved family!'--

'And is it so utterly impossible? And can it not yet be effected?'--

'No, my dear Sister, no! The horrible scenes I must go through in a

public trial for such a purpose--the solemn vows I must set aside, the

re-iterated promises I must break,----no, my dear Sister, no!... And

now, we will speak of this no more.'

Camilla knew too well her firmness, her enthusiasm to perform whatever

she conceived to be her duty, to enter into any contest. Yet to see her

thus self devoted, where even her upright Mother, and pious Father,

those patterns of resignation to every heaven-inflicted sorrow, thought

her ties were repealed by the very villainy which had formed them,

seemed more melancholy, and yet harder for submission, than her first

seizure by the worthless Bellamy.

'And how bore my poor Mother ... my poor unfortunate Mother! destined

thus to woes of every sort, though from children who adore her!--how

bore she the deprivation of a hope that had brought her so far?'

'Like herself! nobly! when once it was decided, and she saw that though,

upon certain avowals, the law might revoke my plighted faith, it could

not abrogate the scruples of my conscience. She thinks them

overstrained, but she knows them to be sincere, and permitted them,

therefore, to silence her. Unfit to be seen by any others, she hurried

then away. And then, Camilla, began my trial! Indeed I thought, when she

had left me, ... when my arms no more embraced her honoured knees, and

neither her blessings, nor her sorrows soothed or wounded my ears, I

thought I might defy all evil to assault, all woe to afflict me ever

again! that my eyes were exhausted of every tear, and my heart was

emptied of all power of future feeling. I seemed suddenly quite

hardened;--transformed I thought to stone, as senseless, as immovable,

and as cold!'

The sensations of Camilla were all such as she durst not utter; but

Eugenia, assuming some composure; added, 'Of this and of me now

enough--speak, my dear Sister, of yourself. How have you been enabled to

come hither? And what could you mean by saying you were banished?'

'Alas! my dearest Eugenia, if my unhappy situation is unknown to you,

why should I agitate you with new pain? my Mother, I find, spared you;

and not only you, but me--though I have wrung her heart, tortured it by

a sight never to be obliterated from her memory--she would not rob me of

my beloved sister's regard; nor even name me, lest the altered tone of

her voice should make you say, Of what Camilla does my Mother speak?'

Eugenia, with earnest wonder, begged an explanation; but when Camilla

found her wholly uninformed of the history of their Father's

confinement, she recoiled from giving her such a shock: yet having gone

too far entirely to recede, she rested the displeasure of their Mother

upon the debts, and the dealings with a usurer; both sufficiently

repugnant to the strictness and nobleness of Mrs. Tyrold, to seem ample

justification of her displeasure.

Eugenia entered into the distresses of her sister, as if exempt herself

from all suffering: and Camilla, thus commiserating and commiserated,

knew now how to tear herself away; for though Eugenia pressed not her

stay, she turned pale, when a door opened, a clock struck, or any thing

seemed to prognosticate a separation; and looked as if to part with her

were death.

At length, however, the lateness of the day forced more of resolution.

But when Camilla then rang to give orders for the carriage, the footman

said it had been gone more than two hours. The postillion, being left

without any directions, thought it convenient to suppose he was done

with; and knowing Camilla had no authority, and his lady no inclination

to chide him, had given in her little packet, and driven off, without

enquiry.

Far from repining at this mixture of impertinence and carelessness,

Camilla would have rejoiced in an accident that seemed to invite her

stay, had not her sister seemed more startled than pleased by it. She

begged, therefore, that a post chaise might be ordered; and Molly Mill,

the only servant to whom the mistress of the house appeared willing to

speak, received the commission. At sight of Camilla, Molly had cried

bitterly, and beginning 'O Miss!--' seemed entering into some

lamentation and detail; but Eugenia, checking her, half whispered: 'Good

Molly, remember what you promised!'

When Molly came back, she said that there were no horses at Belfont, and

would be none till the next morning.

The sisters involuntarily congratulated one another upon this accident,

though they reciprocated a sigh, that to necessity alone they should owe

their lengthened intercourse.

'But, my dear mistress,' cried Molly, 'there's a lad that I know very

well, for I always see him when I go of an errand, that's going to

Salisbury; and he says he must go through Etherington, and if you've any

thing you want to send he'll take it for you; and he can bring any thing

back, for he shall be here again to morrow, for he goes post.'

Eugenia, sending away Molly, said, 'Why should you not seize such an

opportunity to address a few lines to our dear Mother? I may then have

the satisfaction to see her answer: and if, ... as I cannot doubt, she

tells you to return home with Miss Margland;--for she will not, I am

sure, let you travel about alone;--what a relief will it be to me to

know the distresses of my beloved sister are terminated! I shall paint

your meeting in my "mind's eye," see you again restored to the sunshine

of her fondness, and while away my solitary languor with reveries far

more soothing than any that I have yet experienced at Belfont.'

Camilla embraced her generous Sister; and always readiest for what was

speediest, wrote these lines, directed

_To Miss_ TYROLD.

I cannot continue silent, yet to whom may I address myself? I dare

not apply to my Father--I scarce dare even think of my

Mother--Encompassed with all of guilt with which imprudence could

ensnare me, my courage is gone with my happiness! which way may I

then turn? In pity to a wretched sister, drop, O Lavinia, at the

feet of her I durst not name, but whom I revere, if possible, even

more than I have offended, this small and humble memorial of my

unhappy existence--my penitence, my supplication, my indescribable,

though merited anguish!

CAMILLA.

Could the two sisters, even in this melancholy state, have continued

together, they felt that yet from tender sympathy, consolation might

revisit their bosoms. The day closed in; but they could not bear to

part; and though, from hour to hour, they pronounced an adieu, they

still sat on, talked on, and found a balm in their restored intercourse,

so healing and so sweet, that the sun, though they hailed not its beams,

rose while they were yet repeating Good Night!

They then thought it too late to retire, mutually agreeing with how much

greater facility they might recover their lost rest, than an opportunity

such as this for undisturbed conversation.

Every minute of this endearing commerce made separation seem harder; and

the answer for which they waited from Etherington, anxiously and

fearfully as it was expected, so whiled away the minutes, that it was

noon, and no chaise had been ordered, when they heard one driving up to

the house.

Alarmed, they listened to know what it portended. 'Mr. Bellamy,' said

Eugenia, in a low voice, 'scarce ever comes home at this hour.'

'Can it be my Mother herself?' cried Camilla.

In a few minutes, however, Eugenia looked pale, ''Tis his step!' she

whispered; and presently Bellamy opened the door.

Obliged to acknowledge his entrance, Camilla arose; but her parched lips

and clammy mouth made her feel as if his sight had given her a fever,

and she attempted not to force any speech.

He did not seem surprized at seeing her, asked how she did, rather

cavalierly than civilly: rang the bell, and gave various orders;

addressed scarce a word to his wife, and walked whistling about the

room.

A change so gross and quick from the obsequious Bellamy Camilla had

hitherto seen, was beyond even her worst expectations, and she conceived

as low an opinion of his understanding and his manners, as of his

morals.

Eugenia kept her eyes rivetted to the ground; and though she tried, from

time to time, to say something to them both, evidently required her

utmost fortitude to remain in the room.

At length; 'Miss Camilla,' he said, 'I suppose you know Miss Margland is

gone?'

'Gone? whither?--how gone?'

'Why home. That is to her home, as she thinks it, Cleves. She set off

this morning with the light.'

Camilla, astonished, was now called forth from her taciturnity; 'What

possibly,' she cried, 'can have induced this sudden journey? Has my

uncle sent for her?'

'No; your uncle has nothing to do with it. She had a letter last night

from Mrs. Macdersey, with one enclosed for Sir Hugh, to beg pardon and

so forth; and this morning she set off to carry it.'

Camilla was confounded. Why Miss Margland had not, at least, called at

Belfont to enquire if she would proceed with her, was beyond all her

conjecture.

Soon after, Bellamy's servant came in with a letter for Camilla, which

had arrived after she left town, and was given to him by Mrs.

Berlinton's butler. She retired into the next room to read it, where, to

her great consternation, she found it was from Jacob, and had been

written the day of Mr. Tyrold's arrest, though, as it was sent by a

private hand, it had only now arrived. 'Things going,' he said, 'so bad

at Cleves, on account of so many misfortunes, his master was denying

himself all his natural comforts, and in particular he had sent to

un-order a new pipe of Madeira, saying he would go without; though, as

Miss might remember, it was the very wine the doctors had ordered for

his stomach. This all the servants had taken so to heart, that they had

resolved to buy it among 'em, and get it privately laid in, and not let

his honour know but what it was always the same, till he had drunk so

much he could not help himself. For this, they were to join, according

to their wages or savings; Now I' says Jacob, 'being, by his gud

honnur's genrosty, the ritchist ammung us, fur my kalling, wants to do

the most, after nixt to the buttlur and huskippir, so, der Miss, awl

I've gut beng in the funs, witch I cant sil out withowt los, if you can

lit me have the munny fur the hurs, without ullconvenince, til Miss Geny

that was can pay it, I shul be mutch obbleggd, poor Miss Geny nut hawing

of a fardin, witch wil be a gret fevur to, Madm,

Yur humbbel survent til deth

JACCUB MORD.'

* * * * *

So touching a mark of the fond gratitude of the Cleves' servants to

their kind master, mingled tenderness, in defiance of all horrour, in

the tears of Camilla; but her total inability to satisfy the just claims

of Jacob, since now her resource even in Eugenia failed, with the grief

of either defeating his worthy project, or making it lastingly hurtful

to him, was amongst the severest strokes which had followed her ill

advised schemes. To proclaim such an additional debt, was a shame from

which she shrunk; yet to fly immediately to Cleves, and try to soothe

her oppressed uncle, was an idea that still seemed gifted with some

power to soothe herself. Whither indeed else could she now go? she had

no longer either carriage or protectress in town; and what she gathered

of the re-admission of Bellamy to Grosvenor-square, made the cautions

and opinions of Edgar burst forcibly upon her mind, to impede, though

most mournfully, all future return to Mrs. Berlinton.

A pliancy so weak, or so wilful, seemed to announce in that lady an

almost determined incorrigibility in wrong, however it might be checked,

in its progress, by a mingled love of right, and a fear of ill

consequences.

'Ah Edgar!' she cried, 'had I trusted you as I ought, from the moment

of your generous declaration--had my confidence been as firm in your

kindness as in your honour, what misery had I been saved!--from this

connexion--from my debts--from every wide-spreading mischief!--I could

then have erred no more, for I should have thought but of your

approvance!'

These regrets were, as usual, resuming their absorbing powers;--for all

other evils seemed fluctuating, but here misery was stationary; when the

voice of Bellamy, speaking harshly to his unhappy wife, and some words

she unavoidably caught, by which she found he was requesting that she

would demand money of Sir Hugh, made her conclude him not aware he was

overheard, and force herself back to the parlour. But his inattention

upon her return was so near rudeness, that she soon felt convinced Mrs.

Berlinton had acquainted him with her remonstrances and ill opinion: he

seemed in guilty fear of letting her converse even a moment with

Eugenia; and presently, though with an air of pretended unconcern, said:

'You have no commands for the chaise I came in, Miss Camilla?'

'No, Sir, ... What chaise?... Why?...' she stammered.

'It's difficult sometimes to get one at this place; and these horses are

very fresh. I bid them stay till they asked you.'

This was so palpable a hint for her to depart, that she could not but

answer she would make use of it, when she had taken leave of her sister;

whom she now looked at with emotions near despair at her fate, and with

difficulty restrained even its most unbridled expressions. But Bellamy

kept close, and no private conference could take place. Eugenia merely

said: 'Which way, my dear sister, shall you go?'

'I ... I am not, fixed--to ... to Cleves, I believe,' answered she,

scarce knowing herself what she said.

'I am very glad of it,' she replied, 'for the sake of my poor--' she

found her voice falter, and did not pronounce 'uncle;' but added, 'as

Miss Margland has already left London, I think you right to go thither

at once; it may abridge many difficulties; and with post-horses, you may

be there before it is dark.'

They then embraced tenderly, but parted without any further speech, and

she set off rather mechanically than designedly for Cleves.

CHAPTER VII

_A New View of an old Mansion_

Camilla, for some time, bestowed no thought upon what she was doing, nor

whither she was going. A scene so dreadful as that she now quitted, and

a character of such utter unworthiness as that with which her sister for

life was tied, absorbed her faculties, and nearly broke her heart.

When she stopt, however, at Bagshot, for fresh horses, the obligation of

giving directions to others, made her think of herself; and, bewildered

with uncertainty whether the step she took were right or wrong, she

regretted she had not, at least, desired to stay till the answer arrived

from Etherington. Yet her journey had the sanction of Eugenia's

concurrence; and Eugenia seemed to her oracular.

When she came upon the cross road leading from Winchester to Cleves, and

felt her quick approach to the spot so loved yet dreaded, the horses

seemed to her to fly. Twenty times she called out to the driver not to

hurry; who as often assured her the bad roads prevented any haste; she

wanted to form some appropriate plan and speech for every emergence; but

she could suggest none for any. She was now at the feet of her Mother,

now kissing the hands of her Father, now embraced again by her fond

uncle;--and now rejected by them all. But while her fancy was at work

alternately to soothe and to torture her, the park lodge met her eyes,

with still no resolution taken.

Vehemently she stopt the chaise. To drive in through the park would call

a general attention, and she wished, ere her arrival were announced, to

consult alone with Lavinia. She resolved, therefore, to get out of the

carriage, and run by a private path, to a small door at the back of the

house, whence she could glide to the chamber commonly appropriated to

her sister.

She told the postillion to wait, and alighting, walked quick and

fearfully towards the lodge.

She passed through the park-gate for foot passengers without notice from

the porter. It was twilight. She saw no one; and rejoiced in the general

vacancy. Trembling, but with celerity, she '_skimmed_,' like her

celebrated name-sake, the turf; and annoyed only by the shadows of the

trees, which all, as first they caught her eye, seemed the precursors

of the approach of Mrs. Tyrold, speedily reached the mansion: but when

she came to the little door by which she meant to enter, she found it

fastened.

To the front door she durst not go, from the numerous chances by which

she might surprise some of the family in the hall: and to present

herself at the servant's gate would have an appearance degrading and

clandestine.

She recollected, at last, the sash-door of a bow-window belonging to a

room that was never occupied but in summer. Thither she went, and

knowing the spring by which it could be opened on the outside, let

herself into the house.

With steps not to be heard, and scarce breathing, she got thence into a

long stone passage, whence she meant to mount the back stairs.

She was relieved by not meeting anyone in the way, though surprised to

hear no foot-steps about the house, and no voices from any of the

apartments.

Cautiously she went on, looking round at every step, to avoid any sudden

encounter; but when she came to the bed-chamber gallery, she saw that

the door of the room of Sir Hugh, by which she must necessarily pass,

was wide open.

It was possible he might be in it: she had not courage to pass; her

sight, thus unprepared, after so many heavy evils, might be too

affecting for his weak frame. She turned short round, and entered a

large apartment at the head of the stairs, called the billiard-room,

where she resolved to wait and watch ere she ventured any further.

Its aspect was to the front of the house; she stole gently to a window,

whence she thought the melancholy of her own mind pervaded the park.

None of her uncle's horses were in sight; no one was passing to and fro;

and she looked vainly even for the house-dog who ordinarily patrolled

before the mansion.

She ventured to bend forwarder, to take a view of the side wings; these,

however, presented not any sight more exhilarating nor more animated.

Nothing was in motion, no one was visible, not even a fire blazed

cheerfulness.

She next strove to catch a glance of the windows belonging to the

chamber of Eugenia; but her sigh, though sad, was without surprise to

see their shutters shut. Those of Indiana were closed also. 'How

mournfully,' cried she, 'is all changed! what of virtues are gone with

Eugenia! what of beauty with Indiana! the one so constantly interesting!

the other looking always so lovely!'--

But deeper still was her sigh, since mingled with self-reproach, to

perceive her own chamber also shut up. 'Alas!' she cried, 'my poor uncle

considers us all as dead to him!' She durst not lean sufficiently

forward to examine the drawing-room, in which she concluded the family

assembled; but she observed, with wonder, that even the library was not

open, though it was still too light for candles; and Dr. Orkborne, who

usually sat there, from the forgetfulness of application, was the last

to demand them.

The fear of discovery was now combated by an anxiety to see some

one,--any one, ... and she returned to the passage. All there was still

quiet, and she hazarded gliding past the open door, though without

daring to look into the room; but when she came to the chamber of

Lavinia, which she softly entered, all was dark, and it was evidently

not in present use.

This was truly distressful. She concluded her sister was returned to

Etherington, and knew not to whom to apply for counsel or mediation. She

no longer, however, feared meeting her parents, who certainly had not

made her sister quit Cleves without themselves; and, after a little

hesitation, relying upon the ever sure lenity of her uncle, she

determined to cast herself upon his kindness: but first to send in a

short note, to avoid giving him any surprise.

She returned down the gallery, meaning to apply for pen and ink to the

first person she could find: she could only, she knew, meet with a

friend; unless, by ill fortune, she should encounter Miss Margland, the

way to whose apartment she sedulously shunned.

No longer, however, quite so cautious, she stopt near the chamber of Sir

Hugh, and convinced by the stillness it was empty, could not resist

stepping into the apartment.

It looked despoiled and forsaken. Nothing was in its wonted order; his

favourite guns hung not over the chimney-piece; the corners of the room

were emptied of his sticks; his great chair was in a new place; no

cushions for his dogs were near the fire; the bedstead was naked.

She now felt petrified; she sunk on the floor, to ejaculate a prayer for

his safety, but knew not how to rise again, for terrour; nor which way

next to turn, nor what even to conjecture.

Thus she remained, till suspense grew worse than certainty, and she

forced herself from the room to seek some explanation. It was possible

the whole family residence might be changed to the back front of the

house. She descended the stairs with almost equal apprehension of

meeting any one or seeing no one. The stone passage was now nearly dark.

It was always the first part of the house that was lighted, as its

windows were small and high: but no preparations were now making for

that purpose. She went to the house-keeper's room, which was at the foot

of the stairs she had descended. The door was shut, and she could not

open it. She tried repeatedly, but vainly, to be heard by soft taps and

whisperings; no one answered.

Amazed, confounded, she turned slowly another away; not a soul was in

sight, not a sound within hearing. Every thing looked desolate, all the

family seemed to be vanished.

Insensibly, yet irresistibly, she now moved on towards the drawing-room.

The door was shut. She hesitated whether or not to attempt it. She

listened. She hoped to catch the voice of her uncle: but all was

inviolably still.

This was the only place of assembling in the evening; but her uncle

might have dropt asleep, and she would not hazard startling him with her

presence. She would sooner go to the hall at once, and be announced in

the common way by a servant.

But what was her astonishment in coming to the hall, to find neither

servant, light nor fire? and the marble pavement covered with trunks,

packing mats, straw, ropes, and boxes? Terrified and astonished, she

thought herself walking in her sleep. She could combine no ideas, either

good or bad, to account for such a scene, and she looked at it

bewildered and incredulous.

After a long hesitation, spent in wonder rather than thought, she at

length determined to enter the breakfast parlour, and ring the bell:

when the distant sound of a carriage, that was just entering the park,

made her shut herself into the room, hastily, but silently.

It advanced rapidly; she trembled; it was surely, she thought, her

Mother.

When it drove up to the portico, and she heard the house-bell ring, she

instinctively barred her door; but finding no one approach to the call,

while the bell was impatiently re-rung, her strong emotions of

expectation were taking her again into the hall: but as her hand was

upon the lock of the door, a light glimmered through the key hole. She

heard some step advancing, and precipitately drew back.

The hall-door was now opened, and a man enquired for a young lady just

come from Alresford.

'There's no young lady here at all,' was the answer, in the voice of

Jacob.

Finding it only her own driver, she ventured out; crying 'O Jacob! where

is my dear uncle?'

Jacob was, at first, incapable of all answer, through surprise at her

strange appearance; but then said, 'O Miss Camilla! you'll go nigh to

break your good heart when you knows it all! But how, you've got into

the house is what I can't guess; but I wish, for my poor master's sake,

it had been before now!'

Horrour crept through every vein of Camilla, in the explanation she

awaited of this fearful mystery. She motioned to the driver to stay,

returned back to the parlour, and beckoned, for she could not speak, to

Jacob to follow her.

When he came, and, shutting the door, was beginning a diffuse

lamentation, eagerness to avert lengthened suspense recovered her voice,

and she passionately exclaimed: 'Jacob! in two words, where is my

uncle?--Is he well?'

'Why, yes, Miss Camilla, considering--' he began; but Camilla, whose

fears had been fatal, interrupted him with fervent thanksgiving, till

she was called back from joy by the following words:

'He's gone away Miss Camilla! gone Lord knows where! given up all his

grand house-keeping, turned off almost all his poor servants, left this

fine place, to have it let to whoever will hire it, and is going to

live, he says, in some poor little lodging, till he can scrape together

wherewithal to pay off every thing for your papa.'

A thunder-bolt that had instantly destroyed her, would gratefully have

been received, in preference to this speech, by Camilla, who, casting up

her hands and eyes, exclaimed: 'Then am I the most detestable, as well

as the most wretched of human beings! My Father I have imprisoned!--my

Uncle I have turned from his house and home! and for thee, O my

Mother!--this is the reception I have prepared!'

Jacob tried to console her; but his account was only added torture.

The very instant he told her, that his master had received the news of

the arrest of Mr. Tyrold, he determined upon this violent plan; and

though the so speedy release, through the generosity of Mr. Westwyn, had

exceedingly calmed his first emotions, he would not change his purpose,

and protested he would never indulge himself in peace nor comfort more,

till he had cleared off their joint debts; of which he attributed the

whole fault to himself, from having lived up to the very verge of his

yearly income, when he ought, he said, considering there were so many

young people, to have always kept a few odd sums at hand for accidents.

'We all did what we could,' continued Jacob, 'to put him off from such a

thing, but all to no purpose; but if you'd been here, Miss Camilla,

you'd have done more with him than all of us put together: but he called

Miss Lavinia and all of us up to him, and said to us, I won't have

nobody tell this to my poor little girl, meaning you, Miss Camilla, till

I've got somewhere settled and comfortable; because of her kind heart,

says he.'

Tenderness so partial, at so suffering an instant, almost killed

Camilla. 'O Jacob,' she cried, 'where is now my dear generous uncle? I

will follow him in this chaise (rushing out as she spoke) I will be his

servant, his nurse, and attend him from morning to night!'

She hurried into the carriage as she spoke, and bade him give directions

to the postillion. But when she heard he was, at present, only at

Etherington, whence he was seeking a new abode, her head drooped, and

she burst into tears.

Jacob remained, he said, alone, to take care of all the things, and to

shew the place to such as might come.

Miss Margland had been at the house about three hours ago; and had met

Sir Hugh, who had come over, to give directions about what he would have

packed up; and he had read a letter from Miss Indy that was, and had

forgiven her; but he was sore vexed Miss Margland had come without Miss

Camilla; only she said Miss Camilla was at Mrs. Bellamy's, and she did

not call, because she thought it would be better to go back again, and

see more about Miss Indy, and so bring Miss Camilla next time; so she

wheedled his master to spare the chaise again, and let her go off

directly to settle every thing to Miss Indy's mind.

Camilla now repented she had not returned to Mrs. Berlinton's, there,

notwithstanding all objections, to have waited her recall; since there

her parents still believed her, and thence, under the protection of

Miss Margland, would in all probability summon her. To present herself,

after this barbarous aggravation of the calamities she had caused,

undemanded and unforgiven at Etherington, she thought impossible. She

enquired if, by passing the night at Cleves, she might have any chance

of seeing her uncle the next day. Jacob answered, no; but that Mr.

Tyrold himself, with a gentleman from Winchester, who thought of hiring

the house, were to be there early in the morning to take a survey of the

premises.

A meeting, thus circumstanced, with her Father, at a moment when he came

upon so direful a business, as parting with a place of which she had

herself occasioned the desertion, seemed to her insupportable: and she

resolved to return immediately to Belfont, to see there if her answer

from Lavinia contained any new directions; and if not, to again go to

London, and await final commands; without listening ever more to any

hopes, projects, or judgments of her own.

Beseeching the worthy Jacob to pardon her non-payment, with every kind

assurance that her uncle should know all his goodness, she told the

postillion to take her to Belfont.

He could go no further, he said, and that but a foot pace, than to

Alresford. Jacob marvelled, but blessed her, and Camilla, ejaculating,

'Adieu, dear happy Cleves!' was driven out of the park.

CHAPTER VIII

_A Last Resource_

To leave thus a spot where she had experienced such felicity; to see it

naked and forlorn, despoiled of its hospitality, bereft of its

master,--all its faithful old servants unrewarded dismissed; in disgrace

to have re-entered its pales, and in terrour to quit them;--to fly even

the indulgent Father, whose tenderness had withstood every evil with

which errour and imprudence could assail him, set her now all at war

with herself, and gave her sensations almost maddening. She reviewed her

own conduct without mercy; and though misery after misery had followed

every failing, all her sufferings appeared light to her repentant sense

of her criminality; for as criminal alone, she could consider what had

inflicted misfortunes upon persons so exemplary.

She arrived at Alresford so late, with the return horses, that she was

forced to order a room there for the night.

Though too much occupied to weigh well her lonely and improper

situation, at an inn, and at such hours, she was too uneasy to go to

bed, and too miserable for sleep. She sat up, without attempting to

read, write, or employ herself, patrolling her chamber in mournful

rumination.

Nearly as soon as it was light, she proceeded, and arrived at the house

of Bellamy as the servants were opening the window-shutters.

Fearfully she asked who was at home; and hearing only their mistress,

sent for Molly Mill, and enquired for the answer from Etherington; but

the lad had not yet brought any. She begged her to run to the inn, to

know what had detained him; and then, ordering the chaise to wait, went

to her sister.

Eugenia was gently rejoiced to see her, though evidently with encreased

personal unhappiness. Camilla would fain have spared her the history of

the desertion of Cleves; but it was an act that in its own nature must

be public; and she had no other way to account for her so speedy return.

Eugenia heard it with the most piercing affliction; and, in the fulness

of her heart, from this new blow, acknowledged the rapacity of Bellamy,

and the barbarity with which he now scrupled not to avow the sordid

motives of his marriage; cruelly lamenting the extreme simplicity with

which she had been beguiled into a belief of the sincerity and violence

of his attachment. 'For myself, however,' she continued, 'I now cease to

murmur. How can misfortune, personally, cut me deeper? But with pity,

indeed, I think of a new victim!'

She then put into her sister's hand a written paper she had picked up

the preceding evening in her room, and which, having no direction, and

being in the handwriting of Mrs. Berlinton, she had thought was a former

note to herself, accidentally dropt: but the first line undeceived her.

'I yield, at length, O Bellamy, to the eloquence of your friendship! on

Friday,--at one o'clock, I will be there--as you appoint.'

Camilla, almost petrified, read the lines. She knew better than her

sister the plan to which this was the consent; which to have been given

after her representations and urgency, appeared so utterly

unjustifiable, that, with equal grief and indignation, she gave up this

unhappy friend as wilfully lost; and her whole heart recoiled from ever

again entering her doors.

Retracing, nevertheless, her many amiable qualities, she knew not how,

without further effort, to leave her to her threatening fate; and

determined, at all risks, to put her into the hands of her brother,

whose timely knowledge of her danger might rescue her from public

exposure. She wrote therefore the following note:

'_To_ FREDERIC MELMOND, _Esq._

'Watch and save,--or you will lose your sister.

C.T.'

His address, from frequently hearing it, was familiar to her; she went

herself into the hall, to give the billet to a footman for the

post-office. She would not let her sister have any share in the

transaction, lest it should afterwards, by any accident, be known;

though, to give force to her warning, she risked without hesitation the

initials of her own name.

The repugnance, nevertheless, to going again to Mrs. Berlinton, pointed

out no new refuge; and she waited, with added impatience, for the answer

from Etherington, in hopes some positive direction might relieve her

cruel perplexity.

The answer, however, came not, and yet greater grew her distress. Molly

Mill brought word that when the messenger, who was a post-boy, returned,

he was immediately employed to drive a chaise to London. The people at

the inn heard him say something of wanting to go to 'Squire Bellamy's

with a letter; but he had not time. He was to come back however at

night.

To wait till he arrived seemed now to them both indispensable; but while

considering at what hour to order the chaise, they heard a horseman

gallop up to the house-door. 'Is it possible it should already be Mr.

Bellamy?' cried Eugenia, changing colour.

His voice, loud and angry, presently confirmed the suggestion. Eugenia,

trembling, said she would let him know whom he would find; and went

into the next room, where, as he entered, he roughly exclaimed, 'What

have you done with what I dropt out of my pocket-book?'

'There, Sir,' she answered, in the tone of firmness given by the

ascendance of innocence over guilt, 'There it is: but how you can

reconcile to yourself the delusions by which you must have obtained it I

know not. I hope only, for her sake, and for yours, such words will

never more meet my eyes.'

He was beginning a violent answer in a raised voice, when Eugenia told

him her sister was in the next room.

He then, in a lowered tone, said, 'I warrant, you have shewn her my

letter?'

The veracious Eugenia was incapable of saying no; and Bellamy, unable to

restrain his rage, though smothering his voice, through his shut teeth,

said, 'I shall remember this, I promise you! However, if she dare ever

speak of it, you may tell her, from me, I shall lock you up upon bread

and water for the rest of your life, and lay it at her door. I have no

great terms to keep with her now. What does she say about Cleves? and

that fool your uncle, who is giving up his house to pay your father's

debts? What has brought her back again?'

'She is returning to Grosvenor-square, to Miss Margland.'

'Miss Margland? There's no Miss Margland in Grosvenor-square; nor any

body else, that desires her company I can tell her. However, go, and get

her off, for I have other business for you.'

Eugenia, then, opening the door, found her sister almost demolished with

terrour and dismay. Silently, for some seconds, they sunk on the breast

of each other; horrour closing all speech, drying up even their tears.

'You have no message to give me!' Camilla at length whispered; 'I have,

perforce, heard all! and I will go;--though whither--'

She stopt, with a look of distress so poignant, that Eugenia, bursting

into tears, while tenderly she clung around her, said, 'My sister! my

Camilla! from me--from my house must you wander in search of an asylum!'

Bellamy here called her back. Camilla entreated she would inquire if he

knew whither Miss Margland was gone.

He now came in himself, bowing civilly, though with constraint, and told

her that Miss Margland was with Mrs. Macdersey, at Macdersey's own

lodgings; but that neither of them would any more be invited to

Grosvenor-square, after such ill-treatment of Mrs. Berlinton's brother.

Can you, thought Camilla, talk of ill-treatment? while, turning to her

sister, she said, 'Which way shall I now travel?'

Bellamy abruptly asked, if she was forced to go before dinner; but not

with an air of inviting any answer.

None could she make; she looked down, to save her eyes the sight of an

object they abhorred, embraced Eugenia, who seemed a picture of death;

and after saying adieu, added, 'If I knew whither you thought I should

go--that should be my guide?'

'Home, my dearest sister!'

'Drive then,' she cried, hurrying to the chaise, 'to Etherington.'

Bellamy advancing, said, with a smile, 'I see you are not much used to

travelling, Miss Camilla!' and gave the man a direction to Bagshot.

She began, now, to feel nearly careless what became of her; her

situation seemed equally desolate and disgraceful, and in gloomy

despondence, when she turned from the high road, and stopt at a small

inn, called the half-way-house, about nine miles from Etherington, she

resolved to remain there till she received her expected answer; ardently

hoping, if it were not yielding and favourable, the spot upon which she

should read it, would be that upon which her existence would close.

Alighting at the inn, which, from being upon a cross road, had little

custom, and was scarce more than a large cottage, she entered a small

parlour, discharged her chaise, and ordered a man and horse to go

immediately to Belfont.

Presently two or three gentle tappings at the door made her, though

fearfully, say, 'Come in!' A little girl then, with incessant low

courtesies, appeared, and looking smilingly in her face, said, 'Pray,

ma'am, a'n't you the Lady that was so good to us?'

'When? my dear? what do you mean?'

'Why, that used to give us cakes and nice things, and gave 'em to Jen,

and Bet, and Jack? and that would not let my dad be took up?'

Camilla now recollected the eldest little Higden, the washerwoman's

niece, and kindly enquired after her father, her aunt, and family.

'O, they all does pure now. My dad's had no more mishaps, and he hopes,

please God, to get on pretty well.'

'Sweet hearing!' cried Camilla, 'all my purposes have not, then, been

frustrated!'

With added satisfaction she learnt also that the little girl had a good

place, and a kind mistress. She begged her to hasten the Belfont

messenger, giving her in charge a short note for Eugenia, with a request

for the Etherington letter. She had spent nothing in London, save in

some small remembrances to one or two of Mrs. Berlinton's servants; and

though her chaise-hire had now almost emptied her purse, she thought

every expence preferable to either lengthening her suspense, or her

residence on the road.

In answer to the demand of what she would be pleased to have, she then

ordered tea. She had taken no regular meal for two days; and for two

nights had not even been in bed. But the wretchedness of her mind seemed

to render her invulnerable to fatigue.

The shaken state of her nerves warped all just consideration of the

impropriety of her present sojourn. Her judgment had no chance, where it

had her feelings to combat, and in the despondence of believing herself

parentally rejected, she was indifferent to appearances, and desperate

upon all other events: nor was she brought to any recollection, till she

was informed that the messenger, [who] she had concluded was half way to

Belfont, could not set out till the next morning: this small and private

inn not being able to furnish a man and horse at shorter warning.

To pass a second night at an inn, seemed, even in the calculations of

her own harassed faculties, utterly improper; and thus, driven to

extremity, she forced herself to order a chaise for home; though with a

repugnance to so compulsatory a meeting, that made her wish to be

carried in it a corpse.

The tardy prudence of the character naturally rash, commonly arrives but

to point repentance that it came not before. The only pair of horses the

little inn afforded, were now out upon other duty, and would not return

till the next day.

Almost to herself incredible seemed now her situation. She was compelled

to order a bed, and to go up stairs to a small chamber: but she could

not even wish to take any rest. 'I am an outcast,' she cried, 'to my

family; my Mother would _rather not see me_; my Father forbears to

demand me; and he--dearer to me than life!--by whom I was once chosen,

has forgotten me!--How may I support my heavy existence? and when will

it end?

Overpowered, nevertheless, by fatigue, in the middle of the night, she

[lay] down in her cloaths: but her slumbers were so broken by visions of

reproach, conveyed through hideous forms, and in menaces the most

terrific, that she gladly got up; preferring certain affliction to wild

and fantastic horrours.

Nearly as soon as it was light, she rang for little Peggy, whose

Southampton anecdotes had secured her the utmost respect from the

mistress of the inn, and heard that the express was set off.

Dreadful and dreary, in slow and lingering misery, passed the long

interval of his absence, though his rapid manner of travelling made it

short for the ground he traversed. She had now, however, bought

sufficient experience to bespeak a chaise against his return. The only

employment in which she could engage herself, was conversing with Peggy

Higden, who, she was glad to find, could not remember her name well

enough to make it known, through her pronunciation.

From the window, at length, she perceived a man and horse gallop up to

the house. She darted forth, exclaiming: 'Have you brought me any

answer?' And seizing the letter he held out, saw the hand-writing of

Lavinia, and shut herself into her room.

She opened it upon her knees, expecting to find within some lines from

her Mother; none, however, appeared, and sad and mortified, she laid

down the letter, and wept. 'So utterly, then,' she cried, 'have I lost

her? Even with her pen will she not speak to me? How early is my life

too long!'

Taking up again, then, the letter, she read what follows.

'_To Miss_ CAMILLA TYROLD.

'Alas, my dear sister, why can I not answer you according to our

mutual wishes? My Father is at Winchester, with a lawyer, upon the

affairs of Indiana; and my Mother is abroad with my uncle, upon

business which he has asked her to transact; but even were she

here ... could I, while the man awaits, intercede? have you

forgotten your ever fearful Lavinia? All that she dares, shall be

done,--but that you may neither think she has been hitherto

neglected, nor let your hopes expect too much speed from her future

efforts, I am painfully reduced to own to you, what already has

passed. But let it not depress you; you know when she is hurt, it is

not lightly; but you know, also, where she loves, her displeasure,

once passed, is never allowed to rise again.

'Yesterday I saw her looking at your picture; the moment seemed to

be happy, and I ventured to say; "Ah, poor Camilla!" but she turned

to me with quickness, and cried; "Lament rather, Lavinia, your

Father! Did he merit so little trust from his child, that her

affairs should be withheld from him till they cast him ... where I

found him!... Dread, memorable sight--when may I forget it!"

'Even after this, my dear Camilla, I hazarded another word, "she

will be miserable," I said, "my dear Mother, till she returns."

"She will return," she answered, "with Miss Margland. This is no

season for any expence that may be avoided; and Camilla, most of

all, must now see the duties of oeconomy. Were her understanding

less good, I should less heavily weigh her errours; but she sets it

apart, to abandon herself to her feelings. Alas! poor thing! they

will now themselves be her punishers! Let her not however despond;

tell her, when you write, her angelic Father forgives her; and tell

her she has always had my prayers, and will ever have my

blessing;--though I am not eager, as yet, to add to her own

reproaches, those she may experience from my presence."

'I knew not how to introduce this to my dearest Camilla, but your

messenger, and his haste, now forces me to say all, and say it

quick. He brings, I find, the letter from Belfont, where already we

had heard you were removed through Miss Margland, much to the

approbation of my Father and my Mother, who hope your sojourn there

is a solace to you both. Adieu, my dearest sister--your messenger

cannot wait.

'LAVINIA TYROLD.'

'She will not see me then!' cried Camilla, 'she cannot bear my sight! O

Death! let me not pray to thee also in vain!'

Weak from inanition, confused from want of sleep, harassed with fatigue,

and exhausted by perturbation, she felt now so ill, that she solemnly

believed her fatal wish quick approaching.

The landlord of the inn entered to say that the chaise she had ordered

was at the door; and put down upon the table the bill of what she had to

pay.

Whither to turn, what course to take, she knew not; though to remain

longer at an inn, while persuaded life was on its wane, was dreadful;

yet how present herself at home, after the letter she had received? what

asylum was any where open to her?

She begged the landlord to wait, and again read the letter of Lavinia,

when, startled by what was said of abandoning herself to her feelings,

she saw that her immediate duty was to state her situation to her

parents. She desired, therefore, the chaise might be put up, and wrote

these lines: