'I could not, unhappily, stay at Eugenia's; nor can I return to

Mrs. Berlinton; I am now at the half-way-house where I shall wait

for commands. My Lavinia will tell me what I may be ordered to do.

I am ill,--and earnestly I pray with an illness from which I may

rise no more. When my Father--my Mother, hear this, they will

perhaps accord me to be blest again with their sight; the brevity

of my career may, to their kindness, expiate its faults; they may

pray for me where my own prayers may be too unsanctified to be

heard; they may forgive me ... though my own forgiveness never more

will quiet this breast! Heaven bless and preserve them; their

unoffending daughters; and my ever loved uncle!

'CAMILLA TYROLD.'

She then rang the bell, and desired this note might go by express to

Etherington.

But this, the waiter answered, was impossible; the horse on which the

messenger had set out to Belfont, though it had only carried him the

first stage, and brought him back the last, had galloped so hard, that

his master would not send it out again the same day; and they had but

that one.

She begged he would see instantly for some other conveyance.

The man who was come back from Belfont, he answered, would be glad to be

discharged, as he wanted to go to rest.

She then took up the bill, and upon examining the sum total, found, with

the express, the chaise in which she came the last stage, that which she

ordered to take her to Etherington, and the expence of her residence, it

amounted to half a crown beyond what she possessed.

She had only, she knew, to make herself known as the niece of Sir Hugh

Tyrold, to be trusted by all the environs; but to expose herself in

this helpless, and even pennyless state, appeared to her to be a

degradation to every part of her family.

To enclose the bill to Etherington was to secure its being paid; but the

sentence, _Camilla most of all must now see the duties of oeconomy_,

made her revolt from such a step.

All she still possessed of pecuniary value she had in her pocket: the

seal of her Father, the ring of her Mother, the watch of her Uncle, and

the locket of Edgar Mandlebert. With one of these she now determined to

part, in preference to any new exposure at Etherington, or to incurring

the smallest debt. She desired to be left alone, and took them from her

pocket, one by one, painfully ruminating upon which she could bear to

lose. 'It may not, she thought, be for long; for quick, I hope, my

course will end!--yet even for an hour,--even for the last final

moment--to give up such dear symbols of all that has made my happiness

in life!----'

She looked at them, kissed and pressed them to her heart; spoke to them

as if living and understanding representatives of their donors, and

bestowed so much time in lamenting caresses and hesitation, that the

waiter came again, while yet she was undetermined.

She desired to speak with the mistress of the house.

Instinctively she now put away the gifts of her parents; but between her

uncle and Edgar she wavered. She blushed, however, at her demur, and the

modesty of duty made her put up the watch. Taking, then, an agitating

last view of a locket which circumstances had rendered inappreciable to

her, 'Ah! not in vain,' she cried, 'even now shall I lose what once was

a token so bewitching.... Dear precious locket! Edgar even yet would be

happy you should do me one last kind office! generously, benevolently,

he would rejoice you should spare me still one last menacing shame!'--

When Mrs. Marl, the landlady, came in, deeply colouring, she put it into

her hand, turning her eyes another way, while she said; 'Mrs. Marl, I

have not quite money enough to pay the bill; but if you will keep this

locket for a security, you will be sure to be paid by and by.'

Mrs. Marl looked at it with great admiration, and then, with yet greater

wonder, at Camilla. ''Tis pretty, indeed, ma'am,' she said; ''twould be

pity to sell it. However, I'll shew it my husband.'

Mr. Marl soon came himself, with looks somewhat less satisfied, 'Tis a

fine bauble, ma'am,' cried he, 'but I don't much understand those

things; and there's nobody here can tell me what it's worth. I'd rather

have my money, if you please.'

Weakened now in body, as well as spirits, she burst into tears. Alas!

she thought, how little do my friends conjecture to what I am reduced!

She offered, however, the watch, and the countenance of Mr. Marl lost

its gloom.

'This,' said he, 'is something like! A gold watch one may be sure to get

one's own for; but such a thing as that may'n't fetch six-pence, fine as

it looks.'

Mrs. Marl objected to keeping both; but her husband said he saw no harm

in it; and Camilla begged her note might be sent without delay.

A labourer, after some search, was found, who undertook, for handsome

pay, to carry it on foot to the rectory.

CHAPTER IX

_A Spectacle_

The messenger returned not till midnight; what, then, was the

consternation of Camilla that he brought no answer! She suspected he had

not found the house; she doubted if the letter had been delivered; but

he affirmed he had put it into the hands of a maid-servant, though, as

it was late, he had come away directly, and not thought of waiting for

any answer.

It is not very early in life we learn how little is performed, for which

no precaution is taken. Care is the offspring of disappointment; and

sorrow and repentance commonly hang upon its first lessons. Unused to

transact any sort of business for herself, she had expected, in sending

a letter, an answer as a thing of course, and had now only herself to

blame for not having ordered him to stay. She consoled herself, however,

that she was known to be but nine miles distant from the rectory, and

that any commands could be conveyed to her nearly in an hour.

What they might be, became now, therefore, her sole anxiety. Would not

her Mother write? After an avowal such as she had made of her desolate,

if not dying condition, would she not pardon and embrace her? Was it

not even possible she might come herself?

This idea mingled emotions of a contrariety scarcely supportable. 'O

how,' she cried, 'shall I see her? Can joy blend with such terrour? Can

I wish her approach, yet not dare to meet her eye?--that eye which never

yet has looked at me, but to beam with bright kindness!--though a

kindness that, even from my childhood, seemed to say, Camilla, be

blameless--or you break your Mother's heart!... my poor unhappy Mother!

she has always seemed to have a presentiment, I was born to bring her to

sorrow!'

Expectation being now, for this night, wholly dead, the excess of her

bodily fatigue urged her to take some repose: but her ever eager

imagination made her apprehensive her friends might find her too well,

and suspect her representation was but to alarm them into returning

kindness. A fourth night, therefore, passed without sleep, or the

refreshment of taking off her cloaths; and by the time the morning sun

shone in upon her apartment, she was too seriously disordered to make

her illness require the aid of fancy. She was full of fever, faint,

pallid, weak, and shaken by nervous tremors. 'I think,' she cried, 'I am

now certainly going; and never was death so welcomed by one so young. It

will end in soft peace my brief, but stormy passage, and I shall owe to

its solemn call the sacred blessing of my offended Mother!'

Tranquillised by this hope, and this idea, she now lost all sufferings

but those of disease: her mind grew calm, her spirits serene: all fears

gave way to the certainty of soothing kindness, all grief was buried in

the solemnity of expected dissolution.

But this composure outlived not the first hours of the morning; as they

vainly advanced, producing no loved presence, no letter, no summons;

solicitude revived, disappointment sunk her heart, and dread preyed

again upon her nerves. She started at every sound; every breath of wind

seemed portentous; she listened upon the stairs; she dragged her feeble

limbs to the parlour, to be nearer at hand; she forced them back again

to her bed-room, to strain her aching eyes out of the window; but still

no voice demanded her, and no person approached.

Peggy, who repeatedly came to tell her the hour, now assured her it was

dinner time: unable to eat, she was heedless of the hint this conveyed,

and it obtained from her no orders, till Peggy gave her innocently to

understand the expectations of her host and hostess; but when, at five

o'clock, the table was served, all force and courage forsook her. To be

left thus to herself, when her situation was known; to be abandoned at

an inn where she had confessed she thought herself dying; 'My Mother,'

she cried, 'cannot forgive me! my Father himself deserts me! O Edgar!

you did well to fly so unhallowed a connexion!'

She left her dinner for Peggy, and crawling up stairs, cast herself upon

the bed, with a desperate supplication she might rise from it no more.

'The time,' cried she, 'is past for consolation, and dead for hope! my

parents' own prayers have been averted, and their prognostics fulfilled.

_May the dread forfeiture_, said my dearest Father, _not extend through

my daughters_!--Alas! Lionel himself has not brought upon him a disgrace

such as I have done!--_May Heaven_, said my honoured Mother, _spare me

evil under your shape at least_!--but under that it has come to her the

most heavily!'

Dissolving, then, in sorrowing regret, recollections of maternal

tenderness bathed her pillow with her tears, and reversing all the

inducements to her sad resignation, abolished every wish but to fall

again at the parental feet. 'To see,' cried she, 'once more, the dear

authors of my being! to receive their forgiveness, their blessing ... to

view again their honoured countenances!--to hear once more their loved

speech.... Alas! was it I that fled the voice of my Mother? That voice

which, till that moment, had been music to my mind! and never reached my

ear, but as the precursor of all kindness! why did I not sooner at once

kneel at her feet, and seek my lost path under my first and best guide?'

Shocked and contrite in this tardy view of the step she ought to have

taken, she now languished to petition for pardon even for an offence

unknown; and rising, took up a pen to relate the whole transaction. But

her head was confused, and the attempt shewed her she was more ill than

she had even herself suspected. She thought all rapidly advancing, and

enthusiastically rejoiced.

Yet a second time she took the pen; but it had not touched the paper,

when a buzzing, confused, stifled sort of noise from without drew her to

the window.

She then perceived an immense crowd of people approaching slowly, and

from a distance, towards the inn.

As they advanced, she was struck to hear no encrease of noise, save from

the nearer trampling of feet. No voice was distinguishable; no one

spoke louder than the rest; they seemed even to tread the ground with

caution. They consisted of labourers, workmen, beggars, women, and

children, joined by some accidental passengers: yet the general 'hum of

many' was all that was heard; they were silent though numerous, solemn

though mixt.

As they came near, she thought she perceived something in the midst of

them like a bier, and caught a glimpse of a gentleman's habit. Startled,

she drew in; but soon, upon another view, discerned clearly a

well-dressed man, stretched out his full length, and apparently dead.

Recoiling, shuddering, she hastily shut the window, 'Yet why,' she

cried, the next moment, 'and whence this emotion? Is not death what I am

meeting?--seeking?--desiring?--what I court? what I pray for?'

She sighed, walked feebly up and down the room, breathed hard and with

effort, and then forced herself again to open the window, determined to

contemplate steadily the anticipating object of her fervent demand.

Yet not without severe self-compulsion she flung up again the sash; but

when she looked out, the crowd alone remained; the bier was gone.

Whether carried on, or brought into the house, she now wished to know,

with some particulars, of whom it might be, and what belonged to so

strange and horrible an appearance.

She rang for little Peggy; but Peggy came not. She rang again, but no

one answered the bell. She opened her door, meaning to descend to her

little parlour for information; but the murmuring buzz she had before

heard upon the road, was now within the house, which seemed filled with

people, all busy and occupied, yet speaking low, and appearing to

partake of a general awe.

She could not venture to encounter so many spectators; she shut her

door, to wait quietly till this first commotion should be passed.

This was not for more than an hour; when observing, from her window,

that the crowd was dispersed, she again listened at the door, and found

that the general disturbance was succeeded by a stillness the most

profound.

She then rang again, and little Peggy appeared, but looking pale and

much frightened.

Camilla asked what had been the matter.

'O ma'am,' she answered, crying, 'here's been murder! A gentleman has

been murdered--and nobody knows who he is, nor who has done it!'

She then related that he had been found dead in a wood hard by, and one

person calling another, and another, he had been brought to the inn to

be owned.

'And is he here now?' with an involuntary shudder asked Camilla.

Yes, she answered, but her mistress had ordered her not to own it, for

fear of frightening the young lady; and said he would soon be carried

away.

The tale was shocking, and, though scarce conscious why, Camilla desired

Peggy to stay with her.

The little girl was most willing; but she was presently called down

stairs; and Camilla, with strong shame of nameless fears and weak

horrour, strove to meditate to some use upon this scene.

But her mind was disturbed, her composure was gone; her thoughts were

broken, abrupt, unfixed, and all upon which she could dwell with any

steadiness, was the desire of one more appeal to her family, that yet

they would consent to see her, if they received it in time; or that they

should know in what frame of mind she expired, should it bring them too

late.

With infinite difficulty, she then wrote the following lines; every

bending down of her head making it ache nearly to distraction.

'Adieu, my dearest parents, if again it is denied me to see you!

Adieu, my darling sisters! my tender uncle! I ask not now your

forgiveness; I know I shall possess it fully; my Father never

withheld it,--and my Mother, if against herself alone I had sinned,

would have been equally lenient; would have probed but to heal,

have corrected, but to pardon. O tenderest of united partners!

bless, then, the early ashes of your erring, but adoring daughter,

who, from the moment she inflicted one wound upon your bosoms, has

found existence intolerable, and prays now but for her earthly

release!

'CAMILLA TYROLD.'

This she gave to Peggy, with a charge that, at any expence, it might be

conveyed to the rectory at Etherington immediately.

'And shall I not,' thought she, when she had rested from this exertion,

'and may I not at such a period, with innocence, with propriety, write

one poor word to him who was so near becoming first to me in all

things?'

She again took her pen, but had only written 'O Edgar! in this last

farewell be all displeasure forgotten!--from the first to the final

moment of my short life, dear and sole possessor of my heart!'--when the

shooting anguish of her head stopt her hand, and hastily writing the

direction, lest she could write no more, she, with difficulty added,

'_Not to be delivered till I am dead_;' and was forced to lie down, and

shut all light from her strained and aching eyes.

Peggy presently brought her word that all the horses were out, and every

body was engaged, and that the note could not possibly go till the next

day.

Extremely disappointed, she begged to speak with Mrs. Marl; who sent her

word she was much engaged, but would wait upon her as soon as she was

able.

Vainly, however, she expected her; it grew dusk; she felt herself worse

every moment; flushed with fever, or shivering with cold, and her head

nearly split asunder with agony. She determined to go once more down

stairs, and offer to her host himself any reward he could claim, so he

would undertake the immediate delivery of the letter.

With difficulty she arose; with slow steps, and tottering, she

descended; but as she approached her little parlour, she heard voices in

it, and stopt. They spoke low, and she could not distinguish them. The

door of an adjoining room was open, and by its stillness empty; she

resolved to ring there, to demand to speak with Mr. Marl. But as she

dragged her weak limbs into the apartment, she saw, stretched out upon a

large table, the same form, dress, and figure she had seen upon the

bier.

Starting, almost fainting, but too much awed to call out, she held

trembling by the door.

The bodily feebleness which impeded her immediate retreat, gave force to

a little mental reflexion: Do I shrink thus, thought she, from what so

earnestly I have prayed to become ... and so soon I must represent ... a

picture of death?

She now impelled herself towards the table. A cloth covered the face;

she stood still, hesitating if she had power to remove it: but she

thought it a call to her own self-examination; and though mentally

recoiling, advanced. When close to the table, she stood still, violently

trembling. Yet she would not allow herself to retreat. She now put forth

her hand; but it shook suspended over the linen, without courage to draw

it aside. At length, however, with enthusiastic self-compulsion,

slightly and fearfully, she lifted it up ... but instantly, and with

instinctive horrour, snatched her hand away, and placed it before her

shut eyes.

She felt, now, she had tried herself beyond her courage, and, deeply

moved, was fain to retreat; but in letting down her hand, to see her

way, she found she had already removed the linen from a part of the

face, and the view she unintentionally caught almost petrified her.

For some instants she stood motionless, from want of strength to stir,

but with closed eyes, that feared to confirm their first surmise; but

when, turning from the ghastly visage, she attempted, without another

glance, to glide away, an unavoidable view of the coat, which suddenly

she recognized, put her conjecture beyond all doubt, that she now saw

dead before her the husband of her sister.

Resentment, in gentle minds, however merited and provoked, survives not

the breath of the offender. With the certainty no further evil can be

practised, perishes vengeance against the culprit, though not hatred of

the guilt: and though, with the first movement of sisterly feelings, she

would have said, Is Eugenia then released? the awe was too great, his

own change was too solemn. He was now where no human eye could follow,

no human judgment overtake him.

Again she endeavoured to escape the dreadful scene, but her shaking

limbs were refractory, and would not support her. The mortal being

requires use to be reconciled to its own visible mortality; dismal is

its view; grim, repulsive, terrific its aspect.

But no sooner was her head turned from the dire object, than alarm for

her sister took possession of her soul; and with what recollection she

possessed, she determined to go to Belfont.

An idea of any active service invigorates the body as well as the mind.

She made another effort to depart, but a glance she knew not how to

avoid shewed her, upon the coat of the right arm and right side of this

ghastly figure, large splashes of blood.

With horrour thus accumulate, she now sunk upon the floor, inwardly

exclaiming: He is murdered indeed!... and where may be Eugenia?

A woman who had in charge to watch by the corpse, but who had privately

stolen out for some refreshment, now returning, saw with affright the

new person in the room, and ran to call Mrs. Marl; who, alarmed also at

the sight of the young lady, and at her deplorable condition, assisted

the woman to remove her from the apartment, and convey her to the

chamber, where she was laid down upon the bed, though she resisted being

undressed, and was seized with an aguish shivering fit, while her eyes

seemed emitting sparks of fire.

'It is certainly now,' cried she, 'over, and hence I move no more!'

The joy with which, a few minutes before, she would have welcomed such a

belief, was now converted into an awe unspeakable, undefinable. The wish

of death is commonly but disgust of life, and looks forward to nothing

further than release from worldly care:--but the something yet

beyond ... the something unknown, untried, yet to come, _the bourne

whence no traveller returns_ to prepare succeeding passengers for what

they may expect, now abruptly presented itself to her consideration, ...

but came to scare, not to soothe.

All here, she cried, I have wished to leave ... but ... have I fitted

myself for what I am to meet?

Conscience now suddenly took the reins from the hands of imagination,

and a mist was cleared away that hitherto, obscuring every duty by

despondence, had hidden from her own perceptions the faulty basis of her

desire. Conscience took the reins--and a mist was cleared away that had

concealed from her view the cruelty of this egotism.

Those friends, it cried, which thus impatiently thou seekest to quit,

have they not loved, cherished, reared thee with the most exquisite care

and kindness? If they are offended, who has offended them? If thou art

now abandoned, may it not be from necessity, or from accident? When thou

hast inflicted upon them the severe pain of harbouring anger against

what is so dear to them, wouldst thou load them with regret that they

manifested any sensibility of thy errours? Hast thou plunged thy house

in calamity, and will no worthier wish occur to thee, than to leave it

to its sorrows and distress, with the aggravating pangs of causing thy

afflicting, however blamable self-desertion? of coming to thee ...

perhaps even now!... with mild forgiveness, and finding thee a

self-devoted corpse?--not fallen, indeed, by the profane hand of daring

suicide, but equally self-murdered through wilful self-neglect.

Had the voice been allowed sound which spoke this dire admonition, it

could scarcely with more horrour, or keener repentance have struck her.

'That poor man,' she cried, 'now delivering up his account, by whatever

hand he perished, since less principled, less instructed than myself,

may be criminal, perhaps, with less guilt!'

The thought now of her Father,--the piety he had striven to inculcate

into her mind; his resignation to misfortune, and his trust through

every suffering, all came home to her heart, with religious veneration;

and making prayer succeed to remorse, guided her to what she knew would

be his guidance if present, and she desired to hear the service for the

sick.

Peggy could not read; Mrs. Marl was too much engaged; the whole house

had ample employment, and her request was unattainable.

She then begged they would procure her a prayer-book, that she might try

to read herself; but her eyes, heavy, aching, and dim, glared upon the

paper, without distinguishing the print from the margin.

'I am worse!' she cried faintly, 'my wish comes fast upon me! Ah! not

for my punishment let it finally arrive!'

With terror, however, even more than with malady, she now trembled. The

horrible sight she had witnessed, brought death before her in a new

view. She feared she had been presumptuous; she felt that her

preparations had all been worldly, her impatience wholly selfish. She

called back her wish, with penitence and affright: her agitation became

torture, her regret was aggravated to remorse, her grief to despair.

CHAPTER X

_A Vision_

When the first violence of this paroxysm of sorrow abated, Camilla again

strove to pray, and found that nothing so much stilled her. Yet, her

faculties confused, hurried, and in anguish, permitted little more than

incoherent ejaculations. Again she sighed for her Father; again the

spirit of his instructions recurred, and she enquired who was the

clergyman of the parish, and if he would be humane enough to come and

pray by one who had no claim upon him as a parishioner.

Peggy said he was a very good gentleman, and never refused even the

poorest person, that begged his attendance.

'O go to him, then,' cried she, 'directly! Tell him a sick and helpless

stranger implores that he will read to her the prayers for the dying!...

Should I yet live ... they will compose and make me better;--if not ...

they will give me courage for my quick exit.'

Peggy went forth, and she lay her beating head upon the pillow, and

endeavoured to quiet her nerves for the sacred ceremony she demanded.

It was dark, and she was alone; the corpse she had just quitted seemed

still bleeding in full view. She closed her eyes, but still saw it; she

opened them, but it was always there. She felt nearly stiff with

horrour, chilled, frozen, with speechless apprehension.

A slumber, feverish nearly to delirium, at length surprised her harassed

faculties; but not to afford them rest. Death, in a visible figure,

ghastly, pallid, severe, appeared before her, and with its hand, sharp

and forked, struck abruptly upon her breast. She screamed--but it was

heavy as cold, and she could not remove it. She trembled; she shrunk

from its touch; but it had iced her heart-strings. Every vein was

congealed; every stiffened limb stretched to its full length, was hard

as marble: and when again she made a feeble effort to rid her oppressed

lungs of the dire weight that had fallen upon them, a voice hollow,

deep, and distant, dreadfully pierced her ear, calling out: 'Thou hast

but thy own wish! Rejoice, thou murmurer, for thou diest!' Clearer,

shriller, another voice quick vibrated in the air: 'Whither goest thou,'

it cried, 'and whence comest thou?'

A voice from within, over which she thought she had no controul, though

it seemed issuing from her vitals, low, hoarse, and tremulous, answered,

'Whither I go, let me rest! Whence I come from let me not look back!

Those who gave me birth, I have deserted; my life, my vital powers I

have rejected.' Quick then another voice assailed her, so near, so loud,

so terrible ... she shrieked at its horrible sound. 'Prematurely,' it

cried, 'thou art come, uncalled, unbidden; thy task unfulfilled, thy

peace unearned. Follow, follow me! the Records of Eternity are opened.

Come! write with thy own hand thy claims, thy merits to mercy!' A

repelling self-accusation instantaneously overwhelmed her. 'O, no! no!

no!' she exclaimed, 'let me not sign my own miserable insufficiency!' In

vain was her appeal. A force unseen, yet irresistible, impelled her

forward. She saw the immense volumes of Eternity, and her own hand

involuntarily grasped a pen of iron, and with a velocity uncontroulable

wrote these words: 'Without resignation, I have prayed for death: from

impatience of displeasure, I have desired annihilation: to dry my own

eyes, I have left ... pitiless, selfish, unnatural!... a Father the

most indulgent, a Mother almost idolizing, to weep out their's!' Her

head would have sunk upon the guilty characters; but her eye-lids

refused to close, and kept them glaring before her. They became, then,

illuminated with burning sulphur. She looked another way; but they

partook of the same motion; she cast her eyes upwards, but she saw the

characters still; she turned from side to side; but they were always her

object. Loud again sounded the same direful voice: 'These are thy

deserts; write now thy claims:--and next,--and quick,--turn over the

immortal leaves, and read thy doom....' 'Oh, no!' she cried, 'Oh,

no!... O, let me yet return! O, Earth, with all thy sorrows, take,

take me once again, that better I may learn to work my way to that last

harbour, which rejecting the criminal repiner, opens its soft bosom to

the firm, though supplicating sufferer!' In vain again she

called;--pleaded, knelt, wept in vain. The time, she found, was past;

she had slighted it while in her power; it would return to her no more;

and a thousand voices at once, with awful vibration, answered aloud to

every prayer, 'Death was thy own desire!' Again, unlicensed by her will,

her hand seized the iron instrument. The book was open that demanded her

claims. She wrote with difficulty ... but saw that her pen made no mark!

She looked upon the page, when she thought she had finished, ... but

the paper was blank!... Voices then, by hundreds, by thousands, by

millions, from side to side, above, below, around, called out, echoed

and re-echoed, 'Turn over, turn over ... and read thy eternal doom!' In

the same instant, the leaf, untouched, burst open ... and ... she awoke.

But in a trepidation so violent, the bed shook under her, the cold

sweat, in large drops, fell from her forehead, and her heart still

seemed labouring under the adamantine pressure of the inflexibly cold

grasp of death. So exalted was her imagination, so confused were all her

thinking faculties, that she stared with wild doubt whether then, or

whether now, what she experienced were a dream.

In this suspensive state, fearing to call, to move, or almost to

breathe, she remained, in perfect stillness, and in the dark, till

little Peggy crept softly into the chamber.

Certain then of her situation, 'This has been,' she cried, 'only a

vision--but my conscience has abetted it, and I cannot shake it off.'

When she became calmer, and further recollected herself, she anxiously

enquired if the clergyman would not come.

Peggy, hesitatingly, acknowledged he had not been sent for; her mistress

had imagined the request proceeded from a disturbance of mind, owing to

the sight of the corpse, and said she was sure, after a little sleep, it

would be forgotten.

'Alas!' said Camilla, disappointed, 'it is more necessary than ever! my

senses are wandering; I seem hovering between life and death--Ah! let

not my own fearful fancies absorb this hour of change, which religious

rites should consecrate!'

She then told Peggy to plead for her to her mistress, and assure her

that nothing else, after the dreadful shock she had received, could

still her mind.

Mrs. Marl, not long after came into the room herself; and enquiring how

she did, said, if she was really bent upon such a melancholy thing, the

clergyman had luckily just called, and would read the service to her

directly, if it would give her any comfort.

'O, great and infinite comfort!' she cried, and begged he might come

immediately, and read to her the prayer for those of whom there is but

small hope of recovery. She would have risen, that she might kneel; but

her limbs would not second her desire, and she was obliged to lie still

upon the outside of the bed. Peggy drew the curtains, to shade her

eyes, as a candle was brought into the room; but when she heard Mrs.

Marl say: 'Come in, Sir,'--and 'here's the prayer-book;' overpowered

with tender recollection of her Father, to whom such offices were

frequent, she burst into an agony of tears, and hid her face upon the

pillow.

She soon, however, recovered, and the solemnity of the preparation

overawed her sorrow. Mrs. Marl placed the light as far as possible from

the bed, and when Camilla waved her hand in token of being ready, said,

'Now, Sir, if you please.'

He complied, though not immediately; but no sooner had he begun, no

sooner devoutly, yet tremblingly, pronounced, _O Father of Mercies!_

than a faint scream issued from the bed.--

He stopt; but she did not speak; and after a short pause, he resumed:

but not a second sentence was pronounced when she feebly ejaculated, 'Ah

heaven!' and the book fell from his hands.

She strove to raise her head; but could not; she opened, however, the

side curtain, to look out; he advanced, at the same moment, to the foot

of the bed ... fixed his eyes upon her face, and in a voice that seemed

to come from his soul, exclaimed, 'Camilla!'

With a mental emotion that, for an instant, restored her strength, she

drew again the curtain, covered up her face, and sobbed even audibly,

while the words, 'O Edgar!' vainly sought vent.

He attempted not to unclose the curtain she had drawn, but with a deep

groan, dropping upon his knees on the outside, cried, 'Great God!' but

checking himself, hastily arose, and motioning to Mrs. Marl and to

Peggy, to move out of hearing, said, through the curtain; 'O Camilla!

what dire calamity has brought this about?--speak, I implore!--why are

you here?--why alone? speak! speak!'

He heard she was weeping, but received no answer, and with energy next

to torture exclaimed; 'Refuse not to trust me!--recollect our long

friendship--forgive--forget its alienation!--By all you have ever

valued--by all your wonted generosity--I call--I appeal.... Camilla!

Camilla!--your silence rends my soul!'

Camilla had no utterance, yet could not resist this urgency, and gently

through the opening of the curtain, put forth her feeble hand.

He seemed affected to agony; he held it between each of his own, and

while softly he uttered, 'O ever--unchangeably generous Camilla!' she

felt it moistened with his tears.

Too weak for the new sensation this excited, she drew it away, and the

violence of her emotion menacing an hysteric fit, Mrs. Marl came back to

her, and wringing his hands as he looked around the room, he tore

himself away.

CHAPTER XI

_Means to still Agitation_

Declining all aid, Camilla continued in the same position, wrapt up,

coveting the dark, and stifling sighs that were rising into sobs, till

she heard a gentle tap at her door.

She started, but still hid herself: Mrs. Marl was already gone; Peggy

answered the summons, and returned to the bedside, with a note in her

hand, begging Camilla to take it, as it came from the gentleman who was

to have read the prayers.

'Is he then gone?' cried she, in a voice announcing deep disappointment.

'Yes, he went directly, my dear Lady.'

She threw the covering from her face, and with uplifted hands,

exclaimed; 'O Edgar! could you see me thus ... and leave me?'--Yet

eagerly seizing the letter, called for a candle, and strove to read it.

But the characters seemed double to her weak and dazzled eyes, and she

was forced to relinquish the attempt. She pressed it to her bosom, and

again covered herself up.

Something, nevertheless, like internal revival, once more, to her own

unspeakable amazement, began fluttering at her breast. She had seen the

beloved of her heart--dearer to her far than the life she thought

herself resigning; seen him penetrated to anguish by her situation,

awakened to the tenderest recollections, and upon her hand had dropt a

testimony of his sensibility, that, dead as she had thought herself to

the world, its views, its hopes, its cares, passed straight to her

heart--that wonderful repository of successive emotions, whence the

expulsion of one species of interest but makes way for the entrance of

another; and which vainly, while yet in mortal life, builds, even from

hour to hour, upon any chasm of mortal solicitude.

While wrapt up in this reverie, poignantly agitating, yet undefinably

soothing, upon the return of Edgar to England, and his astonishing

appearance in her room, her attention was again aroused by another

gentle tap at the door.

Peggy opened it, and left the room; but soon came back, to beg an answer

to the note, for which the gentleman was waiting upon the stairs.

'Waiting?' she repeated, in extreme trepidation, 'is he not then gone?'

'No ma'am, only out of the room; he can't go away without the answer, he

says.'

A sensation of pleasure was now so new to Camilla, as almost to be too

potent either for her strength or her intellects. She doubted all around

her, doubted what she heard, doubted even her existence. Edgar, could it

be Edgar who was waiting for an answer?... who was under the same

roof--who had been in the same room--who was now separated from her but

by a thin wainscot?--'O no, no, no!' she cried, 'my senses all delude

me! one vision after another beguiles my deranged imagination!' Yet she

called Peggy to her again, again asked her if it were indeed true; and,

bidding her once more bring the candle, the new spirit with which she

was invigorated, enabled her to persevere in her efforts, till she made

out the following lines; which were sealed, but not directed.

'The sorrow, the tumult of my soul, I attempt not to

paint.--Forgive, O Camilla! an intrusion which circumstances made

resistless. Deign to bury in kind oblivion all remembrance but of

our early friendship--our intuitive attachment, our confidence,

esteem, and happy juvenile intercourse; and under such

auspices--animated as they are innocent--permit me to hasten Mrs.

Tyrold to this spot, or trust me--I conjure--with the mystery of

this dreadful desolation--O Camilla!--by all the scenes that have

passed between us--by the impression indelible they have engraved

upon my heart, wound not the most faithful of your friends by

rejecting his services!

E. M.'

Dissolved in tears of tenderness, relieving, nay delightful, she

immediately sent him word that she accepted his kind office, and should

feel eternal gratitude if he would acquaint her friends with her

situation.

Peggy soon informed her the gentleman was gone; and she then inquired

why he had been brought to her as a clergyman.

The little girl gave the account with the utmost simplicity. Her

mistress, she said, knew the gentleman very well, who was 'Squire

Mandlebert, and lived at a great house not many miles off; and had just

alighted to bait his horses, as she went to ask about sending for the

clergyman. He inquired who was ill; and her Mistress said it was a Lady

who had gone out of her mind, by seeing a dead body, and raved of

nothing but having prayers read to her; which her husband would do, when

his house was clear, if the humour lasted: for they had nobody to send

three miles off; and by drawing the curtains, she would not know if it

was a clergyman or not. The young 'Squire then asked if she was a lodger

or a traveller, and her mistress answered: 'She's a traveller, Sir; and

if it had not been for Peggy's knowing her, we should have been afraid

who she might be; for she stays here, and never pays us; only she has

given us a watch and a locket for pledges.' Then he asked on some more

questions, continued Peggy, and presently desired to see the locket; and

when he had looked at it, he turned as white as a sheet, and said he

must see the lady. Her mistress said she was laid down upon the bed, and

she could not send in a gentleman; unless it was her husband, just to

quiet her poor head by reading her a prayer or too. So then the 'Squire

said he'd take the prayer book and read to her himself, if she'd spare

time to go in the room first, and shut up the curtains. So her mistress

said no, at first; but Peggy said the poor lady fretted on so badly,

that presently up they came together.

Ah! dear darling locket! internally cried Camilla, how from the first

have I loved--how to the last will I prize it! Ah dear darling locket!

how for ever--while I live--will I wear it in my bosom!

A calm now took place of her agonies that made her seem in a renovated

existence, till sleep, by gentle approaches, stole upon her again: not

to bring to her the dread vision which accompanied its first return; nor

yet to allow her tranquil repose. A softer form appeared before her;

more afflictive, though not so horrible; it was the form of her Mother;

all displeasure removed from her penetrating countenance; no longer in

her dying child viewing the child that had offended her; yet while

forgiving and embracing, seeing her expire in her arms.

She awakened, affrighted,--she started, she sat upright; she called

aloud upon her mother, and wildly looking round, thought she saw her at

the foot of the bed.

She crossed her eyes with her hands, to endeavour to clear her sight:

but the object only seemed more distinct. She bent forward, seeking

conviction, yet incredulous, though still meeting the same form.

Sighing, at last, from fruitless fatigue; ''Tis wondrous odd,' she

cried, 'but I now never know when I wake or when I sleep!'

The form glided away; but with motion so palpable, she could no longer

believe herself played upon by imagination. Awe-imprest, and

wonder-struck, she softly opened her side curtain to look after it. It

had stopt by a high chest of drawers, against which, leaning its head

upon its arm, it stood erect, but seemed weeping. She could not discern

the face; but the whole figure had the same sacred resemblance.

The pulses of her head beat now with so much violence, she was forced to

hold her temples. Doubt, dread, and hope seized every faculty at once;

till, at length, the upraised arm of the form before her dropt, and she

distinctly saw the profile: 'It is herself! it is my Mother!' she

screamed, rather than pronounced, and threw herself from the bed to the

floor.

'Yes! it is your Mother!' was repeated, in a tone solemn and

penetrating;--'to what a scene, O Camilla, returned! her house

abandoned ... her son in exile ... her Eugenia lost ... her husband, the

prop of all!... where she dare not name!... and thou, the child of her

bosom!... the constant terrour, yet constant darling of her soul ...

where, and how, does she see, does she meet thee, again--O Camilla!'

Then tenderly, though with anguish, bending over her, she would have

raised, and helped her to return to the bed: but Camilla would not be

aided; she would not lift up her eyes; her face sought the ground, where

leaning it upon her hands, without desiring to speak, without wishing to

stir, torn by self-reproaches that made her deem herself unworthy to

live, she remained speechless, immoveable.

'Repress, repress,' said Mrs. Tyrold, gently, yet firmly, 'these strong

feelings, uselessly torturing to us both. Raise your head, my poor

girl ... raise ... and repose it upon the breast of your Mother.'

'Of my Mother?' repeated Camilla, in a voice hardly audible; 'have I a

Mother--who again will own the blast of her hopes and happiness?--the

disgrace, the shame of the best and most injured of Fathers!'

'Let us pray,' said Mrs. Tyrold, with a sigh, 'that these evils may pass

away, and by salutary exertions, not desponding repinings, earn back our

fugitive peace.'

Again she then would have raised her; but Camilla sunk from all

assistance: 'No,' she cried, 'I am unworthy your lenity--I am unable

even to bear it, ...'

'Camilla,' said Mrs. Tyrold, steadily, 'it is time to conquer this

impetuous sensibility, which already, in its effects, has nearly broken

all our hearts. With what horrour have we missed--with what agony sought

you! Now then, that at length, we find you, excite not new terrour, by

consigning yourself to willing despair.'

Struck with extreme dread of committing yet further wrong, she lifted up

her head, with intention to have risen; but the weak state of her body,

forgotten by herself, and by Mrs. Tyrold unsuspected, took its turn for

demanding attention.

'Alas! my poor Child,' cried she, 'what horrible havock has this short

absence produced! O Camilla!... with a soul of feeling like

yours,--strong, tender, generous, and but too much alive, how is it you

can thus have forgotten the first ties of your duty, and your heart, and

have been wrought upon by your own sorrows to forget the sorrows you

inflict? Why have you thus fled us? thus abandoned yourself to

destruction? Was our anger to be set in competition with our misery? Was

the fear of displeasure, from parents who so tenderly love you, to be

indulged at the risk of never ending regret to the most lenient of

Fathers? and nearly the loss of senses to a Mother who, from your birth,

has idolized you in her inmost soul?'

Bending then over her, she folded her in her arms; where Camilla,

overpowered with the struggles of joy and contrition, sunk nearly

lifeless.

Mrs. Tyrold, seeing now her bodily feebleness, put her to bed, with

words of soothing tenderness, no longer blended with retrospective

investigation; conjuring her to be calm, to remember whose peace and

happiness were encircled in her life and health, and to remit to her

fuller strength all further interesting discourse.

'Ah, my Mother!' cried Camilla, 'tell me first--if the time may ever

come when with truth you can forgive me?'

'Alas, my darling Child!' answered the generous Mother, 'I have myself

now to pardon that I forgave thee not at first!'

Camilla seemed transported to another region; with difficulty Mrs.

Tyrold could hold her in her bed, though hovering over her pillow with

incessant caresses: but to raise her eye only to meet that of her

Mother--not as her fertile terrour had prophesied, darting unrelenting

ire, but softly solicitous, and exquisitely kind; to feel one loved hand

anxiously upon her forehead, and to glue her own lips upon the other; to

find fears that had made existence insupportable, transformed into

security that rendered it delicious;--with a floating, uncertain, yet

irrepressible hope, that to Edgar she owed this restoration, caused a

revulsion in all her feelings, that soon operated upon her frame--not,

indeed, with tranquillity, but with rapture approaching to

delirium:--when suddenly, a heavy, lumbering noise, appalled her. 'Ah,

my Mother!' she faintly cried, 'our beloved Eugenia!... that noise ...

where--and how--is Eugenia?--The wretched Mr. Bellamy is no more!'

Mrs. Tyrold answered, she was acquainted with the whole dreadful

business, and would relate it in a season of more serenity; but

meanwhile, as repose, she well knew, never associated with suspence, she

satisfied immediate anxiety, by assurances that Eugenia was safe, and at

Etherington.

This was a joy scarce inferior to that which so recently had transported

her: but Mrs. Tyrold, gathering from the good Peggy, that she had not

been in bed, nor scarce tasted food, since she had been at the

half-way-house, refused all particulars, till she had been refreshed

with nourishment and rest. The first immediately was ordered, and

immediately taken; and Mrs. Tyrold, to propitiate the second, insisted

upon total silence, and prepared to sit up with her all night.

Long as the extreme agitation of her spirits distanced

'_Tir'd Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep_',[7]

[Footnote 7: Young]

the change from so much misery to heart-felt peace and joy, with the

judicious nursing and restoratives devised by Mrs. Tyrold, for her weak

and half famished frame, made her slumber, when at length, it arrived,

lasted so long that, though broken by frequent starts, she awoke not

till late the next morning.

Her eyes then opened upon a felicity that again made her think herself

in a new world. Her Mother, leaning over her, was watching her breathe,

with hands uplifted for her preservation, and looks of fondness which

seemed to mark that her happiness depended upon its being granted; but

as she raised herself, to throw her arms around the loved maternal neck,

the shadow of another form, quickly, yet gently receding, struck her

sight; ... 'Ah, Heaven!' she exclaimed, 'who is that?'

'Will you be good,' said Mrs. Tyrold, gently, 'be tranquil, be composed,

and earn that I should tell you who has been watching by you this hour?'

Camilla could not answer; certain, now, who it must be, her emotions

became again uncontrollable; her horrour, her remorse, her

self-abhorrence revived, and agonizingly exclaiming, ''Tis my

Father!--O, where can I hide my head?' She strove again to envelop

herself with the bed-curtain from all view.

'Here--in his own arms--upon his own breast you shall hide it,' said Mr.

Tyrold, returning to the bed-side, 'and all now shall be forgotten, but

thankfulness that our afflictions seem finding their period.'

'O my Father! my Father!' cried Camilla, forgetting her situation, in

her desire to throw herself at his feet, 'can you speak to me thus,

after the woe--the disgrace I have brought upon you?--I deserve your

malediction!... I expected to be shut out from your heart,--I thought

myself abandoned--I looked forward only in death to receiving your

forgiveness!--'

Mrs. Tyrold held her still, while her Father now blessed and embraced

her, each uttering, in the same moment, whatever was softest to console

her: but all her quick feelings were re-awakened beyond their power to

appease them; her penitence tortured, her very gratitude tore her to

pieces: 'O my Mother,' she cried, 'how do you forbear to spurn me? Can

you think of what is passed, and still pronounce your pardon? Will you

not draw it back at the sight of my injured Father? Are you not tempted

to think I deserve eternal banishment from you both?--and to repent that

you have not ordered it?'

'No, my dearest Child, no! I lament only that I took you not at once to

your proper security--to these arms, my Camilla, that now so fondly

infold you! to this bosom--my darling girl!--where my heart beats your

welcome!'

'You make me too--too happy! the change is almost killing! my Mother--my

dearest Mother!--I did not think you would permit me to ever call you so

again! My Father I knew would pardon me, for the chief suffering was his

own; but even he, I never expected could look at me thus benignly again!

and hardly--hardly would he have been tried, if the evil had been

reversed!'

Mr. Tyrold exhorted her to silent composure; but finding her agitation

over-power even her own efforts, he summoned her to join him in solemn

thanks for her restoration.

Awfully, though most gratefully, impressed by such a call, she checked

her emotion, and devoutly obeyed: and the short but pious ceremony

quieted her nerves, and calmed her mind.

The gentlest tranquillity then took place in her breast, of the

tumultuous joy which had first chaced her deadly affliction. The

soothing, however serious turn, given by devotion to her changed

sensations, softened the acute excess of rapture which mounted felicity

nearly to agony. More eloquent, as well as safer than any speech, was

the pause of deep gratitude, the silence of humble praise, which ensued.

Camilla, in each hand held one of each beloved Parent; alternately she

pressed them with grateful reverence to her lips, alternately her eye

sought each revered countenance, and received, in the beaming fondness

they emitted, a benediction that was balm to every woe.

CHAPTER XII

_Means to obtain a Boon_

Mr. Tyrold was soon, by urgent claims, forced to leave them; and

Camilla, with strong secret anxiety to know if Edgar had caused this

blest meeting, led to a general explanation upon past events.

And now, to her utter amazement, she found that her letter sent by the

labourer had never been received.

Mrs. Tyrold related, that she had no sooner read the first letter

addressed to her through Lavinia, than, softened and affected, she wrote

an answer of the utmost kindness to Belfont; desiring Camilla to

continue with her sister till called for by Miss Margland, in her return

home from Mrs. Macdersey. The visit, meanwhile to Cleves, had transpired

through Jacob, and, much touched by, yet much blaming her travelling

thus alone, she wrote to her a second time, charging her to remove no

more from Belfont without Miss Margland. But, on the preceding morning,

the first letter had been returned with a note from Eugenia, that her

sister had set out two days before for Etherington.

The moment of this intelligence, was the most dreadful to Mr. Tyrold and

herself of their lives. Every species of conjecture was horrible. He set

out instantly for Belfont, determining to make enquiries at every inn,

house, and cottage, by the way; but by taking, unfortunately, the road

through Alton, he had missed the half-way-house. In the evening, while,

with apprehensions surpassing all description, she was waiting some

news, a chaise drove up to the door. She flew out, but saw in it ...

alone, cold, trembling, and scarce in her senses, Eugenia. Instantly

imagining she came with tidings of fatal tendency concerning Camilla,

she started back, exclaiming, 'All, then, is over?' The chaise-door had

been opened; but Eugenia, shaking too violently to get out; only, and

faintly, answered, 'Yes! my Mother ... all is over!--' The mistake was

almost instantaneous death to her--though the next words of Eugenia

cleared it up, and led to her own dreadful narrative.

Bellamy, as soon as Camilla had left Belfont, had made a peremptory

demand that his wife should claim, as if for some purpose of her own, a

large sum of Sir Hugh. Her steady resistance sent him from the house in

a rage; and she saw no more of him till that day at noon, when he

returned in deeper, blacker wrath than she had ever yet seen; and vowed

that nothing less than her going in person to her uncle with his

request, should induce him ever to forgive her. When he found her

resolute in refusal, he ordered a chaise, and made her get into it,

without saying for what purpose. She saw they were travelling towards

Cleves, but he did not once speak, except where they changed horses,

till they came upon the cross-road, leading to the half-way-house.

Suddenly then, bidding the postillion stop at the end of a lane, he told

him he was going to look at a little farm, and, ordering him to wait,

made her alight and walk down it till they were out of sight of the man

and the carriage. Fiercely, then stopping short, 'Will you give me,' he

cried, 'your promise, upon oath, that you will ask your Uncle for the

money?' 'Indeed, Mr. Bellamy, I cannot!' she answered. 'Enough!' he

cried, and took from his pocket a pistol. 'Good Heaven,' she said, 'you

will not murder me?'--'I cannot live without the money myself,' he

answered, 'and why should I let you?' He then felt in his waistcoat

pocket, whence he took two bullets, telling her, she should have the

pleasure of seeing him load the pistol; and that when one bullet had

dispatched her, the other should disappoint the executioner. Horrour now

conquered her, and she solemnly promised to ask whatever he dictated. 'I

must hold the pistol to your ear,' cried he, 'while you take your oath.

See! 'tis loaded--This is no child's play.' He then lifted it up; but,

at the same moment, a distant voice exclaimed, 'Hold, villain! or you

are a dead man!' Starting, and meaning to hide it within his waistcoat,

his hand shook--the pistol went off--it shot him through the body, and

he dropt down dead. Without sense or motion, she fell by his side; and,

upon recovering, found herself again in the chaise. The postillion, who

knew her, had carried her thither, and brought her on to Etherington.

She then conjured that proper persons might go back with the driver, and

that her Father would have the benevolence to superintend all that could

be done that would be most respectfully decent.

The postillion acknowledged that it was himself who had cried, 'Hold,

villain! A suspicion of some mischief had occurred to him, from seeing

the end of a pistol jerk from the pocket of the gentleman, as he got out

of the chaise; and begging a man, who accidentally passed while he

waited, to watch his horses, he ran down a field by the side of the

lane, whence he heard the words: 'The pistol is loaded, and for no

child's play!' upon which, seeing it raised, and the young Lady shrink,

he called out. Yet Eugenia protested herself convinced that Bellamy had

no real design against either his own life or her's, though terrour, at

the moment, had conquered her: he had meant but to affright her into

consent, knowing well her word once given, with whatever violence torn

from her, would be held sacred. The rest was dreadful accident, or

Providence in that form playing upon himself his own toils. The pious

young Widow was so miserable at this shocking exit, and the shocking

manner in which the remains were left exposed, that her Mother had set

out herself to give orders in person, from the half-way-house, for

bringing thither the body, till Mr. Tyrold could give his own

directions. She found, however, that business already done. The man

called by the postillion had been joined by a party of labourers, just

leaving off work; those had gathered others; they had procured some

broad planks which served for a bier, and had humanely conveyed the body

to the inn, where the landlord was assured the postillion would come

back with some account of him, though little Peggy had only learnt in

general that he had been found murdered near a wood.

'Eugenia is just now,' said Mrs. Tyrold, in conclusion, 'plunged into an

abyss of ideas, frightful to her humanity, and oppressive to the

tenderness of her heart. Her nature is too noble to rejoice in a release

to herself, worked by means so horrible, and big with notions of

retribution for the wretched culprit, at which even vengeance the most

implacable might shudder. Nevertheless, all will imperceptibly pass

away, save the pity inherent in all good minds for vice and its

penalties. To know his abrupt punishment, and not to be shocked, would

be inhuman; but to grieve with any regard for a man of such principles

and conduct, would be an outrage to all that they have injured and

offended.'

This view of the transaction, by better reconciling Camilla to the

ultimate lot of her sister, brought her back to reflect upon her own.

Still she had not gathered with precision how she had been discovered.

To pronounce the name of Edgar was impossible; but after a long pause,

which Mrs. Tyrold had hoped was given again to repose, she ventured to

say, 'I have not yet heard, my dearest Mother, to what benign chance I

immediately owe my present unspeakable, unmerited happiness?'

Mrs. Tyrold looked at her a moment in silence, as if to read what her

question offered beyond its mere words: but she saw her eye hastily

withdrawn from the examination, and her cheeks suddenly enveloped with

the bed cloaths.

Quietly, and without turning towards her again, she resumed her

narrative.

'I engaged the worthy postillion of my poor Eugenia to drive me,

purposing to send Ambrose on with him, while I waited at the

half-way-house: but, about two miles off, Ambrose, who rode before, was

stopt by a gentleman, whom he met in a post chaise; when I came up to

him, I stopt also. It was Mr. Mandlebert.'

Camilla, who had looked up, now again hastily drew back, and Mrs.

Tyrold, after a short pause, went on.

'His intelligence, of course, finished my search. My first idea was to

convey you instantly home; but the particulars I gathered made me fear

removing you. When I entered your room, you were asleep;--I dreaded to

surprise yet could not refrain taking a view of you, and while I looked,

you suddenly awoke.'

Ah! thought Camilla, 'tis to Edgar, then, that ultimately I owe this

blest moment!

'But my Father,' she cried, 'my dearest Mother,--how came my dear Father

to know where you had found me?'

'At Belfont he learnt the way you had set out, and that Eugenia and

Bellamy were from home; and, without loss of time ... regardless of the

night and of fasting, ... he returned by a route through which he traced

you at every inn where you had changed horses. He, also, entered as you

were sleeping--and we watched together by your side.'

Again filial gratitude silenced all but itself, and sleep, the softest

she had known for many months, soon gave to oblivion every care in

Camilla.

The changeful tide of mental spirits from misery to enjoyment, is not

more rapid than the transition from personal danger to safety, in the

elastic period of youth. 'Tis the epoch of extremes; and moderation, by

which alone we learn the true use of our blessings, is a wisdom we are

frequently only taught to appreciate when redundance no longer requires

its practice.

Camilla, from sorrow the most desolate, bounded to joy that refused a

solicitude; and from an illness that held her suspended between delirium

and dissolution, to ease that had no complaint. The sufferings which had

deprived her of the benefit of rest and nourishment were no sooner

removed, than she appeared to be at once restored to health; though to

repair the wastes of strength some time yet was necessary.

Mrs. Tyrold determined to carry her this afternoon to Etherington. The

remains of the wretched Bellamy, in a coffin and hearse brought from

Winchester, had been sent to Belfont in the morning: and Mr. Tyrold had

followed, to give every direction that he should be buried as the master

of the house; without reference to the conduct which had forfeited all

such respect.

Though the evil committed by the non-deliverance of Camilla's letter was

now past all remedy, Mrs. Tyrold thought it every way right to endeavour

to discover where [lay] the blame: and by the two usual modes of menace

and promises, she learnt that the countryman, when he stopt to drink by

the way, had, in lighting his pipe, let the letter take fire; and

fearing to lose the recompense he had expected, had set his conscience

apart for a crown, and returned with the eventful falsehood, which had

made Camilla think herself abandoned, and her friends deplore her as

lost.

For the benefit of those with whom, in future, he might have to deal,

Mrs. Tyrold took some pains to represent to him the cruel evils his

dishonesty had produced; but, stupid rather than wicked, what he had

done had been without weighing right from wrong, and what he heard was

without understanding it.

Camilla found, with extreme satisfaction, that Mrs. Tyrold,

notwithstanding the strictness of the present family oeconomy, meant

liberally to recompense Mrs. Marl, for the trouble and patience with

which she had attended to a guest so little profitable: while Peggy, to

whose grateful remembrance she owed the consideration she had met with

in her deserted condition, was rewarded by a much larger sum than she

had ever before possessed. Camilla was obliged to confess she had parted

with two pledges for future payment: the watch was reclaimed without

difficulty; but she shewed so much distress in naming the locket, that

Mrs. Tyrold, though she looked anxiously surprised, demanded it without

enquiring into its history.

The excess of delight to Camilla in preparing to return to Etherington,

rendered her insensible to all fatigue, till she was descending the

stairs; when the recollection of the shock she had received from the

corpse of Bellamy, made her tremble so exceedingly, that she could

scarce walk past the door of the room in which it had been laid. 'Ah, my

dearest Mother,' she cried, 'this house must give me always the most

penetrating sensations: I have experienced in it the deepest grief, and

the most heart-soothing enjoyment that ever, perhaps, gave place one to

the other in so short a time!'

* * * * *

Ambrose had announced their intended arrival, and at the door of the

house, the timid, but affectionate Lavinia was waiting to receive them;

and as Camilla, in alighting, met her tender embraces, a well-known

voice reached her ears, calling out in hurried accents, 'Where is she?

Is she come indeed? Are you quite sure?' And Sir Hugh, hobbling rather

than walking into the hall, folded her in his feeble arms, sobbing over

her: 'I can't believe it for joy! Poor sinner that I am, and the cause

of all our bad doings! how can I have deserved such a thing as this, to

have my own little Girl come back to me? which could not have made my

heart gladder, if I had had no share in all this bad mischief! which,

God knows I've had enough, owing to my poor head doing always for the

worst, for all my being the oldest of us all; which is a thing I've

often thought remarkable enough, in the point of my knowing no better;

which however, I hope my dear little Darling will excuse for the sake of

my love, which is never happy but in seeing her.'

The heart of Camilla bounded with grateful joy at sight of this dear

Uncle, and at so tender a reception: and while with equal emotion, and

equal weakness, they were unable to support either each other or

themselves, the worthy old Jacob, his eyes running over, came to help

his Master back to the parlour, and Mrs. Tyrold and Lavinia conveyed

thither Camilla: who was but just placed upon a sofa, by the side of her

fond Uncle, when the door of an inner apartment was softly opened, and

pale, wan, and meagre, Eugenia appeared at it, saying, as faintly, yet

with open arms, she advanced to Camilla: 'Let me too--your poor

harassed, and but half-alive Eugenia, make one in this precious scene!

Let me see the joy of my kind Uncle--the revival of my honoured Mother,

the happiness of my dear Lavinia--and feel even my own heart beat once

more with delight in the bosom of its darling Sister!... my so

mourned--but now for ever, I trust, restored to me, most dear Camilla!'

Camilla, thus encircled in her Mother's, Uncle's, Sister's, arms at

once, gasped, sighed, smiled, and shed tears in the same grateful

minute, while fondly she strove to articulate, 'Am I again at

Etherington and at Cleves in one? And thus indulgently received? thus

more than forgiven? My heart wants room for its joy! my Mother! my

Sisters! if you knew what despair has been my portion! I feared even the

sight of my dear Uncle himself, lest the sorrows and the errours of a

creature he so kindly loved, should have demolished his generous heart!'

'Mine, my dearest little Girl?' cried the Baronet, 'why what would that

have signified, in comparison to such a young one as yours, that ought

to know no sorrow yet a while? God knows, it being time enough to begin:

for it is but melancholy at best, the cares of the world; which if you

can't keep off now, will be overtaking you at every turn.'

Mrs. Tyrold entreated Camilla might be spared further conversation.

Eugenia had already glided back to her chamber, and begged, this one

solacing interview over, to be dispensed with from joining the family at

present; Camilla was removed also to her chamber; and the tender Mother

divided her time and her cares between these two recovered treasures of

her fondest affection.

CHAPTER XIII

_Questions and Answers_

Mr. Tyrold did not return till the next day from Belfont, where, through

the account he gave from his Daughter, the violent exit of the miserable

Bellamy was brought in accidental death. Various circumstances had now

acquainted him with the history of that wretched man, who was the

younger son of the master of a great gaming-house. In his first youth,

he had been utterly neglected, and left to run wild whither he chose;

but his father afterwards becoming very rich, had bestowed upon him as

good an education as the late period at which it was begun could allow.

He was intended for a lucrative business; but he had no application, and

could retain no post: he went into the army; but he had no courage, and

was speedily cashiered. Inheriting a passion for the means by which the

parental fortune had been raised, he devoted himself next to its

pursuit, and won very largely. But as extravagance and good luck, by

long custom, go hand in hand, he spent as fast as he acquired; and upon

a tide of fortune in his disfavour, was tempted to reverse the chances

by unfair play, was found out, and as ignominiously chaced from the

field of hazard as from that of patriotism. His father was no more; his

eldest brother would not assist him; he sold therefore his house, and

all he possessed but his wardrobe, and, relying upon a very uncommonly

handsome face and person, determined to seek a fairer lot, by eloping,

if possible, with some heiress. He thought it, however, prudent not only

to retire from London, but to make a little change in his name, which

from Nicholas Gwigg he refined into Alphonso Bellamy. He began his

career by a tour into Wales; where he insinuated himself into the

acquaintance of Mrs. Ecton, just after she had married Miss Melmond to

Mr. Berlinton: and though this was not an intercourse that could travel

to Gretna Green, the beauty and romantic turn of the bride of so

disproportioned a marriage, opened to his unprincipled mind a scheme yet

more flagitious. Fortunately, however, for his fair destined prey, soon

after the connexion was formed, she left Wales; and the search of new

adventures carried him, by various chances, into Hampshire. But he had

established with her, a correspondence, and when he had caught, or

rather forced, an heiress into legal snares, the discovery of who and

what he was, became less important, and he ventured again to town, and

renewed his heinous plan, as well as his inveterate early habits; till

surprised by some unpleasant recollectors, debts of honour, which he had

found it convenient to elude upon leaving the Capital, were claimed, and

he found it impossible to appear without satisfying such demands. Thence

his cruel and inordinate persecution of his unhappy wife for money; and

thence, ultimately, the brief vengeance which had reverberated upon his

own head.

* * * * *

Camilla, whose danger was the result of self-neglect, as her sufferings

had all flowed from mental anguish, was already able to go down to the

study upon the arrival of Mr. Tyrold: where she received, with grateful

rapture, the tender blessings which welcomed her to the paternal

arms--to her home--to peace--to safety--and primæval joy.

Mr. Tyrold, sparing to her yet weak nerves any immediate explanations

upon the past, called upon his wife to aid him to communicate, in the

quietest manner, what had been done at Belfont to Eugenia; charging

Camilla to take no part in a scene inevitably shocking.

Once more in the appropriate apartment of her Father, where all her

earliest scenes of gayest felicity had passed, but which, of late, she

had only approached with terrour, only entered to weep, she experienced

a delight almost awful in the renovation of her pristine confidence, and

fearless ease. She took from her pocket--where alone she could ever bear

to keep it--her loved locket, delighting to attribute to it this

restoration to domestic enjoyment; though feeling at the same time, a

renewal of suspence from the return of its donor, and from the affecting

interview into which she had been surprised, that broke in upon even her

filial happiness, with bitter, tyrannical regret. Yet she pressed to her

bosom the cherished symbol of first regard, and was holding it to her

lips, when Mrs. Tyrold, unexpectedly, re-entered the room.

In extreme confusion, she shut it into its shagreen case, and was going

to restore it to her pocket; but infolding it, with her daughter's hand,

between each of her own, Mrs. Tyrold said, 'Shall I ever, my dear girl,

learn the history of this locket?'

'O yes, my dearest Mother,' said the blushing Camilla, 'of that--and of

every--and of all things--you have only--you have merely--'

'If it distresses you, my dear child, we will leave it to another day,'

said Mrs. Tyrold, whose eyes Camilla saw, as she now raised her own,

were swimming in tears.

'My Mother! my dearest Mother!' cried she, with the tenderest alarm,

'has any thing new happened?--Is Eugenia greatly affected?'

'She is all, every way, and in every respect,' said Mrs. Tyrold,

'whatever the fondest, or even the proudest Mother could wish. But I do

not at this instant most think of her. I am not without some fears for

my Camilla's strength, in the immediate demand that may be made upon her

fortitude. Tell me, my child, with that sincerity which so long has been

mutually endearing between us, tell me if you think you can see here,

again, and as usual, without any risk to your health, one long admitted

and welcomed as a part of the family?'

She started, changed colour, looked up, cast her eyes on the floor; but

soon seeing Mrs. Tyrold hold an handkerchief bathed in tears to her

face, lost all dread, and even all consciousness in tender gratitude,

and throwing her arms round her neck, 'O my Mother,' she cried, 'you

who weep not for yourself--scarcely even in the most poignant

sorrow--can you weep for me?--I will see--or I will avoid whoever you

please--I shall want no fortitude, I shall fear nothing--no one--not

even myself--now again under your protection! I will scarcely even

think, my beloved Mother, but by your guidance!'

'Compose yourself, then, my dearest girl: and, if you believe you are

equal to behaving with firmness, I will not refuse his request of

re-admission.'

'His request?' repeated Camilla, with involuntary quickness; but finding

Mrs. Tyrold did not notice it, gently adding, 'That person that--I

believe--you mean--has done nothing, my dear Mother, to merit

expulsion!--'

'I am happy to hear you say so: I have been fearfully, I must own, and

even piercingly displeased with him.'

'Ah, my dear Mother! how kind was the partiality that turned your

displeasure so wrong a way! that made you,--even you, my dear Mother,

listen to your fondness rather than to your justice!--'

She trembled at the temerity of this vindication the moment it had

escaped her, and looking another way, spoke again of Eugenia: but Mrs.

Tyrold now, taking both her hands, and seeking, though vainly, to meet

her eyes, said, 'My dearest child, I grow painfully anxious to end a

thousand doubts; to speak and to hear with no further ambiguity, nor

reserve. If Edgar--'

Camilla again changed colour, and strove to withdraw her hands.

'Take courage, my dear love, and let one final explanation relieve us

both at once. If Edgar has merited well of you, why are you parted?--If

ill--why this solicitude my opinion of him should be unshaken?'

Her head now dropt upon Mrs. Tyrold's shoulder, as she faintly answered,

'He deserves your good opinion, my dearest Mother--for he adores you--I

cannot be unjust to him,--though he has made me--I own--not very happy!'

'Designedly, my Camilla?'

'O, no, my dearest Mother!--he would not do that to an enemy!'

'Speak out, then, and speak clearer, my dearest Camilla. If you think of

him so well, and are so sure of his good intentions, what--in two

words,--what is it that has parted you?'

'Accident, my dearest Mother,--deluding appearances, ... and false

internal reasoning on my part,--and on his, continual misconstruction! O

my dearest Mother! how have I missed your guiding care! I had ever the

semblance, by some cruel circumstance, some inexplicable fatality of

incident, to neglect his counsel, oppose his judgment, deceive his

expectations, and trifle with his regard!--Yet, with a heart faithful,

grateful, devoted,--O my dearest Mother!--with an esteem that defies all

comparison, ... a respect closely meliorating even to veneration!...

Never was heart ... my dearest Mother, so truly impressed with the worth

of another ... with the nobleness....'

A buzzing noise from the adjoining parlour, sounding something between a

struggle and a dispute, suddenly stopt her, ... and as she raised her

head from the bosom of her Mother, in which she had seemed seeking

shelter from the very confidence she was pouring forth, she saw the door

opened, and the object of whom she was speaking appear at it....

Fluttered, colouring, trembling, ... yet with eyes refulgent with joy,

and every feature speaking ecstasy.

Almost fainting with shame and surprise, she gave herself up as

disgraced, if not dishonoured evermore, for a short, but bitter half

moment. It was not longer. Edgar, rushing forward, and seizing the hands

of Mrs. Tyrold, even while they were encircling her drooping, shrinking,

half expiring Camilla, pressed them with ardent respect to his lips,

rapidly exclaiming, 'My more than Mother! my dear, kind, excellent,

inestimable friend!--Forgive this blest intrusion--plead for me where I

dare not now speak--and raise your indeed maternal eyes upon the

happiest--the most devoted of your family!'

'What is it overpowers me thus this morning?' cried Mrs. Tyrold, leaning

her head upon her clinging Camilla, while large drops fell from her

eyes; 'Misfortune, I see, is not the greatest test of our philosophy!...

Joy, twice to-day, has completely demolished mine!'

'What goodness is this! what encouragement to hope some indulgent

intercession here--where the sense that now breaks in upon me of

ungenerous ... ever to be lamented--and I had nearly said, execrated

doubt, fills me with shame and regret--and makes me--even at this soft

reviving, heart-restoring moment, feel undeserving my own hopes!'--

'Shall I ... may I leave him to make his peace?' whispered Mrs. Tyrold

to her daughter, whose head sought concealment even to annihilation; but

whose arms, with what force they possessed, detained her, uttering

faintly but rapidly, 'O no, no, no!'

'My more than Mother!' again cried Edgar, 'I will wait till that

felicity may be accorded me, and put myself wholly under your kind and

powerful influence. One thing alone I must say;--I have too much to

answer for, to take any share of the misdemeanors of another!--I have

not been a treacherous listener, though a wilful obtruder.... See, Mrs.

Tyrold! who placed me in that room--who is the accomplice of my

happiness!'

With a smile that seemed to beam but the more brightly for her

glistening eyes, Mrs. Tyrold looked to the door, and saw there, leaning

against it, the form she most revered; surveying them all with an

expression of satisfaction so perfect, contentment so benign, and

pleasure mingled with so much thankfulness, that her tears now flowed

fast from unrestrained delight; and Mr. Tyrold, approaching to press at

once the two objects of his most exquisite tenderness to his breast,

said, 'This surprise was not planned, but circumstances made it more

than irresistible. It was not, however, quite fair to my Camilla, and if

she is angry, we will be self-exiled till she can pardon us.'

'This is such a dream,'--cried Camilla, as now, first, from the

voice of her Father she believed it reality; 'so incredible ... so

unintelligible ... I find it entirely ... impossible ... impossible

to comprehend any thing I see or hear!'--

'Let the past, ... not the present,' cried Edgar, 'be regarded as the

dream! and generously drive it from your mind as a fever of the brain,

with which reason had no share, and for which memory must find no

place.'

'If I could understand in the least,' said Camilla, 'what this all

means ... what----'

Mr. Tyrold now insisted that Edgar should retreat, while he made some

explanation; and then related to his trembling, doubting, wondering

daughter, the following circumstances.

In returning from Belfont, he had stopt at the half-way-house, where he

had received from Mrs. Marl, a letter that, had it reached him as it was

intended, at Etherington, would have quickened the general meeting, yet

nearly have broken his heart. It was that which, for want of a

messenger, had never been sent, and which Peggy, in cleaning the bed

room, had found under a table, where it had fallen, she supposes, when

the candle was put upon it for reading prayers.

'There was another letter, too!' interrupted Camilla, with quick

blushing recollection;--'but my illness ... and all that has followed,

made me forget them both till this very moment.... Did she say anything

of any ... other?'

'Yes; ... the other had been delivered according to its address.'

'Good Heaven!'

'Be not frightened, my Camilla, ... all has been beautifully directed

for the best. My accomplice had received his early in the morning; he

was at the house, by some fortunate hazard, when it was found, and,

being well known there, Mrs. Marl gave it to him immediately.'

'How terrible!... It was meant only in case ... I had seen no one any

more!...'

'The intent, and the event, have been happily, my child, at war. He came

instantly hither, and enquired for me; I was not returned; he asked my

route, and rode to follow or meet me. About an hour ago, we encountered

upon the road: he gave his horse to his groom, and came into the chaise

to me.'

Camilla now could with difficulty listen; but her Father hastened to

acquaint her, that Edgar, with the most generous apologies, the most

liberal self-blame, had re-demanded his consent for a union, from which

every doubt was wholly, and even miraculously removed, by learning thus

the true feelings of her heart, as depicted at the awful crisis of

expected dissolution. The returning smiles which forced their way now

through the tears and blushes of Camilla, shewed how vainly she strove

to mingle the regret of shame with the felicity of fond security,

produced by this eventful accident. But when she further heard that

Edgar, in Flanders, had met with Lionel, who, in frankly recounting his

difficulties and adventures, had named some circumstances which had so

shaken every opinion that had urged him to quit England, as to induce

him instantly, from the conference, to seek a passage for his return,

she felt all but happiness retire from her heart;--vanish even from her

ideas.

'You are not angry, then,' said Mr. Tyrold, as smilingly he read

her delighted sensations, 'that I waited not to consult you? That

I gave back at once my consent? That I folded him again in my

arms?... again ... called him my son?'

She could but seek the same pressure; and he continued, 'I would not

bring him in with me; I was not aware my dear girl was so rapidly

recovered, and I had a task to fulfil to my poor Eugenia that was still

my first claim. But I promised within an hour, your Mother, at least,

should welcome him. He would walk, he said, for that period. When I met

her, I hinted at what was passing, and she followed me to our Eugenia; I

then briefly communicated my adventure; and your Mother, my Camilla,

lost herself in hearing it! Will you not, ... like me!... withdraw from

her all reverence? Her eyes gushed with tears, ... she wept, as you weep

at this moment; she was sure Edgar Mandlebert could alone preserve you

from danger, yet make you happy--Was she wrong, my dear child? Shall we

attack now her judgment, as well as her fortitude?'

Only at her feet could Camilla shew her gratitude; to action she had

recourse, for words were inadequate, and the tenderest caresses now

spoke best for them all.

Respect for the situation of Eugenia, who had desired, for this week, to

live wholly up stairs and alone, determined Mr. and Mrs. Tyrold to keep

back for some time the knowledge of this event from the family. Camilla

was most happy to pay such an attention to her sister; but when Mr.

Tyrold was leaving her, to consult upon it with Edgar, the ingenuousness

of her nature urged her irresistibly to say, 'Since all this has passed,

my dearest Father--my dearest Mother--does it not seem as if I should

now myself----'

She stopt; but she was understood; they both smiled, and Mr. Tyrold

immediately bringing in Edgar, said, 'I find my pardon, my dear

fellow-culprit, is already accorded; if you have doubts of your own, try

your eloquence for yourself.'

He left the room, and Mrs. Tyrold was gently rising to quietly follow,

but Camilla, with a look of entreaty of which she knew the sincerity,

and would not resist the earnestness, detained her.

'Ah yes, stay, dearest Madam!' cried Edgar, again respectfully taking

her hand, 'and through your unalterable goodness, let me hope to procure

pardon for a distrust which I here for ever renounce; but which had its

origin in my never daring to hope what, at this moment, I have the

felicity to believe. Yet now, even now, without your kind mediation,

this dear convalescent may plan some probationary trial at which my

whole mind, after this long suffering, revolts. Will you be my caution,

my dearest Mrs. Tyrold? Will you venture--and will you deign to promise,

that if a full and generous forgiveness may be pronounced....'

'Forgiveness?' in a soft voice interrupted Camilla: 'Have I any thing to

forgive? I thought all apology--all explanation, rested on my part? and

that my imprudencies--my rashness--my so often-erring judgment ... and

so apparently, almost even culpable conduct....'

'O, my Camilla! my now own Camilla!' cried Edgar, venturing to change

the hand of the Mother for that of the daughter; 'what too, too touching

words and concessions are these! Suffer me, then, to hope a kind amnesty

may take place of retrospection, a clear, liberal, open forgiveness

anticipate explanation and enquiry?'

'Are you sure,' said Camilla, smiling, 'this is your interest, and not

mine?... Does he not make a mistake, my dearest Mother, and turn my

advocate, instead of his own? And can I fairly take advantage of such an

errour.'

The sun-shine of her returning smiles went warm to her Mother's heart,

and gave a glow to the cheeks of Edgar, and a brightness to his eyes

that irradiated his whole countenance. 'Your penetrating judgment,' said

he, to Mrs. Tyrold, 'will take in at once more than any professions, any

protestations can urge for me: ... you see the peace, the pardon which

those eyes do not seek to withhold ... will you then venture, my more

than maternal friend! my Mother, in every meaning which affection and

reverence can give to that revered appellation--will you venture at

once--now--upon this dear and ever after hallowed minute--to seal the

kind consent of my truly paternal guardian, and to give me an example of

that trust and confidence which my whole future life shall look upon as

its lesson?'

'Yes!' answered Mrs. Tyrold, instantly joining their hands, 'and with

every security that the happiness of all our lives--my child's, my

husband's, your's, my valued Edgar's, and my own, will all owe their

felicity to the blessing with which I now lay my hands upon my two

precious children!'

Tears were the only language that could express the fulness of joy which

succeeded to so much sorrow; and when Mr. Tyrold returned, and had

united his tenderest benediction with that of his beloved wife, Edgar

was permitted to remain alone with Camilla; and the close of his long

doubts, and her own long perplexities, was a reciprocal confidence that

left nothing untold, not an action unrelated, not even a thought

unacknowledged.

Edgar confessed that he no sooner had quitted her, than he suspected the

justice of his decision; the turn which of late, he had taken,

doubtfully to watch her every action, and suspiciously to judge her

every motive, though it had impelled him in her presence, ceased to

operate in her absence.--He was too noble to betray the well meant,

though not well applied warnings of Dr. Marchmont, yet he acknowledged,

that when left to cool reflection, a thousand palliations arose for

every step he could not positively vindicate: and when, afterwards, from

the frank communication of Lionel, he learnt what belonged to the

mysterious offer of Sir Sedley Clarendel, that she would superintend the

disposal of his fortune, and the deep obligation in which she had been

innocently involved, his heart smote him for having judged ere he had

investigated that transaction; and in a perturbation unspeakable of

quick repentance, and tenderness, he set out for England. But when, at

the half-way-house, he stopt as usual to rest his horses in his way to

Beech Park,--what were his emotions at the sight of the locket, which

the landlady told him had been pledged by a lady in distress! He

besought her pardon for the manner in which he had made way to her; but

the almost frantic anxiety which seized him to know if or not it was

[she], and to save her, if so, from the intended intrusion of the

landlord, made him irresistibly prefer it to the plainer mode which he

should have adopted with any one else, of sending in his name, and some

message. His shock at her view in such a state, he would not now revive;

but the impropriety of bidding the landlady quit the chamber, and the

impossibility of entering into an explanation in her hearing, alone

repressed, at that agitated moment, the avowal of every sensation with

which his heart was labouring. 'But when,' he added, 'shall I cease to

rejoice that I had listened to the good landlady's history of a sick

guest, while all conjecture was so remote from whom it might be! when I

am tempted to turn aside from a tale of distress, I will recollect what

I owe to having given [ear to one]!' Lost in wonder at what could have

brought her to such a situation, and disturbed how to present himself at

the rectory, till fixed in his plans, he had ridden to the

half-way-house that morning, to enquire concerning the corpse that Mrs.

Marl had mentioned--and there--while he was speaking with her, the

little maid brought down two letters--one of them directed to himself.--

'What a rapid transition,' cried he, 'was then mine, from regrets that

robbed life of all charms, to prospects which paint it in its most vivid

colours of happiness! from wavering the most deplorable, to resolutions

of expiating by a whole life of devoted fondness, the barbarous

waywardness that could deprive me, for one wilful moment, of the

exquisite felicity of my lot!...'

'But still,' said Camilla, 'I do not quite understand how you came in

that room this morning? and how you authorized yourself to overhear my

confessions to my Mother?'

'Recollect my acknowledged accomplice before you hazard any blame! When

I came hither ... somewhat, I confess, within my given hour, Mr. Tyrold

received me himself at the door. He told me I was too soon, and took me

into the front parlour. The partition is thin. I heard my name spoken by

Mrs. Tyrold, and the gentle voice of my Camilla, in accents yet more

gentle than even that voice ever spoke before, answering some question;

I was not myself, at first, aware of its tenour ... but when,

unavoidably, I gathered it ... when I heard words so beautifully

harmonizing with what I had so lately perused--I would instantly have

ventured into the room; but Mr. Tyrold feared surprising you--you went

on--my fascinated soul divested me of obedience--of caution--of all but

joy and gratitude ... and he could no longer restrain me. And now with

which of her offenders will my Camilla quarrel?'

'With neither, I believe, just at present. The conspiracy is so complex,

and even my Mother so nearly a party concerned, that I dare not risk the

unequal contest. I must only, in future,' added she smiling, 'speak ill

of you ... and then you will find less pleasure in the thinness of a

partition!'

Faithfully she returned his communication, by the fullest, most candid,

and unsparing account of every transaction of her short life, from the

still shorter period of its being put into voluntary motion. With nearly

breathless interest, he listened to the detail of her transactions with

Sir Sedley Clarendel, with pity to her debts, and with horrour to her

difficulties. But when, through the whole ingenuous narration, he found

himself the constant object of every view, the ultimate motive to every

action, even where least it appeared, his happiness, and his gratitude,

made Camilla soon forget that sorrow had ever been known to her.

They then spoke of her two favourites, Mrs. Arlbery, and Mrs. Berlinton;

and though she was animated in her praise of the good qualities of the

first, and the sweet attraction of the last, she confessed the danger,

for one so new in the world, of chusing friends distinct from those of

her family; and voluntarily promised, during her present season of

inexperience, to repose the future choice of her connections, where she

could never be happy without their approvance.

The two hundred pounds to Sir Sedley Clarendel, he determined, on the

very day that Camilla should be his, to return to the Baronet, under the

privilege, and in the name of paying it for a brother.

In conference thus softly balsamic to every past wound, and thus

deliciously opening to that summit of earthly felicity ... confidence

unlimited entwined around affection unbounded ... hours might have

passed, unnumbered and unawares, had not prudence forced a separation,

for the repose of Camilla.

CHAPTER XIV

_The last Touches of the Picture_

Late as Edgar quitted the rectory, he went not straight to Beech Park;

every tie both of friendship and propriety carried him first to Dr.

Marchmont; who had too much feeling to wonder at the power of his late

incitements, and too much goodness of heart not to felicitate him upon

their issue, though he sighed at the recollection of the disappointments

whence his own doubting counsel originated. Twice betrayed in his

dearest expectations, he had formed two criterions from his peculiar

experience, by which he had settled his opinion of the whole female sex;

and where opinion may humour systematic prepossession, who shall build

upon his virtue or wisdom to guard the transparency of his impartiality?

The following day, the Westwyns presented themselves at Etherington;

hurried from a tour they were taking through Devonshire and Cornwall, by

intelligence which had reached them that Sir Hugh Tyrold was ruined, and

Cleves was to be let. They met, by chance, with Edgar alone in the

parlour; and the joy of the old gentleman in hearing how small a part of

the rumour was founded in fact, made him shake hands with him as

cordially for setting him right, as Edgar welcomed his kindness, from

the pleasure afforded by the sight of such primitive regard. But when,

presuming upon his peculiar intimacy in the family, as ward of Mr.

Tyrold, though without yet daring to avow his approaching nearer

affinity, Edgar insisted upon his superior claim for supplanting them in

taking charge of the debt of his guardian; Mr. Westwyn, almost angrily,

protested he would let no man upon earth, let him be whose ward he

pleased, shew more respect than himself for the brother of Sir Hugh

Tyrold; 'And Hal thinks the same too,' he added, 'or he's no son of

mine. And so he'll soon shew you, in a way you can't guess, I give you

my word. At least that's my opinion.'

He then took his son apart, and abruptly whispered to him, 'As that

pretty girl you and I took such a fancy to, at Southton, served us in

that shabby manner, because of meeting with that old Lord, it's my

opinion you'd do the right thing to take her sister; who's pretty near

as pretty, and gives herself no airs; and that will be shewing respect

for my worthy old friend, now he's down in the world; which is exactly

that he did for me when I was down myself. For if he had not lent me

that thousand pounds I told you of, when not a relation I had would lend

me a hundred, I might have been ruined before ever you were born. Come,

tell me your mind Hal! off or on? don't stand shilly shally; it's what I

can't bear; speak honestly; I won't have your choice controlled; only

this one thing I must tell you without ceremony, I shall never think

well of you again as long as ever I live, if you demur so much as a

moment. It's what I can't bear; it i'n't doing a thing handsomely. I

can't say I like it.'

The appearance of Lavinia relieved the immediate embarrassment of Henry,

while the modest pleasure with which she received them confirmed the

partiality of both. The eagerness, however, of the father, admitted of

no delay, and when Sir Hugh entered the room, the son's assent being

obtained, he warmly demanded the fair Lavinia for his daughter-in-law.

Sir Hugh received the proposition with the most copious satisfaction;

Mr. and Mrs. Tyrold with equal, though more anxious delight; and Lavinia

herself with blushing but unaffected hopes of happiness.

Whatever was known to Sir Hugh, no cautions, nor even his own best

designs, could save from being known to the whole house. Eugenia,

therefore, was unavoidably informed of this transaction; and the

generous pleasure with which she revived from the almost settled

melancholy left upon her, by continual misfortunes, justified the

impatience of Edgar to accelerate the allowed period for publishing his

own happy history.

Eugenia wept with joy at tidings so precious of her beloved sister,

through whom, and her other dear friends, she was alone, she said,

susceptible of joy, though to all sorrow she henceforth bid adieu, 'For

henceforth,' she cried, 'I mean to regard myself as if already I had

passed the busy period of youth and of life, and were only a spectatress

of others. For this purpose, I have begun writing my memoirs, which will

amuse my solitude, and confirm my--I hope, philosophical idea.'

She then produced the opening of her intended book.

SECTION I.

'No blooming coquette, elated with adulation and triumphant with

conquest, here counts the glories of her eyes, or enumerates the

train of her adorers: no beauteous prude, repines at the fatigue of

admiration, nor bewails the necessity of tyranny: O gentle reader!

you have the story of one from whom fate has withheld all the

delicacy of vanity, all the regale of cruelty--!'

'Here,' interrupted the young biographer, 'will follow my portrait, and

then this further address to my readers.'

'O ye, who, young and fair, revel in the attractions of beauty, and

exult in the pride of admiration, say, where is your envy of the

heiress to whom fortune comes with such alloys? And which, however

distressed or impoverished, would accept my income with my personal

defects?

'Ye, too, O lords of the creation, mighty men! impute not to native

vanity the repining spirit with which I lament the loss of beauty;

attribute not to the innate weakness of my sex, the concern I

confess for my deformity; nor to feminine littleness of soul, a

regret of which the true source is to be traced to your own bosoms,

and springs from your own tastes: for the value you yourselves set

upon external attractions, your own neglect has taught me to know;

and the indifferency with which you consider all else, your own

duplicity has instructed me to feel.'

Camilla sought to dissuade her from reflexions so afflictive, and

retrospections so poignant; but they aided her, she said, in her task of

acquiring composure for the regulation of her future life.

Edgar now received permission to make his communication to the Baronet.

The joy with which Sir Hugh heard it, was for some time over-clouded by

doubt. 'My dear Mr. young Edgar,' he said, 'in case you don't know your

own mind yet, in the point of its not changing again, as it did before,

I'd as leave you would not tell me of it till you've taken the proper

time to be at a certainty; frettings about these ups and downs, being

what do no good to me, in point of the gout.'

But when thoroughly re-assured, 'Well,' he cried, 'this is just the

thing I should have chose out of all our misfortunes, being what makes

me happier than ever I was in my life; except once before on the very

same account, which all turned out to end in nothing: which, I hope,

won't happen any more: for now I've only to pay off all our debts, and

then I may go back again to Cleves, which I shall be glad enough to do,

it being but an awkward thing to a man, after he's past boyhood, having

no home of his own.'

A sigh at the recollection of the change in his situation, since his

plan was last agitated, checked his felicity, and depressed even that of

Edgar, who, with the most tender earnestness, besought his leave to

advance the sum requisite to return him tranquilly to his mansion; but

who could not prevail, till Camilla joined in the petition, and

permitted Edgar, in both their names to entreat, as their dearest wish,

that they might be united, according to the first arrangement, from

Cleves.

This the Baronet could not resist, and preparations were rapidly made

for re-instating him in his dwelling, and for the double marriages

destined to take place upon his return.

'Well, then, this,' cried he, as he poured upon them his tenderest

blessings and caresses, 'is the oddest of all! My dear little Camilla,

that I took all my fortune from, is the very person to give me hers as

soon as ever she gets it! as well as my own house over my old head

again, after my turning her, as one may say, out of it! which is a thing

as curious, in point of us poor ignorant mortals, as if my brother had

put it in a sermon.'

'Such turns in the tide of fortune,' said Mr. Tyrold, 'are amongst the

happiest lessons of humanity, where those who have served the humble and

helpless from motives of pure disinterestedness, find they have made

useful friends for themselves, in the perpetual vicissitudes of our

unstable condition.'

'Why, then, there's but one thing more, by what I can make out,' said

the Baronet, 'that need be much upon my mind, and that I've been

thinking some time about, in point of forming a scheme to get rid of,

which I think I've got a pretty good one: for here's Lavinia going to be

married to the very oldest friend I have in the world; that is, to his

son, which is the same thing in point of bringing us all together; and

my own dear little girl, to the best gentleman in the county, except for

that one thing of going off at the first, which I dare say he did not

mean, for which reason I shall mention it no more: and Indiana, to one

of those young captains, that I can't pretend I know much of; but that's

very excusable in so young a person, not having had much head from the

beginning; which I always make allowance for; my own not being over

extraordinary: and Eugenia, poor thing, being a widow already; for which

God be praised; which I hope is no sin, in point of the poor lad that's

gone not belonging to any of us, by what I can make out, except by his

own doing whether we would or not; which, however, is neither here nor

there, now he's gone; for Eugenia being no beauty, and Clermont having

as good as said so, I suppose she thought she must not be too difficult;

which is a thing young girls are apt to fall into; and boys too, for the

matter of that; for, by what I can make out of life, I don't see but

what a scholar thinks a girl had better be pretty than not, as much as

another man.'

'But what, my dear brother,' said Mr. Tyrold, 'is your new distress and

new scheme?'

'Why I can't say but what I'm a little put out, that Indiana should

forget poor Mrs. Margland, in the particular of asking her to go to live

with her; which, however, I dare say she can't help, those young

captains commonly not over liking having elderly persons about them; not

that I mean to guess her age, which I take to be fifty, and upwards;

which is no point of ours. But the thing I'm thinking of is Dr.

Orkborne, in the case of their marrying one another.'

'My dear brother!... has any such idea occurred to them?'

'Not as I know of; but Indiana having done with one, and Eugenia with

the other, and me, Lord help me! not wanting either of them, why what

can I do if they won't? the Doctor's asked to go to town, for the sake

of printing his papers, which I begged him not to hurry, for I'm but

little fit for learned conversation just now; though when he's here, he

commonly says nothing; only taking out his tablets to write down

something that comes into his head, as I suppose: which I can't say is

very entertaining in the light of a companion. However, as to his having

called me a blockhead, it's not what I take umbrage at, not being a wit

being a fault of no man's, except of nature, which nobody has a right to

be angry at. Besides, as to his having a little pride, it's what I owe

him no ill-will for; a scholar having nothing else but his learning, is

excusable for making the most of it. However, if they would marry one

another, I can't but say I should take it very well of them. The only

thing I know against it, is the mortal dislike they have to one another:

and that, my dear brother, is the point I want to consult you about; for

then we shall be got off all round: which would be a great thing off my

mind.'

When the happy day arrived for returning to Cleves, Sir Hugh re-took

possession of his hospitable mansion, amidst the tenderest felicitations

of his fond family, and the almost clamorous rejoicings of the assembled

poor of the neighbourhood: and the following morning, Mr. Tyrold gave

the hand of Lavinia to Harry Westwyn, and Dr. Marchmont united them; and

Edgar, glowing with happiness, now purified from any alloy, received

from the same revered hand, and owed to the same honoured voice, the

final and lasting possession of the tearful, but happy Camilla.

* * * * *

What further remains to finish this small sketch of a Picture of Youth,

may be comprised in a few pages.

Indiana was more fortunate in her northern expedition, than experiments

of that nature commonly prove. Macdersey was a man of honour, and

possessed better claims to her than he had either language or skill to

explain: but the good Lord O'Lerney, who, to benevolence the most

cheerful, and keenness the least severe, joined judgment and

generosity, acted as the guardian of his kinsman, and placed the young

couple in competence and comfort.

The profession of Macdersey obliging him to sojourn frequently in

country quarters, Indiana, when the first novelty of _tête-à-têtes_ was

over, wished again for the constant adulatress of her charms and

endowments, and, to the inexpressible rapture of Sir Hugh, solicited

Miss Margland to be her companion: and the influence of constant

flattery was so seductive to her weak mind, that, though insensible to

the higher motive of cherishing her in remembrance of her long cares,

she was so spoilt by her blandishments, and so accustomed to her

management, that she parted from her no more.

Lavinia, with her deserving partner, spent a month between Cleves and

Etherington, and then accompanied him and his fond father to their

Yorkshire estate and residence. Like all characters of radical worth,

she grew daily upon the esteem and affection of her new family, and

found in her husband as marked a contrast with Clermont Lynmere, to

annul all Hypothesis of Education, as Lord O'Lerney, cool, rational, and

penetrating, opposed to Macdersey, wild, eccentric, and vehement,

offered against all that is National. Brought up under the same tutor,

the same masters, and at the same university, with equal care, equal

expence, equal opportunities of every kind, Clermont turned out

conceited, voluptuous, and shallow; Henry modest, full of feeling, and

stored with intelligence.

Lionel, first enraged, but next tamed, by the disinheritance which he

had drawn upon himself, had ample subject in his disappointment to keep

alive his repentance. And though enabled to return from banishment, by

the ignominious condemnation, with another culprit, of the late partner

in his guilt, he felt so lowered from his fallen prospects, and so

gloomy from his altered spirits, that when his parents, satisfied with

his punishment, held out the olive-branch to invite him home, he came

forth again rather as if condemned, than forgiven; and, wholly wanting

fortitude either to see or to avoid his former associates, he procured

an appointment that carried him abroad, where his friends induced him to

remain, till his bad habits, as well as bad connections, were forgotten,

and time aided adversity in forming him a new character.

Clermont, for whom his uncle bought a commission, fixed himself in the

army; though with no greater love of his country, than was appendant to

the opportunity it afforded of shewing his fine person to regimental

advantage.

Mrs. Arlbery was amongst the first to hasten with congratulations to

Camilla. With too much understanding to betray her pique upon the errour

of her judgment, as to the means of attaching Mandlebert, she had too

much goodness of heart not to rejoice in the happiness of her young

friend.

Mrs. Lissin, who accompanied her in the wedding visit, confessed herself

the most disappointed and distressed of human beings. She had not, she

said, half so much liberty as when she lived with her Papa, and heartily

repented marrying, and wished she had never thought of it. The servants

were always teazing her for orders and directions; every thing that went

wrong, it was always she who was asked why it was not right; when she

wanted to be driving about all day, the coachman always said it was too

much for the horses; when she travelled, the maids always asked her what

must be packed up; if she happened to be out at dinner time, Mr. Lissin

found fault with every thing's being cold: if she wanted to do something

she liked, he said she had better let it alone; and, in fine, her

violent desire for this state of freedom, ended in conceiving it a state

of bondage; she found _her own house_ the house of which she must take

the charge; being _her own mistress_, having the burthen of

superintending a whole family, and being _married_, becoming the

property of another, to whom she made over a legal right to treat her

just as he pleased. And as she had chosen neither for character, nor for

disposition, neither from sympathy nor respect, she found it hard to

submit where she meant to become independent, and difficult to take the

cares where she had made no provision for the solaces of domestic life.

The notable Mrs. Mittin contrived soon to so usefully ingratiate herself

in the favour of Mr. Dennel, that, in the full persuasion she would save

him half his annual expences, he married her: but her friend, Mr.

Clykes, was robbed in his journey home of the cash which he had so

dishonourably gained.

The first care of Edgar was to clear every debt in which Camilla had

borne any share, and then to make over to Lavinia the little portion

intended to be parted between the sisters. Henry would have resisted;

but Mr. Tyrold knew the fortune of Edgar to be fully adequate to his

generosity, and sustained the proposition. Sir Sedley Clarendel received

his two hundred pounds without opposition, though with surprise; and was

dubious whether to rejoice in the shackles he had escaped, or to lament

the charmer he had lost.

Sir Hugh would suffer no one but himself to clear the debts of his two

nephews, or refund what had been advanced by his excellent old friend

Mr. Westwyn. He called back all his servants, liberally recompensed

their marked attachment, provided particularly for good old Jacob; and

took upon himself the most ample reward for the postillion who meant to

rescue Eugenia.

The prisoner and his wife, now worthy established cottagers, were the

first, at the entrance of Beech Park, to welcome the bride and

bridegroom; and little Peggy Higden was sent for immediately, and

placed, with extremest kindness, where she might rise in use and in

profit.

Lord O'Lerney was sedulously sought by Edgar, who had the infinite

happiness to see Camilla a selected friend of Lady Isabella Irby, whose

benevolent care of her in the season of her utter distress, had softly

enchained her tenderest gratitude, and had excited in himself an almost

adoring respect.

Melmond had received in time the caution of Camilla, to prevent the

meeting to which the baseness of Bellamy was deluding his misguided

sister, through her own wild theories. He forbore to blast her fame by

calling him publicly to account; and ere further arts could be

practised, Bellamy was no more.

Mrs. Berlinton, in the shock of sudden sorrow, shut herself up from the

world. Claims of debts of honour, which she had no means to answer,

pursued her in her retreat; she became at once the prey of grief,

repentance, and shame; and her mind was yet young enough in wrong, to be

penetrated by the early chastisement of calamity. Removed from the whirl

of pleasure, which takes reflexion from action, and feeling from

thought, she reviewed, with poignant contrition, her graceless

misconduct with regard to Eugenia, detested her infatuation, and humbled

herself to implore forgiveness. Her aunt seized the agitating moment of

self-upbraiding and worldly disgust, to impress upon her fears the

lessons of her opening life: and thus, repulsed from passion, and

sickened of dissipation, though too illiberally instructed for cheerful

and rational piety, she was happily snatched from utter ruin by

protecting, though eccentric enthusiasm.

Eugenia, for some time, continued in voluntary seclusion, happily

reaping from the fruits of her education and her virtues, resources and

reflexions for retirement, that robbed it of weariness. The name, the

recollection of Bellamy, always made her shudder, but the peace of

perfect innocence was soon restored to her mind. The sufferings of Mrs.

Berlinton from self-reproach, taught her yet more fully to value the

felicity of blamelessness; and the generous liberality of her character,

made the first inducement she felt for exertion, the benevolence of

giving solace to a penitent who had injured her.

Melmond, long conscious of her worth, and disgusted with all that had

rivalled it in his mind, with the fervour of sincerity, yet diffidence

of shame and regret, now fearfully sought the favour he before had

reluctantly received. But Eugenia retreated. She had no courage for a

new engagement, no faith for new vows, no hope for new happiness: till

his really exemplary character, with the sympathy of his feelings, and

the similarity of his taste and turn of mind with her own, made the

Tyrolds, when they perceived his ascendance, second his wishes.

Approbation so sacred, joined to a prepossession so tender, soon

conquered every timid difficulty in the ingenuous Eugenia; who in his

well-earnt esteem, and grateful affection, received, at length, the

recompence of every exerted virtue, and the solace of every past

suffering. Melmond, in a companion delighting in all his favourite

pursuits, and capable of joining even in his severer studies, found a

charm to beguile from him all former regret, while reason and experience

endeared his ultimate choice. Eugenia once loved, was loved for ever.

Where her countenance was looked at, her complexion was forgotten; while

her voice was heard, her figure was unobserved; where her virtues were

known, they seemed but to be enhanced by her personal misfortunes.

The Baronet was enchanted to see her thus unexpectedly happy, and soon

transferred to Melmond the classical respect which Clermont had

forfeited, when he concurred with Eugenia in a petition, that Dr.

Orkborne, without further delay, might be enabled to retire to his own

plans and pursuits, with such just and honourable consideration for

labours he well knew how to appreciate, as his friend Mr. Tyrold should

judge to be worthy of his acceptance.

With joy expanding to that thankfulness which may be called the _beauty

of piety_, the virtuous Tyrolds, as their first blessings, received

these blessings of their children: and the beneficent Sir Hugh felt

every wish so satisfied, he could scarcely occupy himself again with a

project ... save a maxim of prudence, drawn from his own experience,

which he daily planned teaching to the little generation rising around

him; To avoid, from the disasters of their Uncle, the Dangers and

Temptations, to their Descendants, of Unsettled Collateral Expectations.

Thus ended the long conflicts, doubts, suspences, and sufferings of

Edgar and Camilla; who, without one inevitable calamity, one unavoidable

distress, so nearly fell the sacrifice to the two extremes of

Imprudence, and Suspicion, to the natural heedlessness of youth

unguided, or to the acquired distrust of experience that had been

wounded. Edgar, by generous confidence, became the repository of her

every thought; and her friends read her exquisite lot in a gaiety no

longer to be feared: while, faithful to his word, making Etherington,

Cleves, and Beech Park, his alternate dwellings, he rarely parted her

from her fond Parents and enraptured Uncle. And Dr. Marchmont, as he saw

the pure innocence, open frankness, and spotless honour of her heart,

found her virtues, her errours, her facility, or her desperation, but A

PICTURE OF YOUTH; and regretting the false light given by the spirit of

comparison, in the hypothesis which he had formed from individual

experience, acknowledged its injustice, its narrowness, and its

arrogance. What, at last, so diversified as man? what so little to be

judged by his fellow?

FINIS

* * * * *

[Transcriber's Note: Hyphen and spelling variations left as printed.]