 Book 10, Chapter 5 of Camilla. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Velwest. Camilla or A Picture of Youth by Fanny Burney. Book 10, Chapter 5, The Operation of Terror. Lady Isabella for the first two or three miles left Camilla uninterruptedly to her own thoughts. She then endeavored to engage her in some discourse, but was soon forced to desist. Her misery exceeded all measure of restraint, all power of effort. Her father in prison, and for her own debts. The picture was too horrible for her view, yet too adhesive to all her thoughts, all her feelings, all her faculties, to be removed from them a moment. Penetrated by what she owed to Lady Isabella, she frequently took her hand, pressed it between her own, pressed it to her lips, but could chew her no other gratitude and force herself to no other exertion. It was still early. They traveled post and with four horses, and arrived at Winchester before eight o'clock. Shaking, she entered the town, half fainting, half dead. Lady Isabella would have driven straight on to Etherington, which was but a stage further, but to enter the rectory, once the rector himself was torn, no, cried she, no, there where abides my father, there alone will I abide. No roof shall cover my head, but that which covers his. I have no wish but to sink at his feet, to crawl in the dust, to confine myself to the hardest labour for the remnant of my miserable existence, so it might expiate but this guilty outrage. Lady Isabella took not any advantage of the anguish that was thus bursting forth with secret history. She was too delicate and too good to see such a moment for surprising confidence, and only inquired if she had any friend in the town who could direct her with her to go and accompany as well as direct. She knew no one with sufficient intimacy to endure presenting herself to them upon such an occasion, and preferred proceeding alone to the sad and cruel interview. Lady Isabella ordered the chase to a hotel where she was shunned into a room upstairs, whence she sent one of her own servants to inquire out where debtors were confined and if Mr. Tyrold were in custody, charging him not to name from whom or why he came, and begging Camilla to get ready a note to prepare her father for the meeting and prevent any affecting surprise. She then went to choose herself a chamber, determined not to quit her voluntary charge till she saw her in the hands of her own friends. Camilla could not write. To kneel, to weep, to sue was all she could bear to plan, to present to him the sight of her handwriting she had not courage. Presently she heard a chase drive rapidly through the inn gate. It might be him, perhaps released. She flew down the stairs with that wild hope, but no sooner had descended them than a dread of his view took its place, and she ran back. She stopped, however, in the landing-place to hear who entered. Suddenly a voice struck her ear that made her start, that vibrated quick to her heart, and there seemed to arrest the springs of life. She thought it the voice of her mother. It ceased to speak, and she dropped on one knee, inwardly but fervently praying her senses might deceive her. Again, however, and more distinctly it reached her. Doubt then ceased, and terror next to horror took its place. What was said, she knew not. Her trepidation was too great to take in more than the sound. Prostrate she fell on the floor, but hearing a waiter say, upstairs madam you may have a room to yourself. She started, rose, and rushing violently back to the apartment she had quitted, bolted herself in, exclaiming, I am not worthy to see you, my mother. I have cast my father into prison, and I know you will abhor me. She then sat down against the door to listen if she were pursued. She heard a footstep, a female step. She concluded at that of her mother. She can come, cried she, but to give me her malediction. And flew frantic about the room, looking for any means of escape, yet perceiving only the window whence she must be dashed to destruction. She now heard a hand upon the lock of the door. Oh, then I could die! Then I could die! She cried madly advancing to the window and throwing up the sash, yet with quick instinctive repentance pulling it down, shuddering and exclaiming, Is there no death for me but murder, no murder but suicide? A voice now found its way through her cries to her ear that said, It is me, my dear Miss Tyrold, will you not admit me? It was Lady Isabella, but her mother might be with her. She could not, however, refuse to open the door, though desperately she said to herself, If she is there, I will pass her and rush into the streets. Seeing, however, Lady Isabella alone, she dropped on her knees, ejaculating, Thank heaven, thank heaven, one moment, yet I am spared. What is it, my dear Miss Tyrold? said Lady Isabella, that causes you this sudden agony. What can it be that thus dreadfully disorders you? Is she with you? cried she, in a voice scarce audible. Does she follow me? does she demand my father? Rise, dear madam, and compose yourself, if you mean a lady whom this minute I have passed, and whose continence so much resembles yours that I thought her at once some near relation, she is just gone from this house. Thank heaven, thank heaven, again ejaculated the prostrate Camilla. My mother is spared a little longer, the dreadful sight of all she must now most abominate upon earth. She then begged Lady Isabella instantly to order the chase and return to town. On the contrary, answered her ladyship, extremely surprised at so wild a request, let me rather myself carry you to your family. Oh no, Lady Isabella, no! cried Camilla, speaking with frightful rapidity and shaking in every limb. All now is changed. I came to wait upon my father, to humble myself at his feet, not to obtrude myself upon my mother. Oh Lady Isabella, I shall have broken her heart, and I dare not offend her with my sight. Lady Isabella, with the most judicious gentleness, endeavored to render her more reasonable. I pretend not, she said, to decide upon your situation, though I comprehend its general affliction. Yet still, and at all events, its termination must be a meeting. Suffer me, therefore, rather to hasten than retard, so write a measure, allow of my mediation, and give me the infinite pleasure of leaving you in the hands of your friends. Camilla, though scarcely able to articulate her words, declared again the motive to her journey was at an end, that her father had now one to watch, soothe, and attend him, who had none of her dreadful drawbacks to consoling powers, and that she would remain at Mrs. Burlington's till summoned home by their immediate commands. Lady Isabella began pleading their own rights to decide if or not the meeting should be deferred, but wildly interrupting her. You know not, she cried, what it is you ask, I have not nerves, I have not heartiness to force myself into such a presence, an injured father, an offended mother. Oh, Lady Isabella, if you knew how I adore, and how I have ruined them, let me go to them from you, myself, let me represent your situation. They are now probably together, that lady whom I saw but from the stairs, though her continence so much struck me, and whom I now conclude to be Mrs. Tyrell, said as she passed, I shall walk, I only want a guide. They had not then even met, cried Camilla, starting up with fresh horror. She is but just arrived, has but just been at Etherington, and there heard that her husband was in prison, and in prison for the debts of her daughter, her guilty perhaps reprorated daughter. Again, wringing her hands, half distracted. Oh, that the earth, she cried, had received me ere I quitted the parental roof, innocent I had then died, beloved, regretted, no shame would have embittered my father's sorrow, no wrath my mother's, no culpable misconduct would have blighted with disgrace their long, long wish for meeting. The compassionating yet judicious Lady Isabella, willing to shorten the suffering she pitied, made yet another effort to prevent this unadvised return, by proposing they should both sleep this night at Winchester, that Camilla might gather some particulars of her family, and some composure for herself, to better judge what step to pursue. But all desire of meeting was now converted into horror. She was too much known in the neighborhood to escape being recognized if she stayed till the morning, and her shattered intellect she declared could not bear passing a whole night in expectation of a discovery through some accident. Have I not already, cried she, heard her voice and flooded sound? Judge then, Lady Isabella, if I can present myself before her. No, I must write first. I have a long and dreadful history to relate, and then, when she has heard it, and when the rectory has again its reverend master, and when they find some little palliation where now they can see only guilt, and when all is committed without disguise to their goodness, their mercy, they may say to me perhaps themselves, Unhappy Camilla, Thou hast paid thy just penalty. Come home, then, to thy parent's roof, thou penitent child. Lady Isabella knew too little of the characters with which she had to deal, to judge if it would be right to insist any further. She ordered, therefore, fresh horses to her chase, and as soon as her footmen came back, who brought the now useless direction where Mr. Tyrold was to be found, they galloped out of Winchester. At Alton they stopped to sleep, and her immediate terror removed. She became more sensible of what she owed to Lady Isabella, to whom, in the course of the evening, she recounted, frankly, the whole history of her debts, except what related to Lionel. Your Lady, she appears me, she said in conclusion, with the patience of benevolence, though I fear with the censure of all judgment. What evils have accrued from want of consideration and foresight? My errors have all been doubled by concealment. Every mischief has been augmented by delay. Oh, Lady Isabella, how sad an example shall I add to your powers of benign instruction. From day to day, from hour to hour, I planned expedience where I ought to have made confessions. To avoid one dreadful, but direct evil, what I have suffered has been nearly intolerable, what I have inflicted unpardonable. Lady Isabella, much touched by her openness and confidence, repaid them by all that compassion could suggest, or that a sincere disposition toward esteem could anticipate of kindness. She gathered the amount of the sum for which Mr. Tyrold was confined, and besought Camilla to let it less way upon her spirits, as she could herself undertake that Lorda learning would accommodate him with it immediately, and wait his perfect leisure for repayment. I have known him, said she, from a child, and have always seen with respect and admiration the prompt pleasure with which he rather seizes, than accepts every opportunity to do good. Camilla returned the most grateful thanks, but acknowledged she had no apprehension, but that the writ would immediately be withdrawn, as the county was almost filled with friends to her father, who would come forward upon such an occasion. What rest thus upon my mind, said she, and what upon his, and upon my mother's will rest, is the disgrace, and the cause, the one so public, the other so clandestine. And besides, though this debt will be easily discharged, its payment by alone is but incurring another, and how that is to be paid, I know not indeed. Ah, last, Lady Isabella, the father I have thus dreadfully involved, has hitherto, throughout his exemplary life, held it a sacred duty to adapt his expenses to his income. Again Lady Isabella gave what consolation she could bestow, and in return for her trust, said she would speak to her with sincerity upon a point of much delicacy. It was of her friend, Mrs. Burlington. Who know, said she, you are not perhaps aware, is become a general topic of discourse. To the platonics with which she set out in life she has, of late, joined coquetry. Nor even there stops the ardor with which she seeks to animate her existence to two characters, hitherto thought the most contradictory, the sentimental, and the flirting. She unites yet a third, till now believed incompatible with the pleasures and pursuits of either. This, I need not tell you, is that of a game-stress. And when to three such attributes is added an open aversion to her husband, a professed and even boasted hatred of his person, his name, his very being, what hope can be entertained, be her heart, her intentions what they may, that the various dangers she sets at defiance will not ultimately take their revenge and surprise her in their tremils? Edgar himself seemed to Camilla to be speaking in this representation, and that idea made it catch her attention in the midst of her utmost misery. She urged, however, all she knew and could suggest in favor of Mrs. Burlington, and Lady Isabella expressed much concern in occasioning her any painful sensations. But who, said she, can see you thus nearly, and not be interested in your happiness? And I have known, alas, though I am still under thirty, instances innumerable of self-deluded young women who, trusting to their own pure intentions, have neither feared, nor heeded the dangers which encircled them till, imperceptibly, from the insidious influence of levity, they have pursued the very course they began with disclaiming, and followed the very steps from which, at first, they unaffectedly recoiled. Instructed and grateful, though incapable of being tranquilized, Camilla the next day reached Grossfinner Square long before her fair friend had left her downy pillow, Lady Isabella extracted a promise to be informed of her proceedings, and, loaded with merited acknowledgments, returned to her own mansion. Camilla took possession of the first room in which she found a pen and ink, and wrote instantly to Livinia a short, rapid and incoherent letter upon the distraction of her mind at the dreadful calamity she had occasioned her father, and the accumulated horrors to which her mother had returned. She durst not present herself before them uncalled, not even by letter, but she would live in the strictest retirement and penance till they ordered her home, for which Epoch, not more longed than dreaded, she besought her sister's mediation. This sent off she forced herself to wait upon Miss Marglant, who had received an answer from Cleese to continue in town till Indiana wrote or reappeared. She was put immediately into uncommon good humor by the ill's success at the journey of Camilla, which, she protested, was exactly what she expected. Camilla then strove to recollect all she had been told by Lord O'Learney of Mr. McDursey, and to relate it to Miss Marglant, who, pleased and surprised, undertook to write it to Sir Hugh. To three days of dreadful suspense she now saw herself inevitably condemned in waiting an answer from Lavinia, but as her eyes were open to her mark by the admonitions of Lady Isabella and her attention was called back to the earlier cautions of Edgar, her time, though spent with misery, hung not upon her unoccupied. She thought herself called upon by every tie of friendship faithfully and courageously to represent to Mrs. Burlington her impropriety of conduct with regard to Bellamy and the reports that were spread abroad to her more general disadvantage. Her reception from that lady she had thought for the first time cold. She had welcomed her indeed with an accustomed embrace, but her kindness seemed strained, her smile was faint, and the eyes which so softly used to second it were averted. As soon as they were alone together Camilla took her hand, but without returning its pressure, Mrs. Burlington presented her with a new poem for her evening's amusement. Camilla put it down, but while hesitating how to begin, Bellamy was announced. She started and flew away, but returned when he was gone and begged a conference. Mrs. Burlington answered certainly, though she looked embarrassed and added not immediately as she was obliged to dress for the evening. Camilla entreated she might speak with her before dinner the next day. To this she received a gentle assent, but no interview at the time appointed took place and when at dinner they met no notice was taken of the neglect. She now saw she was pointedly avoided. Her courage however was called upon, her gratitude was indebted for past kindnesses, and her honour felt a double engagement. The opportunity therefore she could not obtain by request, she resolved to seize by surprise. Bellamy was again however announced, but the moment that from her own chamber she heard him descend the stairs, she flew to the dressing-room and abruptly entered it. The surprise she gave was not greater than that she received. Mrs. Burlington, her fine eyes streaming with tears, and her white hands uplifted with an air of supplication, was evidently in an act of devotion. Camilla drew back and would have retired, but she hastily dried her eyes and said, Mrs. Tyrell, do you want me? Where's Mrs. Marglund? Ah, my dearest Mrs. Burlington, my friend, as I had hoped, and by me surely I trust, loved, forever, cried Camilla, throwing her arms round her neck. Why this sorrow, why this distance, why this unkind avoidance? Mrs. Burlington, who at first had shrunk from her embrace, now fell in trembling agitation upon her breast. Camilla hoped this was the instant to improve when she appeared to be herself, calling religion to her aid, and when the tenderness of her peals seemed to bring back a movement of her first partiality. Suffer, suffer me, she therefore cried, to speak to you now, hear me, my dear and amiable friend, with the sweetness that first won my affection. Mrs. Burlington, affrighted, drew back, acknowledging herself unhappy but shrinking from all discourse, and starting when Camilla named Bellamy, with a confusion she vainly strove to repress. Unhackning in the world as was Camilla, her understanding and sense of right stood here in the place of experience to point out the danger and impropriety surrounding her friend and catching her by the gown as she would have quitted the room. Mrs. Burlington, she emphatically cried, if you persist in this unhappy, this perilous intercourse, you risk your reputation, you risk my sister's peace, you risk even your own future condemnation. Oh, forgive me, forgive me, I see how I have affected you, but you would listen to no milder words. Mrs. Burlington had sunk upon a chair, her hands clasped upon her forehead, and tears running rapidly down her cheeks. Brought up with religious terrors yet ill-instructed in religious principles, the dread of future punishment nearly demolished her, though no regular creed of right kept her consistently or systematically in any uniform exercise of good. But thus forcibly surprised into sudden conscientious recollections, she betrayed rather than opened her heart, and acknowledged that she was weeping at a denial she had given to Bellamy, who, molested by the impossibility of ever conversing with her undisturbed, had entreated her to grant him, from time to time, a few hours society in a peaceful retirement. Nor should I, or could I, she inquired, refuse him, for I have every reliance in his honor, but that the guilty world, ignorant of the purity of our friendship, might causelessly alarm my brother for my fame, and this, and the fear of any, though so groundless uneasiness to your sister, makes me resist his powerful eloquence, and even my own notions of what is due to our exalted league of friendship. Camilla listened with horror to this avowal, yet saw with compassion that her friend endeavored to persuade herself she was free from wrong, though with censure that she sought to gloss over rather than investigate every doubt to the contrary. But while fear was predominant for the event of such a situation to herself, abhorrence filled her whole mind against Bellamy, in every part, every plan, and every probability of the business. Oh, Mrs. Burlington, she cried, conquer this terrible infatuation which obscures danger from your sight, and right from your discernment. Mr. Bellamy is married, and if you think yourself my sister would be hurt to know of these unhallowed leagues and bonds, you must be sure with the least reflection that they are wrong. You too are married, and if Mr. Melman would join with the world in condemning the extraordinary project you mentioned, you must feel with the least reflection it ought not to be granted. Even were you both single, it would be equally improper, though not so wide spreading in its mischief. I have committed many errors, yet not one of them willfully or against conviction. Nevertheless, the ill consequences that have ensued tear me at this moment with repentant sorrow. Ah, think then what you, so tender, so susceptible, so feeling will suffer if with your apprehensions all awake, you listen to any request that may make my sister unhappy or involve your deserving brother in any difficulty or hazard. Mrs. Burlington was now subdued. Touched terrified and convinced, she embraced Camilla, wept in her arms, and promised to see Bellamy no more. The next day arrived an answer from La Vinia, long minute and melancholy, but tenderly affectionate and replete with pity. Oh, my sister, she began, we cannot yet meet. Our mother is in no state to bear any added emotion. The firmness of her whole character, the fortitude of her whole life, hitherto unbroken by any passion, and superior to any misfortune, have both given way suddenly and dreadfully to the scene following her arrival. She then went back to particulars. Mr. Clikes, she had heard, finding his bill for his own trouble positively refused, had conceived the Tyrol's family in danger of bankruptcy by the general rumors of the joint claimants of Lionel and Claremont, and imagining he had no time to lose, hoped by an arrest to frighten their father to terms in order to obviate the disgrace of such a measure. Their father would, however, hear of none, nor pay anything above the exact amount of the signed receipts of the various creditors, and submitted to the confinement, in preference to applying to any friend to be his bail till he could consult with the lawyer. He was already at Winchester, where he had given Clikes a meeting when the writ was served against him. He sent a dispatch to Etherington to prevent any surprise at his not returning, and to desire the affair might not travel to Cleves, where La Vinia was then with Sir Hugh. This note, addressed to the upper servant, fell into the hands of Mrs. Tyrold herself the next evening upon her sudden arrival. She had been thus unexpectedly brought back by the news of the flight of Bellamy with Eugenia. Her brother was still ill, but every consideration gave way to the maternal, and in the hope to yet rescue her daughter from this violator, she set off in a packet which was just sailing. But what, upon descending from the chase, was the horror of her first news? She went on instantly to Winchester, and a lighting at an hotel took a guide and went to the place of confinement. The meeting that ensued, continued La Vinia, no one witnessed, but everyone may imagine. I will not therefore wound your feelings, my dearest Camilla, with even touching upon my own. The impression, however, left upon the mind of our poor mother, I should try vainly to disguise, since it has given her a shock that has forced from me the opening of this letter. She then besought her to take nevertheless some comfort, since she had the unspeakable satisfaction to inform her that their father was returned to the rectory. He had been liberated, from the ritz being withdrawn, though without his consent, without even his knowledge, and contrary to his wishes, nor was it yet ascertained by whom this was done, though circumstances allowed no division to their conjectures. Harry Westwin had learnt the terrible event in a ride he had accidentally taken to Winchester, and upon returning to Cleves had communicated it with the most feeling circumspection to herself. The excess of grief with which she had heard him had seemed to penetrate to his quickly sensitive soul, for he is yet more amiable, she added, than his father's partiality paints him. They agreed not to name it to Sir Hugh, though Harry assured her that no less than five gentlemen in the vicinity had already flown to Mr. Tyrold to conjure to be accepted as his bail, but he chose first to consult his lawyer upon the validity of the claim made against him. All their care, however, was ineffectual. Through some of the servants Sir Hugh was informed of the affair, and his affliction was despair. He accused himself as being the cause of this evil, from the money he had borrowed for Claremont, which might wholly have been avoided had he followed his brother's advice in immediate and severe retrenchments. These, however, he now began in a manner that threatened to rob him of every comfort, and Mr. Westwin was so much affected by his distress that to relieve him, at least from the expense of two guests and their servants, he instantly took leave, promising nevertheless to yet see him again before he returned for the rest of his days to his native home. In a few hours, after the departure of these gentlemen, news arrived that Mr. Tyrold was again at the rectory. Mr. Clikes had suddenly sent his receipt in full of all demands, and then set off for London. There cannot be a doubt this was the deed of the generous Mr. Westwin, in compact with his deserving son. Continued Levenia, they have been traced to Winchester, but we none of us knew where, at present, to direct to them. The delight of my uncle at this act of his worthy old friend has extremely revived him. My father is much dissatisfied, the wretched Clikes should thus be paid all his fraudulent claims, but my mother and my uncle would, I believe, scarce have supported life under his longer confinement. The letter thus concluded, My mother, when first she heard you were in town, was herself going to send for you, but when she understood that Miss Margeline was with you, and you lived in utter seclusion from company, she said, Since she is safe, I had rather not yet see her. Our beloved father acquiesces, for he thinks you, at present, too much shaken, as well as herself, for so agitating an interview, till her mind is restored to its usual firmness. Judge then, my sister, since even he is for the delay, if your Levenia can gather courage to plead against it. You know, my dearest Camilla, her extreme and tender fondness. You cannot therefore doubt, but her displeasure will soon pass away. But when, to the dreadful pangs of finding the hapless fate of Eugenia irremediable, was added the baneful sight of an adored husband in custody, you cannot wonder such complicated shocks should have disordered her frame, and taught her, even her, as my incomparable father has just said to me, that always to be superior to calamity demands a mental strength beyond the frail texture of the human composition, though to wish and to try for it shoes we have that within which aspires at a higher state, and prepares us for fuller perfection. Can I better finish my letter than with words such as these? I do, then, my dear sister. I hope soon to write more cheerful tidings. Our poor mother is gone to Belfont. What a meeting again there! Lavinia Tyrold. A wish for death, immediate death, in common with every youthful mourner in the first paroxysm of violent sorrow, was the sole sensation which accompanied the reading, or remained after the finishing of this letter with Camilla. Here, she cried, falling prostrate, here might I but at once expire, close these unworthy eyes, forbidden to raise themselves to the authors of my existence, finish my short and culpable career forgotten, since no longer cherished by the parents I have offended, by the mother who no longer wishes to see me. She lay down her head, and her sight became dim. A convulsive shivering from feelings overstrained and nerves dreadfully shattered seized her. She sighed short and quick, and thought her prayer already accomplishing. But the delusion soon ceased. She found life still in its vigor, though bereft of its joy, and death no nearer to her frame for being called upon by her wishes. In the heaviness of disappointment, I have lived, she cried, too long, and yet I cannot die. I am become an alien to my family, and a burden to myself, ordered from my home by my father, lest my sight should be destructive to my mother, while my sister durst not even plead for me. Oh, happy Edgar, how great has been thy escape, not to have taken for thy wife this excommunicated wretch! To live thus seemed to her impossible, to pass even the day in such wretchedness she believed impracticable. Any, every period appeared to her preferable, and in the desperation of her heart she determined instantly to pursue her mother to Belfont, and there, by the gentle intercession of Eugenia to obtain her pardon, or, which she thought immediately would follow its refusal, to sink to death at her feet. Relieved from the intenseness of her agony by this plan, and ever eager to pursue the first idea that arose, she flew to borrow from Mrs. Burlington her post-chase for the next morning, and to supplicate that Miss Marlin would accompany her to Belfont, whence if she missed Mrs. Tyreld they could easily return the same day, as the distance was not more than thirteen miles. The chase was accorded promptly by Mrs. Burlington, and no regret expressed at the uncertainty of Camilla whether or not she should return. But Miss Marlin, though burning with curiosity to see Eugenia as Mrs. Bellamy, would not quit town from continual expectation of some news of Indiana. At an early hour the following morning, and feeling as if suspended but by thread between life and death, Camilla set off for Belfont. Book 10, Chapter 6 of Camilla. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Velwest. Camilla or a picture of youth by Fanny Burney. Book 10, Chapter 6, The Reverse of a Mask. The plan of Camilla was to stop within twenty yards of the house of Bellamy, and then send for Molly Mill. But till she gave direction to the driver, she was not aware of the inconvenience of being without a servant, which had not previously occurred either to Mrs. Burlington or herself. The man could not leave his horses, and she was compelled to let him draw up to the gate. There, when he rang on a bell, her terror, lest she should suddenly encounter Mrs. Tyreld, made her bid him open the chased door that she might get out and walk on, before he inquired for Molly. But, in stepping from the carriage, she discerned, over a pailing at some distance, Eugenia herself alone, slowly walking, and her head turned another way. Every personal and even every filial idea was buried instantly in this sight. The disastrous state of this beloved and unhappy sister, and her own peculiar knowledge of the worthless character of the wretch who had betrayed her into his snares, penetrated her with an anguish that took thought from all else, and darting through the great gate, and thence through a smaller one which opened to the spot where she saw her walking, she flew to her in a speechless transport of sorrow, folded her in her arms, and sobbed upon her shoulder. Starting shaking amazed, Eugenia looked at her, a good heaven, she exclaimed. Is it my sister? Is it Camilla? Do I indeed see one so dear to me? And too weak to sustain herself, she sunk, though not fainting, upon the turf. Camilla could not articulate a syllable. The horror she had conceived against Bellamy chilled all attempt at consolation, and her own misery which, the preceding moment, seemed to be crushing the springs of life, vanished in the agonized affection with which she felt the misfortunes of her sister. Eugenia soon recovered, and rising, and holding her by the hand, yet seeming to refuse herself the emotion of returning her embraces, said, with faint effort to smile. You have surprised me, indeed, my dear Camilla, and convicted me to myself of my vain philosophy. I had thought I should never more be moved thus again, but I see now the affections are not so speedily to be all vanquished. The melancholy conveyed by this idea of believed apathy in a young creature so innocent, and but just dawning into life still beyond speech, and nearly beyond sufferance affected Camilla, who, hanging over her, sighed out, my dearest dearest Eugenia! And what is it has brought to me this unexpected but loved sight? Does Mr. Bellamy know you are here? No, she answered, shuddering at his name. Eugenia looked pensive, looked distressed, and casting down her eyes and hesitating, with a deep sigh, said, I have not the trinkets for my dear sister, Mr. Bellamy, she stopped. Called to her sad self by this shock, of which she strove to repress the emotion, Camilla recollected her own almost blunted purpose, and fearfully asked if their mother were yet at Belfont. Ah, no, she answered, clasping her hands and leaning her head upon her sister's neck. She is gone, the day before yesterday she was with me, with me only for one hour, yet to pass with her such another, I think, my dear Camilla, would soon lead me where I might learn a better philosophy than that I so vainly thought I had already acquired here. Camilla struck with awe, ventured not even at an inquiry, and they both for some little time walked on in silence. Did she name to you, at length, in broken accents, she asked, did she name to you, my Eugenia, the poor banished Camilla? Banished, no, how banished? She did not mention me. No, she came to me, but upon one subject she failed in her purpose, and left me. A sigh that was nearly a groan finished this short little speech. Oh, heaven, my Eugenia! cried Camilla now in agony, unresisted. Tell me, then, what passed? What new disappointment had my unhappy mother to sustain, and how, by what cruel fatality has it fallen to your lot, even to yours to suffer her wishes to fail? You know nothing, then, said Eugenia after a pause, of her view, her errand hither? Nothing but that to see you brought her not only hither but to England. Blessed may she be, cried Eugenia fervently, and rewarded where rewards are just and are permanent. Camilla zealously joined in the prayer, yet be sought to know if she might not be informed of the view to which she alluded. We must go, then, said Eugenia into the house. My poor frame is yet feebler than my mind, and I cannot support it unaided while I make such a relation. Camilla, affrighted, now gave up her request, but the generous Eugenia would not leave her in suspense. They went, therefore, to a parlor where, shutting the doors and windows, she said, I must be concise for both our sakes, and when you understand me, we must talk instantly of her things. Camilla could give only a tacit promise, but her air-shoot she would hold it sacred as any bond. The idea which brought over this inestimable parent, and which brought her at a moment when she knew me to be alone to this sad house, these sad arms. Camilla, how shall I speak it? It was to exonerate me from my vows as forced, to annul all my engagements as compulsatory, and to restore me again. Oh, Camilla, Camilla, to my parents, my sisters, my uncle, my dearly loved cleaves. She gasped almost convulsively, yet, though Camilla now even conjured her to say no more, went on. A proposal such as this, pressed upon me by one whose property and honor hold all calamity at nought, if opposed to the most minute deviation from right. A proposal such as this, let me not go back to the one terrible half-instant of demure. It was heart-rendering, it was killing. I thought myself again in the bosom of my loved family. And is it so utterly impossible, and can it not yet be affected? No, my dear sister, no. The horrible scenes I must go through in a public trial for such a purpose. The solemn vows I must set aside, the reiterated promises I must break? No. No. My dear sister, no. And now we will speak of this no more. Camilla knew too well her firmness, her enthusiasm to perform whatever she conceived to be her duty, to enter into any contest. Yet to see her thus self-devoted, where even her upright mother and P.S. father, those patterns of resignation to every heaven-inflicted sorrow, thought her ties were repealed by the very villainy which had formed them, seemed more melancholy, and yet harder for submission than her first seizure by the worthless Bellamy. And how, poor my poor mother, oh, my poor unfortunate mother, destined thus to woes of every sort, though from children who adore her, how bore she the deprivation of a hope that had brought her so far? Like herself, nobly, when once it was decided, and she saw that though upon certain of owls the law might revoke my plighted faith, it could not abrogate the scruples of my conscience. She thanks them overstrained, but she knows them to be sincere, and permitted them, therefore, to silence her. Unfit to be seen by any others, she hurried then away. And then, Camilla, began my trial indeed, I thought, when she had left me. When my arms no more embraced her honoured knees, and neither her blessings nor her sorrows sooth or wounded my ears, I thought I might defy all evil to assault, all woe to afflict me ever again, that my eyes were exhausted of every tear, and my heart was emptied of all power of future feeling. I seemed suddenly quite hardened, transformed, I thought, to stone, as senseless, as immovable, and as cold. This sensations of Camilla were all such as she durst not utter, but Eugenia, assuming some composure added, of this and of me now enough, speak, my dear sister of yourself. How have you been enabled to come hither, and what could you mean by saying you were banished? Alas, my dearest Eugenia, if my unhappy situation is unknown to you, why should I agitate you with new pain? My mother, I find, spared you, and not only you but me, though I have wrung her heart, tortured it by a sight never to be obliterated from her memory. She would not rob me of my beloved sister's regard, nor even name me, lest the altered tone of her voice should make you say of what Camilla does my mother speak. Eugenia, with earnest wonder, begged an explanation. But when Camilla found her wholly uninformed of the history of their father's confinement, she recoiled from giving her such a shock, yet, having gone too far entirely to recede, she rested the displeasure of their mother upon the debts and the dealings with the user, both sufficiently repugnant to the strictness and nobleness of Mrs. Tyreld to seem ample justification of her displeasure. Eugenia entered into the distress of her sister, as if exempt herself from all suffering, and Camilla, thus commiserating and commiserated, knew not how to tear herself her way. For though Eugenia pressed not her stay, she turned pale when a door opened, a clock struck, or anything seemed to prognosticate separation, and looked as if to part with her were death. At length, however, the lateness of the day forced more of a resolution. But when Camilla then rang to give orders for the carriage, the footman said it had been gone more than two hours. The postillian, being left without any directions, thought it convenient to suppose he was done with. And knowing Camilla had no authority, and his lady no inclination to chide him, he had given in her little packet, and driven off, without inquiry. Far from repining at this mixture of impertinence and carelessness, Camilla would have rejoiced in an accident that seemed to invite her to stay, had not her sister seemed more startled than pleased by it. She begged, therefore, that a postchase might be ordered, and Mollie Mill, the only servant to whom the mistress of the house appeared willing to speak, received the commission. At sight of Camilla, Mollie had cried bitterly, and beginning, oh, miss, seemed entering into some lamentation and detail, but Eugenia, checking her, half-whispered, good Mollie, remember what you promised. When Mollie came back, she said that there were no horses at Belfont, and would be none till the next morning. The sisters involuntarily congratulated one another upon this accident, though they reciprocated a sigh that, to necessity alone, they should owe their lengthened intercourse. But, my dear mistress, cried Mollie, there's a lad that I know very well, for I always see him when I go of an errand that's gone to Salisbury, and he says he must go through Etherington, and if you have anything you want to send he'll take it for you, and he can bring anything back, for he shall be here again to-morrow, for he goes post. Eugenia, sending away Mollie, said, why should you not seize such an opportunity to address a few lines toward your mother? I may then have the satisfaction to see her answer, and, if, as I cannot doubt, she tells you to return home with Miss Marglund—oh, she will not, I'm sure, let you travel all about alone—what a relief will it be to me to know the distresses of my beloved sister are terminated. I shall paint your meaning in my mind's eye, see you again restored to the sunshine of her fondness, and, while away my solitary languor with reveries far more soothing than any that I have yet experienced at Belfont. Camilla embraced her generous sister, and, always readiness for what was speediest, wrote these lines, directed, to Miss Tyrold. I cannot continue silent, yet to whom may I address myself? I dare not apply to my father, I scarce dare even think of my mother. Encompassed with all of guilt, with which imprudence can ensnare me, my courage is gone with my happiness. Which way may I then turn? In pity to a wretched sister, drop, O Lavinia, at the feet of her I durst not name, but whom I revere, if possible even more than I have offended. This small and humble memorial of my unhappy existence, my penitence, my supplication, my indescribable, though merited, anguish. Camilla, could the two sisters, even in this melancholy state, have continued together, they felt that yet from tender sympathy consolation might revisit their bosoms? The day closed in, but they could not bear to part, and though from hour to hour they pronounced in adieu, they still sat on, talked on, and found a balm in their restored intercourse, so healing and so sweet, that the sun, though they held on its beams, rose when they were yet repeating, good night. They then thought it too late to retire, mutually agreeing with how much greater facility they might recover their lost rest than an opportunity such as this for undisturbed conversation. Every minute of this endearing commerce made separation seem harder, and the answer for which they waited from Etherington, anxiously and fearfully as it was expected, so wild away the minutes that it was noon, and no chase had been ordered, and when they heard one driving up to the house. Alarmed, they listened to know what it portented. Mr. Bellamy, said at Eugenia in a low voice, scarce ever comes home at this hour. Could it be my mother herself? cried Camilla. In a few minutes, however, Eugenia looked pale, to his step, she whispered, and presently Bellamy opened the door. Obliged to acknowledge his entrance, Camilla arose, but her parched lips and clammy mouth made her feel as if his sight had given her a fever, and she attempted not to force any speech. He did not seem surprised at seeing her, asked how she did, rather cavalierly than civilly, rang the bell, and gave various orders, addressed scarce a word to his wife, and walked whistling about the room. A change so gross and quick from the obsequious Bellamy Camilla had hitherto seen was beyond even her worst expectations, and she conceived as low an opinion of his understanding in his manners as of his morals. Eugenia kept her eyes riveted to the ground, and though she tried from time to time to say something to them both, evidently it required her utmost fortitude to remain in the room. At length, Miss Camilla, he said, I suppose you know, Miss Markland is gone. Gone with her? How gone? Why, home. That is, to her home, as she thinks it cleaves. She set off this morning with the light. Camilla astonished, was now called forth from her taciturnity. What? Possibly, she cried, can have induced this sudden journey. Has my uncle sent for her? No, your uncle has nothing to do with it. She had a letter last night from Mrs. McDursey, with one in clothes for Sir Hugh, to beg pardon and so forth, and this morning she set off to carry it. Camilla was confounded. Why, Miss Markland had not at least called at Belfont to inquire as she would proceed with her was beyond all her conjecture. Soon after Bellamy's servant came in with a letter for Camilla, which had arrived after she left town, and was given to him by Mrs. Burlington's butler. She retired into the next room to read it, where, to her great consternation, she found it was from Jacob, and had been written the day of Mr. Tyrold's arrest, though, as it was sent by a private hand, it had only now arrived. Things going, he said, so bad it cleaves, on account of so many misfortunes. His master was denying himself all his natural comforts, and in particular he had sent to unorder a new pipe of Madeira, saying he would go without, though, as Miss might remember, it was the very wine the doctors had ordered for his stomach. This, all the servants, had so taken to heart, that they had resolved to buy it among them, and get it privately laid in, and not let his honour know, but what it was always the same, till he had drunk so much, he could not help himself. For this they were to join, according to their wages and savings. Now I, says Jacob, being by his good honour's generosity the richest among us, for my calling, wants to do the most, after next to the butler and housekeeper, so, dear miss, all I got being in the funds, which I can't sell out without loss, if you can let me have the money for the urs without all convenience, till Miss Jenny that was can pay it, I should be much obliged. For Miss Jenny not having of a fart in, which will be a great favour to, madame, your humblest servant till death, the Jacob Mord. So touching a mark of the fond gratitude of the cleave's servants to their kind master, mingled tenderness, and defiance of all horror, in the tears of Camilla, but her total inability to satisfy the just claims of Jacob, since now her resource even in Eugenia failed, with the grief of either defeating his worthy project, or making it lastingly hurtful to him, was amongst the severest strokes which had followed her ill-advised schemes. To proclaim such an additional debt was a shame from which she shrunk, yet to fly immediately to cleave's and try to soothe her oppressed uncle was an idea that still seemed gifted with some power to soothe herself. With her indeed else could she now go? She had no longer either carriage or protectress in town, and what she gathered of the readmission of Bellamy to Grosvenor Square made the cautions and opinions of Eger burst forcefully upon her mind to impede, though most mournfully all future return to Mrs. Burlington. Appliancy so weak or so willful seemed to announce in that lady an almost determined incorrigibility and wrong, however it might be checked in its progress by mingled love of right and a fear of ill consequences. Oh, Edgar! she cried, had I trusted you as I ought, from the moment of your generous declaration, had my confidence been as firm in your kindness as in your honour, what misery had I been saved? From this connection, from my debts, from every wide-spreading mischief I could then have aired no more, for I should have thought but of your approvance. These regrets were, as usual, resuming their absorbing powers, for all other evils seemed fluctuating, but here misery was stationary, when the voice of Bellamy speaking harshly to his unhappy wife, and some words she unavoidably caught by which she found he was requesting that she would demand money of Sir Hugh, made her conclude him not aware he was overheard, and force herself back into the parlor. But his inattention upon her return was so near rudeness that she soon felt convinced Mrs. Burlington had acquainted him with her remonstrances and ill-opinion. He seemed in guilty fear of letting her converse even a moment with Eugenia, and presently, though with an air of pretend unconcerned, said, You have no commands for the chase I came in, Miss Camilla? No, Sir, what chase? Why? She stammered. It's difficult sometimes to get one at this place, and these horses are very fresh. I bid them stay till they asked you. This was so palpable a hint for her to depart, that she could not but answer she would make use of it when she had taken leave of her sister, whom she now looked at with emotions near despair at her fate, and with difficulty restrained even its most unbridled expressions. But Bellamy kept close, and no private conference could take place. Eugenia merely said, Which way, my dear sister, shall you go? I am not fixed to cleaves, I believe, answered she, scarce knowing herself what she said. I am very glad of it, she replied. For the sake of my poor she found her voice falter, and did not pronounce uncle, but added, As Miss Marglant has already left London, I think you right to go further at once. It may abridge many difficulties, and with post-horses you may be there before it is dark. They then embraced tenderly, but parted without any further speech, and she set off rather mechanically than designedly for cleaves. 7. A new view of an old mansion Camilla for some time bestowed no thought upon what she was doing, or with her she was going. A scene so dreadful as that she now quitted, and a character of such utter unworthiness as that with which her sister for life was tied, absorbed her faculties, and nearly broke her heart. When she stopped, however, at backshot for fresh horses, the obligation of giving directions to others made her think of herself, and bewildered with uncertainty whether the steps she took were right or wrong, she regretted she had not, at least, desired to stay till the answer arrived from Itherington. Yet her journey had the sanction of Eugenia's concurrence, and Eugenia seemed to her oricular. When she came upon the cross-road, leading from Winchester to Cleaves, and felt her quick approach to the spot so loved, yet dreaded, the horses seemed to her to fly. Twenty times she called out to the driver not to hurry, who as often assured her the bad roads prevented any haste. She wanted to form some appropriate plan and speech for every emergence, but she could suggest none for any. She was now at the feet of her mother, now kissing the hands of her father, now embraced again by her fond uncle, and now rejected by them all. But while her fancy was at work alternately to soothe and torture her, the park-lodge met her eyes, with still no resolution taken. vehemently she stopped the chase. To drive in through the park would call a gentle attention, and she wished ere her arrival were announced to consult alone with Lavinia. She resolved, therefore, to get out of the carriage and run by a private path to a small door at the back of the house when she could glide to the chamber, commonly appropriated to her sister. She told the postrelian to wait, and a lighting walked quick and fearfully towards the lodge. She passed through the park gate for foot-passengers with that notice from the porter. It was twilight. She saw no one, and rejoiced in the gentle vacancy. Trembling but with celerity, she skimmed like her celebrated namesake, the turf, and annoyed only by the shadows of the trees, which all, as first they caught her eye, seemed the precursors of the approach of Mrs. Tyrault, speedily reaching the mansion. But when she came to the little door by which she meant to enter, she found it fuzoned. To the front door she durst not go, from the numerous chances by which she might surprise some of the family in the hall, and to present herself at the servant's gate would have an appearance degrading and clandestine. She recollected at last the sash door of a bow window belonging to a room that was never occupied but in summer. Dither she went, and knowing the spring by which it could be opened on the outside, led herself into the house. With steps not to be heard, and scarce breathing, she got tense into a long stone passage, whence she meant to mount the back stairs. She was relieved by not meeting anyone in the way, though surprised to hear no footsteps about the house, and no voices from any of the apartments. Cautiously she went on, looking round at every step, to avoid any sudden encounter. But when she came to the bed-chamber gallery, she saw that the door of the room of Sir Hugh, by which she must necessarily pass, was wide open. It was possible he might be in it. She had not courage to pass. Her sight, thus unprepared, after so many heavy evils, might be too affecting for his weak frame. She turned short round, and entered a large apartment at the head of the stairs, called a billiard-room, where she resolved to wait and watch, ere she ventured any further. Its aspect was to the front of the house. She stole gently to a window, whence she thought the melancholy of her own mind pervaded the park. None of her uncle's horses were in sight. No one was passing to and fro, and she looked vainly even for the house-dog, who ordinarily patrolled before the mansion. She ventured to bend forwarder, to take a view of the side-wings. These, however, presented not any sight more exhilarating, nor more animated. Nothing was in motion, no one was visible, not even a fireplace to cheerfulness. She next drove to catch a glance of the windows belonging to the chamber of Eugenia, but her sigh, though sad, was without surprise to see their shutter shut. Those of Indiana were close too. How mournfully, cried she, this all changed. What of virtues are gone with Eugenia? What of beauty with Indiana? The one so constantly interesting, the other looking always so lovely. But deeper still was her sigh, since mingled with self-approach, to perceive her own chamber also shut up. Alas, she cried, my poor uncle considers us all as dead to him. She does not lean sufficiently forward to examine the drawing-room, in which she concluded the family assembled. But she observed with wonder that even the library was not open, though it was still too light for candles. And Dr. Orkborn, who usually sat there from the forgetfulness of application, was the last to demand them. The fear of discovery was now combated by an anxiety to see someone, anyone, and she returned to the passage. All there was still quiet, and she hazarded gliding past the open door, though without daring to look into the room. But when she came to the chamber of Eugenia, which she softly entered, all was dark, and it was evidently not in present use. This was truly distressful. She concluded her sister was returned to Eddington, and knew not to whom to apply for counsel or mediation. She no longer, however, feared meeting her parents, who certainly had not made her sister quit cleaves without themselves. And, after a little hesitation, relying upon the ever-sure lenity of her uncle, she determined to cast herself upon his kindness, but for us to send in a short note, to avoid giving him any surprise. She returned down the gallery, meaning to apply for pen and ink to the first person she could find. She could only, she knew, meet with a friend. Unless, by ill-fortune, she should encounter Miss Marglant, the way to whose apartment she sedulously shunned. No longer, however, quite too cautious, she stopped near the chamber of Sir Hugh, and convinced by the stillness it was empty, could not resist stepping into the apartment. It looked despoiled and forsaken. Nothing was in its wanted order. His favorite guns hung not over the chimney-piece. The corners of the room were emptied of his sticks. His great chair was in a new place. No cushions for his dogs were near the fire. The bedstead was naked. She now felt petrified. She sunk to the floor, to ejaculate a prayer for his safety, but knew not how to rise again for terror, nor which way next to turn, nor what even to conjecture. Thus she remained till suspense grew worse than, and she forced herself from the room to seek some explanation. It was possible the whole family residence might be changed to the back front of the house. She descended the stairs with almost equal apprehension of meeting anyone or seeing no one. The stone passage was now nearly dark. It was always the first part of the house that was lighted, as its windows were small and high, but no preparations were now making for that purpose. She went to the housekeeper's room, which was at the foot of the stairs she had descended. The door was shut, and she could not open it. She tried repeatedly but vainly to be heard by soft taps and whisperings. No one answered. Amazed, confounded, she turned slowly another way. Not a soul was in sight, not a sound within hearing. Everything looked desolate. All the family seemed to be vanished. Incensibly, yet irresistibly, she now moved on towards the drawing-room. The door was shut. She hesitated whether or not to attempt it. She listened. She hoped to catch the voice of her uncle, but all was inviolably still. This was the only place of assembling in the evening, but her uncle might have dropped asleep, and she would not hazard startling him with her presence. She would sooner go to the hall at once and be announced in the common way by a servant. But what was her astonishment in coming to the hall to find neither servant, light nor fire, and the marble pavement covered with trunks, packing mats, straws, ropes, and boxes? Terrified and astonished, she thought herself walking in her sleep. She could combine no ideas, either good or bad, to account for such a scene, and she looked at it bewildered and credulous. After a long hesitation, spent in wonder rather than thought, she at length determined to enter the breakfast parlour and ring the bell. When the distant sound of a carriage that was just entering the park made her shut herself into the room hastily but silently. It advanced rapidly. She trembled. It was surely she thought her mother. When it drove up to the portico and she heard the house bell ring, she instinctively barred her door. But finding no one approach to the call, while the bell was impatiently rerung, her strong emotions of expectation were taking her again into the hall. But as her hand was upon the lock of the door, a light glimmered through the keyhole. She heard some step advancing, and precipitately drew back. The hall door was now opened, and a man inquired for a young lady just to come from Aldrasford. There is no young lady here at all, was the answer, the voice of Jacob. Finding it only her own driver, she ventured out, crying, Oh Jacob, where is my dear uncle? Jacob was at first incapable of all answer, through surprise at her strange appearance, but then said, Oh Miss Camilla, you'll go nigh to break your good heart when you know it all, but how you've got into the house is what I can't guess, but I wish for my poor master's sake it had been before now. Horror crept through every vein of Camilla in the explanation she awaited of this fearful mystery. She motioned to the driver to stay, returned back to the parlor, and beckoned, for she could not speak to Jacob to follow her. When he came, and shutting the door, was beginning a diffuse lamentation, eagerness to avert lengthened suspense recovered her voice. And she passionately exclaimed, Jacob, in two words, where's my uncle? Is he well? Why, yes, Miss Camilla. Considering, he began, but Camilla, whose fury had been fatal, interrupted him with fervent thanksgiving, till she was called back from joy by the following words. He's gone away, Miss Camilla. Gone, Lord knows where. Given up all his grand housekeeping, turned off almost all his poor servants, left this fine place to have it led to whoever will hire it, and is going to live, he says, in some poor little lodging, till he can scrape together wherewithal to pay off everything for your papa. A thunderbolt that had instantly destroyed her would gratefully have been received, in preference to this speech, by Camilla, who, casting up her hands and eyes, exclaimed, Then am I the most detestable, as well as the most wretched of human beings? My father, I have imprisoned. My uncle, I have turned from his house and home, and for thee, o' my mother, this is the reception I have prepared. Jacob tried to console her, but his account was only added torture. The very instant he told her, that as Master had received the news of arrest of Mr. Tyrault, he determined upon this violent plan, and though the so speedy release, through the generosity of Mr. Westman, had exceedingly calmed his first emotions, he would not change his purpose, and protested he would never indulge himself in peace nor comfort more, till he had cleared off their joint debts. Of which he attributed the whole fault to himself, from having lived up to the very verge of his yearly income, when he ought, he said, considering there were so many young people, to have always kept a few odd sums at hand for accidents. We all did what we could, continued Jacob, to put him off from such a thing, but all to no purpose. But if you had been here, Miss Camilla, you would have done more with him than all of us put together. But he called Miss Levenia and all of us up to him, and said to us, I won't have nobody tell this to my poor little girl, meaning you, Miss Camilla, till I have got somewhere settled and comfortable, because of her kind heart, says he. Tentern is so partial, at so suffering an instant, almost killed Camilla. Oh Jacob, she cried, where is now my dear generous uncle, I will follow him in this chase, rushing out, as she spoke. I will be his servant, his nurse, and attend him from morning to night. She hurried into the carriage, as she spoke, and bade him, give directions to the postalion. But when she heard he was, at present, only at Esrington, whence he was seeking a new abode, her head drooped, and she burst into tears. Jacob remained, he said, alone, to take care of all the things, and to shoo the place, to such as might come. Miss Marglund had been at the house about three hours ago, and had met Sir Hugh, who had come over, to give directions about what he would have backed up, and he had read a letter from Miss Indy, that was, and had forgiven her. But he was so vexed, Miss Marglund had come, without Miss Camilla. Only she said, Miss Camilla was at Mrs Bellamy's, and she did not call, because she thought it would be better to go back again, and see more about Miss Indy, and so bring Miss Camilla next time. So she weirled his master to spare the chase again, and let her go off directly to settle everything to Miss Indy's mind. Camilla now repented, she had not returned to Mrs Burlington's there, notwithstanding all objections, to have waited her recall. Since there, her parents still believed her, and thence, under the protection of Miss Marglund, would in all probability summon her. To present herself, after this barbarous aggravation of the calamity she had caused, undemanded and unforgiven it at the Rington, she thought impossible. She inquired if, by passing the night at Cleves, she might have any chance of seeing her uncle the next day. Jacob answered, no, but that Mr Tyrold himself was a gentleman from Winchester who thought of hiring the house, where to be there early in the morning to take a survey of the premises. A meeting, thus circumstanced with her father, at a moment when he came upon so direful a business, as parting with a place of which she had herself occasioned the desertion, seemed to her insupportable. And she resolved to return immediately to Belfont, to see there if her answer from Levenia contained any new directions, and if not, to again go to London, and await final commands, without listening evermore to any hopes, projects, or judgments of her own. Beseeching the worthy Jacob to pardon her non-payment, with every kind assurance that her uncle should know all his goodness, she told the postalian to take her to Belfont. He could go no further, he said, and that but a footbase than to Aldress Ford. Jacob marveled, but blessed her in Camilla, ejaculating. A dude, your happy, Cleves, was driven out of the park. CHAPTER VIII A LAST RESOURCE To leave thus a spot where she had experienced such felicity, to see it naked and forlorn, despoiled of its hospitality, bereft of its master, all its faithful old servants unrewarded dismissed, in disgrace to have re-entered its pails, and in terror to quit them, to fly even the indulgent father, whose tenderness had withstood every evil with which error and intrudence could assail him, set her now all at war with herself, and gave her sensations almost maddening. She reviewed her own conduct without mercy, and though mystery after mystery had followed every failing, all her sufferings appeared light to her repentant sense of her criminality. For, as criminal alone, she could consider what had inflicted misfortunes upon persons so exemplary. She arrived at Alresford so late, with return horses, that she was forced to order a room there for the night. Though too much occupied to weigh well her lonely and improper situation at an inn, and at such hours she was too uneasy to go to bed, and too miserable for sleep. She sat up without attempting to read, write, or employ herself, patrolling her chamber in mournful rumination. Nearly as soon as it was light, she proceeded, and arrived at the house of Bellamy, as the servants were opening the window shutters. Fearfully she asked to us at home, and hearing only their mistress sent for Molly mill, and inquired for the answer from Edrington, but the lad had not yet brought any. She begged her to run to the inn to know what had detained him, and then, ordering the chairs to wait, went to her sister. Eugenia was gently rejoiced to see her, though evidently with increased personal unhappiness. Camilla would feign have spared her the history of the desertion of cleaves. But it was an act that in its own nature must be public, and she had no other way to account for her so speedy return. Eugenia heard it with the most piercing affliction, and in the fullness of her heart from this new blow acknowledged the rapacity of Bellamy, and the barbarity with which he now scrupled not to avow the solid motives of his marriage, cruelly lamenting the extreme simplicity with which she had been beguiled into a belief of the sincerity and violence of his attachment. For myself, however, she continued, I now cease to murmur, how can misfortune personally cut me deeper, but with pity indeed I think of a new victim. She then put into her sister's hand a written paper she had picked up the preceding evening in her room, and which, having no direction and being in the handwriting of Mrs. Burlington, she had thought was a former note herself accidentally dropped, but the first line undeceived her. I yield at length, O Bellamy, to the eloquence of your friendship. On Friday, at one o'clock, I will be there as you appoint. Camilla, almost petrified, read the lines. She knew better than her sister the plan to which this was the consent, which to have been given after her representations and urgency appeared so utterly unjustifiable, that with equal grief and indignation she gave up this unhappy friend as willfully lost, and her whole heart recoiled from ever again entering her doors. Retracing nevertheless her many amable qualities, she knew not how without further effort to leave her to her threatening fate, and determined at all risks to put her into the hands of her brother, whose timely knowledge of her danger might rescue her from public exposure. She wrote therefore the following note. To Frederick Melmont Esquire, Watch and save, or you will lose your sister, C.T. His address from frequently hearing it was familiar to her. She went herself into the hall to give the billet to a footman for the post office. She would not let her sister have any share in the transaction, lest it should afterwards by any accident be known, though to give force to her warning she risked without hesitation the initials of her own name. The repugnance nevertheless to going again to Mrs. Burlington pointed out no new refuge, and she waited with added impatience for the answer from Edrington, in hopes some positive direction might relieve her cruel perplexity. The answer, however, came not, and yet greater grew her distress. Molly Meale brought word that when the messenger who was a post-boy returned, he was immediately employed to drive a chase to London. The people at the inn heard him say something of wanting to go to Squire Bellamy's with a letter, but he had no time. He was to come back, however, at night. To wait till he arrived seemed now to them both indispensable, but while considering at what hour to order the chase they heard a horseman gallop up to the house door. Is it possible it should already be Mr. Bellamy? cried Eugenia, changing color. His voice loud and angry presently confirmed the suggestion. Eugenia trembling said she would let him know whom he would find, and went into the next room, where, as he entered, he roughly exclaimed, What have you done with what I dropped out of my pocketbook? There, sir, she answered in the tone of firmness given by the ascendance of innocence of a guilt. There it is, but how you can reconcile to yourself the delusions by which you must have obtained it? I know not. I hope only for her sake and for yours such words will never more meet my eyes. He was beginning a violent answer in a raised voice when Eugenia told him her sister was in the next room. He then, in a low tone, said, I warrant you have shown her my letter. The veracious Eugenia was incapable of saying no, and Bellamy unable to restrain his rage, though smothering his voice through his shop, he said, I shall remember this, I promise you. However, if she dare ever speak of it, you may tell her from me, I shall lock you up upon bread and water for the rest of your life, and lay it at her door. I have no great terms to keep with her now. What does she say about Cleaves? And that fool your uncle, who is giving up his house to pay your father's debts, what has brought her back again? She is returning to Grosvenor Square to Miss Marglund. Miss Marglund? There's no Miss Marglund in Grosvenor Square, nor anybody else that desires her company, I can tell her. However, go and get her off, for I have other business for you. Eugenia, then opening the door, found her sister almost demolished with terror and dismay. Silently, for some seconds, they sunk on the rest of each other, horror closing all speech, drying up even their tears. You have no message to give me, Camilla at length whispered. I have her force heard all, and I will go, though with her. She stopped with a look of distress so poignant that Eugenia bursting into tears, while tenderly she clung around her, said, My sister, my Camilla, from me, from my house must you wander in search of an asylum. Bellamy here called her back. Camilla entreated she would inquire if he knew with her Miss Marglund was gone. He now came in himself, bowing civilly, though with constraint, and told her that Miss Marglund was with Mrs. MacDursey, at MacDursey's own lodgings, but that neither of them would any more be invited to Grosvenor Square after such ill treatment of Mrs. Burlington's brother. Can you, thought Camilla, talk of ill treatment, while turning to her sister, she said? Which way shall I now travel? Bellamy abruptly asked if she was forced to go before dinner, but not with an air of inviting any answer. None could she make. She looked down to save her eyes, the sight of an object they abhorred, embraced Eugenia, who seemed a picture of death. And after saying adieu, I did, if I knew whether you thought I should go, that should be my guide. Home, my dearest sister! Drive, then, she cried, hurrying to the chest, to Edrington. Bellamy, advancing, said with a smile, I see you are not much used to traveling, Miss Camilla, and gave the man a direction to bagshot. She began now to feel nearly careless what became of her. Her situation seemed equally desolate and disgraceful, and in gloomy despondence, when she turned from the high road and stopped at a small inn called the Halfway House, about nine miles from Edrington, she resolved to remain there till she received her expected answer, ardently hoping, if it were not yielding and favourable, the spot upon which she should read it would be that upon which her existence would close. A lighting at the inn, which from being upon a crossroad, had little custom and was scarce more than a large cottage, she entered a small parlor, discharged her chairs, and ordered a man and horse to go immediately to Bellfont. Presently two or three gentle tapings at the door made her, though fearfully, say, come in. A little girl, then, with incest and low courtesies, appeared, and, looking smilingly in her face, said, Pray, ma'am, ain't you the lady that was so good to us? When, my dear, what do you mean? Why, that used to give us cakes and nice things, and gave them to Jen and Bette and Jack, and that would not let my dad be took up. Camilla now recollected the eldest little Hidgen, the washerwoman's niece, and kindly inquired after her father, her aunt, and family. Oh, they all thus pure now! My dad's had no more mishaps, and he hopes, please, God, to get on pretty well. Sweet hearing, cried Camilla, all my purposes have not then been frustrated. With her dissatisfaction she learned also that the little girl had a good place and a kind mistress. She begged her to hasten the bell font messenger, giving her in charge a short note for Eugenia, with a request for the Edrington letter. She had spent nothing in London, save in some small remembrances to one or two of Mrs. Burlington's servants, and though her chair's hire had now almost emptied her purse, she thought every expense preferable to either lengthening her suspense or her residence on the road. In answer to the demand of what she would be pleased to have, she then ordered tea. She had taken no regular meal for two days, and for two nights had not even been in bed, but the wretchedness of her mind seemed to render her invulnerable to fatigue. The shaken state of her nerves warped all just consideration of the impropriety of her present sojourn. Her judgment had no chance where it had her feelings to combat, and in the despondence of believing herself parentally rejected, she was indifferent to appearances and desperate upon all other events, nor was she brought to any recollection till she was informed that the messenger she had concluded was half way to bell font, could not set out till the next morning. This small and private inn not being able to furnish a man and horse at shorter warning. To pass a second night at an inn seemed even in the calculations of her own harassed faculties utterly improper, and thus driven to extremity she forced herself to order a chairs for home, though with a repugnance to so compulsory a meeting that made her wish to be carried in it a corpse. The tardy prudence of the character naturally rash commonly arrives but to point repentance that it came not before. The only pair of horses the little inn afforded were now out upon other duty and would not return till the next day. Almost herself incredible seemed now her situation. She was compelled to order a bed and to go upstairs to a small chamber, but she could not even wish to take any rest. I am an outcast, she cried, to my family. My mother would rather not see me. My father forbids to demand me, and he dearer to me than life by whom I was once chosen has forgotten me. How may I support my heavy existence, and when will it end? Overpowered nevertheless by fatigue in the middle of the night, she lay down in her clothes but her slumbers were so broken by visions of reproach, conveyed through hideous forms, and in menace is the most terrific that she gladly got up, preferring certain affliction to wild and fantastic horrors. Nearly as soon as it was slight, she rang for little Peggy, whose Southampton anecdotes had secured her the utmost respect from the mistress of the inn, and heard that the express was set off. Dreadful and dreary, in slow and lingering misery, passed the long interval of his absence, though his rapid manner of traveling made it short for the ground he traversed. She had now however bought sufficient experience to bespeak a chase against his return. The only employment in which she could engage herself was conversing with Peggy Hitten, who, she was glad to find, could not remember her name well enough to make it known through her pronunciation. From the window at length she perceived a man and horse gallop up to the house. She darted forth exclaiming, Have you brought me any answer? And, ceasing the letter he held out, saw the handwriting of Lavigne and shut herself into her room. She opened it upon her knees, expecting to find within some lines from her mother. None, however, appeared, and sad and mortified. She lay down the letter and wept. So utterly then, she cried, Have I lost her? Even with her pen, will she not speak to me? How early is my life too long? Taking up again, then, the letter, she read what follows. To Miss Camilla Tirold, Alas, my dear sister, why can I not answer you according to our mutual wishes? My father is at Winchester with a lawyer upon the affairs of Indiana, and my mother is abroad with my uncle upon business, which he has asked her to transact. But even were she here, could I, while the man awaits intercede, have you forgotten your ever-fairful Lavigne? All that she dares shall be done, but that you may neither think she has been hitherto neglected, nor let your hopes expect too much speed from her future efforts. I am painfully reduced to own to you what already has passed. But let it not depress you. You know, when she is hurt, it is not lightly, but you know also where she loves her displeasure once passed is never allowed to rise again. Yesterday I saw her looking at your picture. The moment seemed to be happy, and I ventured to say, ah, poor Camilla. But she turned to me with quickness and cried. Lament rather Lavigne, your father, did he merit so little trust from his child that her affair should be withheld from him till they cast him where I found him. Dread memorable sight when may I forget it. Even after this, my dear Camilla, I hastened another word. She will be miserable, I said. My dear mother, till she returns. She will return, she answered, with Miss Marglund. This is no season for any expense that may be avoided. And Camilla, most of all, must now see the duties of economy. Were her understanding less good, I should less heavily weigh her errors. But she sets it apart to abandon herself to her feelings. Alas, poor thing, they will now themselves be her punishers. Let her not, however, despond. Tell her, when you write, her angelic father forgives her, and tell her she has always had my prayers and will ever have my blessing, though I am not eager as yet to add to her own reproaches those she may experience from my presence. I knew not how to introduce this to my dearest Camilla, but your messenger and his haste now forces me to say all and say it quick. He brings I find the letter from Belfond, where already we had heard you were removed through Miss Marglund, much to the probation of my father and my mother, who hope your sojourn there is a solace to you both. Adieu, my dearest sister, your messenger cannot wait. Lavina, Gerald. She will not see me then, cried Camilla. She cannot bear my sight. Oh death, let me not pray to thee also in vain. Weak from inonition, confused from want of sleep, harassed with fatigue, and exhausted by perturbation, she felt now so ill that she solemnly believed her fatal wish quick approaching. The landlord of the inn entered to say that the chairs she had ordered was at the door and put down upon the table the bill of what she had to pay. With her to turn, what course to take, she knew not, though to remain longer at an inn, while persuaded life was on its way, was dreadful. Yet how crescent herself at home after the letter she had received, what asylum was anywhere open to her? She begged the landlord to wait, and again read the letter of Lavina, when startled by what was said of abandoning herself to her feelings, she saw that her immediate duty was to state her situation to her parents. She decided therefore the chairs might be put up and wrote these lines. I could not unhappily stay at Eugenias, nor can I return to Mrs. Burlington. I am now at the halfway house where I shall wait for commands. My Lavina 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 blessed again with their sight. The brevity of my career may to their kindness expiate its faults. They may pray for me when my own prayers may be too unsanctified to be heard. They may forgive me, though my own forgiveness never more will quiet this press. Heaven bless and preserve them, their unoffending daughters, and my ever-loved uncle, Camilla Tirold. 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 express the chess in which she came the last stage, that which she ordered to take her to Etherington and the expense 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 Uptirold, to be trusted by all the environs, but to expose herself in this helpless and even penniless state, appeared to her to be a degradation to every part of her family. To enclose the bill to Etherington was to secure it's being paid, but the sentence, Camilla most of all must now see the duties of the economy 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 Mandelberg. 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 demure, 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 of his. Generously, benevolently, he would rejoice you should spare me still one last menacing shame. When Mrs. Marl, the land lady came in, deeply coloring, 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. This pretty indeed, ma'am, she said, it would be pity to sell it, however, I shall shoe it my husband. Mr. Marl soon came himself with look somewhat less satisfied. This a fine bobble, 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 spirit, 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 infetch sixpence, 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 laborer, after some search, was found, who undertook for handsome pay, took care it on foot to the rectory. End of Chapter 8 Read by Lorsch Rolander