Camilla; or, A Picture of Youth

CHAPTER VIII

A Last Resource

To leave thus a spot where she had experienced such felicity; to see it naked and forlorn, despoiled of its hospitality, bereft of its master, – all its faithful old servants unrewarded dismissed; in disgrace to have re-entered its pales, and in terrour to quit them; – to fly even the indulgent Father, whose tenderness had withstood every evil with which errour and imprudence could assail him, set her now all at war with herself, and gave her sensations almost maddening. She reviewed her own conduct without mercy; and though misery after misery had followed every failing, all her sufferings appeared light to her repentant sense of her criminality; for as criminal alone, she could consider what had inflicted misfortunes upon persons so exemplary.

She arrived at Alresford so late, with the return horses, that she was forced to order a room there for the night.

Though too much occupied to weigh well her lonely and improper situation, at an inn, and at such hours, she was too uneasy to go to bed, and too miserable for sleep. She sat up, without attempting to read, write, or employ herself, patrolling her chamber in mournful rumination.

Nearly as soon as it was light, she proceeded, and arrived at the house of Bellamy as the servants were opening the window-shutters.

Fearfully she asked who was at home; and hearing only their mistress, sent for Molly Mill, and enquired for the answer from Etherington; but the lad had not yet brought any. She begged her to run to the inn, to know what had detained him; and then, ordering the chaise to wait, went to her sister.

Eugenia was gently rejoiced to see her, though evidently with encreased personal unhappiness. Camilla would fain have spared her the history of the desertion of Cleves; but it was an act that in its own nature must be public; and she had no other way to account for her so speedy return.

Eugenia heard it with the most piercing affliction; and, in the fulness of her heart, from this new blow, acknowledged the rapacity of Bellamy, and the barbarity with which he now scrupled not to avow the sordid motives of his marriage; cruelly lamenting the extreme simplicity with which she had been beguiled into a belief of the sincerity and violence of his attachment. 'For myself, however,' she continued, 'I now cease to murmur. How can misfortune, personally, cut me deeper? But with pity, indeed, I think of a new victim!'

She then put into her sister's hand a written paper she had picked up the preceding evening in her room, and which, having no direction, and being in the handwriting of Mrs. Berlinton, she had thought was a former note to herself, accidentally dropt: but the first line undeceived her.

'I yield, at length, O Bellamy, to the eloquence of your friendship! on Friday, – at one o'clock, I will be there – as you appoint.'

Camilla, almost petrified, read the lines. She knew better than her sister the plan to which this was the consent; which to have been given after her representations and urgency, appeared so utterly unjustifiable, that, with equal grief and indignation, she gave up this unhappy friend as wilfully lost; and her whole heart recoiled from ever again entering her doors.

Retracing, nevertheless, her many amiable qualities, she knew not how, without further effort, to leave her to her threatening fate; and determined, at all risks, to put her into the hands of her brother, whose timely knowledge of her danger might rescue her from public exposure. She wrote therefore the following note:

'To Frederic Melmond, Esq.

'Watch and save, – or you will lose your sister.

His address, from frequently hearing it, was familiar to her; she went herself into the hall, to give the billet to a footman for the post-office. She would not let her sister have any share in the transaction, lest it should afterwards, by any accident, be known; though, to give force to her warning, she risked without hesitation the initials of her own name.

The repugnance, nevertheless, to going again to Mrs. Berlinton, pointed out no new refuge; and she waited, with added impatience, for the answer from Etherington, in hopes some positive direction might relieve her cruel perplexity.

The answer, however, came not, and yet greater grew her distress. Molly Mill brought word that when the messenger, who was a post-boy, returned, he was immediately employed to drive a chaise to London. The people at the inn heard him say something of wanting to go to 'Squire Bellamy's with a letter; but he had not time. He was to come back however at night.

To wait till he arrived seemed now to them both indispensable; but while considering at what hour to order the chaise, they heard a horseman gallop up to the house-door. 'Is it possible it should already be Mr. Bellamy?' cried Eugenia, changing colour.

His voice, loud and angry, presently confirmed the suggestion. Eugenia, trembling, said she would let him know whom he would find; and went into the next room, where, as he entered, he roughly exclaimed, 'What have you done with what I dropt out of my pocket-book?'

'There, Sir,' she answered, in the tone of firmness given by the ascendance of innocence over guilt, 'There it is: but how you can reconcile to yourself the delusions by which you must have obtained it I know not. I hope only, for her sake, and for yours, such words will never more meet my eyes.'

He was beginning a violent answer in a raised voice, when Eugenia told him her sister was in the next room.

He then, in a lowered tone, said, 'I warrant, you have shewn her my letter?'

The veracious Eugenia was incapable of saying no; and Bellamy, unable to restrain his rage, though smothering his voice, through his shut teeth, said, 'I shall remember this, I promise you! However, if she dare ever speak of it, you may tell her, from me, I shall lock you up upon bread and water for the rest of your life, and lay it at her door. I have no great terms to keep with her now. What does she say about Cleves? and that fool your uncle, who is giving up his house to pay your father's debts? What has brought her back again?'

'She is returning to Grosvenor-square, to Miss Margland.'

'Miss Margland? There's no Miss Margland in Grosvenor-square; nor any body else, that desires her company I can tell her. However, go, and get her off, for I have other business for you.'

Eugenia, then, opening the door, found her sister almost demolished with terrour and dismay. Silently, for some seconds, they sunk on the breast of each other; horrour closing all speech, drying up even their tears.

'You have no message to give me!' Camilla at length whispered; 'I have, perforce, heard all! and I will go; – though whither – '

She stopt, with a look of distress so poignant, that Eugenia, bursting into tears, while tenderly she clung around her, said, 'My sister! my Camilla! from me – from my house must you wander in search of an asylum!'

Bellamy here called her back. Camilla entreated she would inquire if he knew whither Miss Margland was gone.

He now came in himself, bowing civilly, though with constraint, and told her that Miss Margland was with Mrs. Macdersey, at Macdersey's own lodgings; but that neither of them would any more be invited to Grosvenor-square, after such ill-treatment of Mrs. Berlinton's brother.

Can you, thought Camilla, talk of ill-treatment? while, turning to her sister, she said, 'Which way shall I now travel?'

Bellamy abruptly asked, if she was forced to go before dinner; but not with an air of inviting any answer.

None could she make; she looked down, to save her eyes the sight of an object they abhorred, embraced Eugenia, who seemed a picture of death; and after saying adieu, added, 'If I knew whither you thought I should go – that should be my guide?'

'Home, my dearest sister!'

'Drive then,' she cried, hurrying to the chaise, 'to Etherington.'

Bellamy advancing, said, with a smile, 'I see you are not much used to travelling, Miss Camilla!' and gave the man a direction to Bagshot.

She began, now, to feel nearly careless what became of her; her situation seemed equally desolate and disgraceful, and in gloomy despondence, when she turned from the high road, and stopt at a small inn, called the half-way-house, about nine miles from Etherington, she resolved to remain there till she received her expected answer; ardently hoping, if it were not yielding and favourable, the spot upon which she should read it, would be that upon which her existence would close.

Alighting at the inn, which, from being upon a cross road, had little custom, and was scarce more than a large cottage, she entered a small parlour, discharged her chaise, and ordered a man and horse to go immediately to Belfont.

Presently two or three gentle tappings at the door made her, though fearfully, say, 'Come in!' A little girl then, with incessant low courtesies, appeared, and looking smilingly in her face, said, 'Pray, ma'am, a'n't you the Lady that was so good to us?'

'When? my dear? what do you mean?'

'Why, that used to give us cakes and nice things, and gave 'em to Jen, and Bet, and Jack? and that would not let my dad be took up?'

Camilla now recollected the eldest little Higden, the washerwoman's niece, and kindly enquired after her father, her aunt, and family.

'O, they all does pure now. My dad's had no more mishaps, and he hopes, please God, to get on pretty well.'

'Sweet hearing!' cried Camilla, 'all my purposes have not, then, been frustrated!'

With added satisfaction she learnt also that the little girl had a good place, and a kind mistress. She begged her to hasten the Belfont messenger, giving her in charge a short note for Eugenia, with a request for the Etherington letter. She had spent nothing in London, save in some small remembrances to one or two of Mrs. Berlinton's servants; and though her chaise-hire had now almost emptied her purse, she thought every expence preferable to either lengthening her suspense, or her residence on the road.

In answer to the demand of what she would be pleased to have, she then ordered tea. She had taken no regular meal for two days; and for two nights had not even been in bed. But the wretchedness of her mind seemed to render her invulnerable to fatigue.

The shaken state of her nerves warped all just consideration of the impropriety of her present sojourn. Her judgment had no chance, where it had her feelings to combat, and in the despondence of believing herself parentally rejected, she was indifferent to appearances, and desperate upon all other events: nor was she brought to any recollection, till she was informed that the messenger, [who] she had concluded was half way to Belfont, could not set out till the next morning: this small and private inn not being able to furnish a man and horse at shorter warning.

To pass a second night at an inn, seemed, even in the calculations of her own harassed faculties, utterly improper; and thus, driven to extremity, she forced herself to order a chaise for home; though with a repugnance to so compulsatory a meeting, that made her wish to be carried in it a corpse.

The tardy prudence of the character naturally rash, commonly arrives but to point repentance that it came not before. The only pair of horses the little inn afforded, were now out upon other duty, and would not return till the next day.

Almost to herself incredible seemed now her situation. She was compelled to order a bed, and to go up stairs to a small chamber: but she could not even wish to take any rest. 'I am an outcast,' she cried, 'to my family; my Mother would rather not see me; my Father forbears to demand me; and he – dearer to me than life! – by whom I was once chosen, has forgotten me! – How may I support my heavy existence? and when will it end?

Overpowered, nevertheless, by fatigue, in the middle of the night, she [lay] down in her cloaths: but her slumbers were so broken by visions of reproach, conveyed through hideous forms, and in menaces the most terrific, that she gladly got up; preferring certain affliction to wild and fantastic horrours.

Nearly as soon as it was light, she rang for little Peggy, whose Southampton anecdotes had secured her the utmost respect from the mistress of the inn, and heard that the express was set off.

Dreadful and dreary, in slow and lingering misery, passed the long interval of his absence, though his rapid manner of travelling made it short for the ground he traversed. She had now, however, bought sufficient experience to bespeak a chaise against his return. The only employment in which she could engage herself, was conversing with Peggy Higden, who, she was glad to find, could not remember her name well enough to make it known, through her pronunciation.

From the window, at length, she perceived a man and horse gallop up to the house. She darted forth, exclaiming: 'Have you brought me any answer?' And seizing the letter he held out, saw the hand-writing of Lavinia, and shut herself into her room.

She opened it upon her knees, expecting to find within some lines from her Mother; none, however, appeared, and sad and mortified, she laid down the letter, and wept. 'So utterly, then,' she cried, 'have I lost her? Even with her pen will she not speak to me? How early is my life too long!'

Taking up again, then, the letter, she read what follows.

'Alas, my dear sister, why can I not answer you according to our mutual wishes? My Father is at Winchester, with a lawyer, upon the affairs of Indiana; and my Mother is abroad with my uncle, upon business which he has asked her to transact; but even were she here … could I, while the man awaits, intercede? have you forgotten your ever fearful Lavinia? All that she dares, shall be done, – but that you may neither think she has been hitherto neglected, nor let your hopes expect too much speed from her future efforts, I am painfully reduced to own to you, what already has passed. But let it not depress you; you know when she is hurt, it is not lightly; but you know, also, where she loves, her displeasure, once passed, is never allowed to rise again.

'Yesterday I saw her looking at your picture; the moment seemed to be happy, and I ventured to say; "Ah, poor Camilla!" but she turned to me with quickness, and cried; "Lament rather, Lavinia, your Father! Did he merit so little trust from his child, that her affairs should be withheld from him till they cast him … where I found him!.. Dread, memorable sight – when may I forget it!"

'Even after this, my dear Camilla, I hazarded another word, "she will be miserable," I said, "my dear Mother, till she returns." "She will return," she answered, "with Miss Margland. This is no season for any expence that may be avoided; and Camilla, most of all, must now see the duties of œconomy. Were her understanding less good, I should less heavily weigh her errours; but she sets it apart, to abandon herself to her feelings. Alas! poor thing! they will now themselves be her punishers! Let her not however despond; tell her, when you write, her angelic Father forgives her; and tell her she has always had my prayers, and will ever have my blessing; – though I am not eager, as yet, to add to her own reproaches, those she may experience from my presence."

'I knew not how to introduce this to my dearest Camilla, but your messenger, and his haste, now forces me to say all, and say it quick. He brings, I find, the letter from Belfont, where already we had heard you were removed through Miss Margland, much to the approbation of my Father and my Mother, who hope your sojourn there is a solace to you both. Adieu, my dearest sister – your messenger cannot wait.

'She will not see me then!' cried Camilla, 'she cannot bear my sight! O Death! let me not pray to thee also in vain!'

Weak from inanition, confused from want of sleep, harassed with fatigue, and exhausted by perturbation, she felt now so ill, that she solemnly believed her fatal wish quick approaching.

The landlord of the inn entered to say that the chaise she had ordered was at the door; and put down upon the table the bill of what she had to pay.

Whither to turn, what course to take, she knew not; though to remain longer at an inn, while persuaded life was on its wane, was dreadful; yet how present herself at home, after the letter she had received? what asylum was any where open to her?

She begged the landlord to wait, and again read the letter of Lavinia, when, startled by what was said of abandoning herself to her feelings, she saw that her immediate duty was to state her situation to her parents. She desired, therefore, the chaise might be put up, and wrote these lines:

'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!

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 œconomy, 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.