WHEN summoned to tea, Camilla, upon entering the parlour, found Sir Hugh in mournful discourse with Edgar upon the nonappearance of Dr. Orkborne. Edgar felt a momentary disappointment that she did not honour his flowers with wearing them; but consoled himself with supposing she had preserved them in water. In a few minutes, however, Indiana appeared with them in her bosom.
Almost petrified, he turned towards Camilla, who, affecting an air of unconcern, amused herself with patting a favourite old terrier of her uncle’s .
As soon as he could disengage himself from the Baronet, he leant also over the dog, and, in a low voice, said–‘You have discarded, then, my poor flowers?’
‘Have I not done right?’ answered she, in the same tone; ‘are they not where you must be far happier to see them?’
‘Is it possible,’ exclaimed he, ‘Miss Camilla Tyrold can suppose–’. He stopt, for surprised off his guard, he was speaking loud, and he saw Miss Margland approaching.
‘Don’t you think, Mr. Mandlebert,’ said she, ‘that Miss Lynmere becomes a bouquet very much? she took a fancy to those flowers, and I think they are quite the thing for her.’
‘She does them,’ he coldly answered, ‘too much honour.’
Ah, Heaven! he loves her not! thought Camilla, and, while trembling between hope and terror at the suggestion, determined to redouble her circumspection, not to confirm the suspicion that his indifference was produced by her efforts to attach him to herself.
She had soon what she conceived to be an occasion for its exertion. When he handed her some cakes, he said–‘You would think it, I conclude, impertinent to hear anything more concerning Mrs. Arlbery, now you have positively opened an acquaintance with her?’
She felt the justice of this implied reproach of her broken promise; but she saw herself constantly watched by Miss Margland, and repressing the apology she was sighing to offer, only answered–‘You have nothing, you own, to say against her reputation-and as to any thing else–’
‘True,’ interrupted he, ‘my information on that point is all still in her favour: but can it be Miss Camilla Tyrold, who holds that to be the sole question upon which intimacy ought to depend? Does she account as nothing manners, disposition, way of life?’
‘No, not absolutely as nothing,’ said she, rising; ‘but taste settles all those things, and mine is entirely in her favour.’
Edgar gravely begged her pardon, for so officiously resuming an irksome subject; and returning to Sir Hugh, endeavoured to listen to his lamentations and conjectures about Dr. Orkborne.
He felt, however, deeply hurt. In naming Mrs. Arlbery, he had flattered himself he had opened an opportunity for which she must herself be waiting, to explain the motives of her late visit; but her light answer put an end to that hope, and her quitting her seat shewed her impatient of further counsel.
Not a word that fell from Sir Hugh reached his ear: but he bowed from time to time, and the good Baronet had no doubt of his attention. His eyes were perpetually following Camilla, though they met not a glance from her in return. She played with the terrier, talked with Eugenia, looked out of the window, turned over some books, and did everything with an air of negligence, that while it covered absence and anxiety, displayed a studied avoidance of his notice.
The less he could account for this, the more it offended him. And dwells caprice, thought he, while his eye followed her, even there! in that fair composition!-where may I look for singleness of mind, for nobleness of simplicity, if caprice, mere girlish, unmeaning caprice, dwell there!
The moment she had finished her tea, she left the room, to shorten her cruel task. Struck with the broken sentence of ‘is it possible Miss Camilla Tyrold can suppose–’ the soft hope that his heart was untouched by Indiana, seized her delighted imagination; but the recollection of Miss Margland’s assertions, that it was the real right of her cousin, soon robbed the hope of all happiness, and she could only repeat–To-morrow I will go!–I ought not to think of him!–I had rather be away-to-morrow I will go!
She had hardly quitted the parlour, when the distant sound of a carriage roused Sir Hugh from his fears; and, followed by Edgar and the ladies, he made what haste he could into the courtyard, where, to his infinite satisfaction, he saw his coach driving in.
He ordered it should stop immediately, and called out–‘Pray, Dr. Orkborne, are you there?’
Dr. Orkborne looked out of the window, and bowed respectfully.
‘Good lack, I could never have thought I should be so glad to see you! which you must excuse, in point of being no relation. You are heartily welcome, I assure you; I was afraid I should never see you again; for, to tell you the honest truth, which I would not say a word of before, I had got a notion you were going out of your mind.’
The Doctor took not the smallest heed of his speech, and the carriage drove up to the door. Sir Hugh then seating himself under the portico, said–‘Pray, Dr. Orkborne, before you go to your studies, may I just ask you how you came to stay out all day? and why you never fetched Eugenia? for I take it for granted it’s no secret, on the account Jacob was with you; besides the coachman and horses.’
Dr. Orkborne, though not at all discomposed by these questions, nor by his reception, answered, that he must first collect his books.
‘The poor girls,’ continued the Baronet, ‘came home quite blank; not that they knew a word of my asking you to go for them, till I told them; which was lucky enough, for the sake of not frightening them. However, where you can have been, particularly with regard to your dinner, which, I suppose, you have gone without, is what I can’t guess; unless you’d be kind enough to tell me.’
The Doctor, too busy to hear him, was packing up his books.
‘Come, never mind your books,’ said Sir Hugh; ‘Jacob can carry them for you, or Bob, or any body. Here, Bob, (calling to the postillion, who, with all the rest of the servants, had been drawn by curiosity into the courtyard) whisk me up those books, and take them into the Doctor’s room; I mean, provided you can find a place for them, which I am sorry to say there is none; owing to my not knowing better in point of taking the proper care; which I shall be sure to do for the future.’
The boy obeyed, and mounting one step of the coach, took what were within his reach; which, when the Doctor observed, he snatched away with great displeasure, saying, very solemnly, he had rather at any time be knocked down, than see any body touch one of his books or papers.
Jacob, coming forward, whispered his master not to interfere; assuring him, he was but just got out of one of his tantarums.
Sir Hugh, a little startled, rose to return to the parlour, begging Dr. Orkborne to take his own time, and not hurry himself.
He then beckoned Jacob to follow him.
‘There is certainly something in all this,’ said he to Edgar, ‘beyond what my poor wit can comprehend: but I’ll hear what Jacob has to say before I form a complete judgment; though, to be sure, his lugging out all those books to go but four or five miles, has but an odd look; which is what I don’t like to say.’
Jacob now was called upon to give a narrative of the day’s adventures. ‘Why, your Honour,’ said he, ‘as soon as we come to the Grove, I goes up to the coach door, to ask the Doctor if he would get out, or only send in to let the young ladies know he was come for them; but he was got so deep into some of his larning, that, I dare say, I bawled it three good times in his ears, before he so much as lifted up his head; and then it was only to say, I put him out! and to it he went again, just as if I’d said never a word; till, at last, I was so plaguy mad, I gives the coach such a jog, to bring him to himself like, that it jerked the pencil and paper out of his hand. So then he went straight into one of his takings, pretending I had made him forget all his thoughts, and such like out of the way talk, after his old way. So when I found he was going off in that manner, I thought it only time lost to say no more to him, and so I turned me about not to mind him; when I sees a whole heap of company at a parlour window, laughing so hearty, that I was sure they had heard us. And a fine comely lady, as clever as ever you see, that I found after was the lady of the house, bid me come to the window, and asked what I wanted. So I told her we was come for two of the Miss Tyrolds. Why, says she, they’ve been gone a quarter of an hour, by the opposite road. So then I was coming away, but she made me a sign to come into the parlour, for all it was brimful of fine company, dressed all like I don’t know what. It was as pretty a sight as you’d wish to see. And then, your honour, they all begun upon me at once! there was such a clatter, I thought I’d been turned into a booth at a fair; and merry enough they all was sure!–‘specially the lady, who never opened her lips, but what they all laughed: but as to all what they asked me, I could as soon conjure a ghost as call a quarter of it to mind.’
‘Try, however,’ said Edgar, curious for further information of whatever related to Mrs. Arlbery.
‘Why as to that, ‘squire,’ answered Jacob, with an arch look, ‘I am not so sure and certain you’d like to hear it all.’
‘No? and why not?’
‘O! pray tell, Jacob,’ cried Miss Margland; ‘did they say anything of Mr. Mandlebert?’
‘Yes, and of more than Mr. Mandlebert,’ said Jacob, grinning.
‘Do tell, do tell,’ cried Indiana, eagerly.
‘I’m afeard, Miss!’
Every body assured him no offence should be taken.
‘Well, then, if you must needs know, there was not one of you, but what they had a pluck at.–Pray, says one of them, what does the old gentleman do with all those books and papers in the coach?–That’s what nobody knows, says I, unless his head’s cracked, which is Mary’s opinion.–Then they all laughed more and more, and the lady of the house said:–Pray can he really read?–Whoo! says I, why he does nothing else; he’s at it from morning till night, and Mary says she’s sure before long he’ll give up his meat and drink for it.–I’ve always heard he was a quiz, says another, or a quoz, or some such word; but I did not know he was such a book-worm.–The old quoz is generou............