MR. Tyrold saw, at first, the renewed visits of Edgar at Cleves with extreme satisfaction; but while all his hopes were alive from an intercourse almost perpetual, he perceived, with surprise and perplexity, that his daughter became more and more pensive after every interview: and as Edgar, this evening, quitted the house, he observed tears start into her eyes as she went up stairs to her own room.
Alarmed and disappointed, he thought it now high time to investigate the state of the affair, and to encourage or prevent future meetings, as it appeared to him to be propitious or hopeless.
Penetrated with the goodness, while lamenting the indifference of Edgar, Camilla had just reached her room; when, as she turned round to shut her door, Mr. Tyrold appeared before her.
Hastily, with the back of her hand, brushing off the tears from her eyes, she said, ‘May I go to my uncle, Sir?... can my uncle admit me?’
‘He can always admit you,’ he answered; ‘but, just now, you must forget him a moment, and consign yourself to your father.’
He then entered, shut the door, and making her sit down by him, said, ‘What is this sorrow that assails my Camilla? Why is the light heart of my dear and happy child thus dejected?’
Speech and truth were always one with Camilla; who, as she could not in this instance declare what were her feelings, remained mute and confounded.
‘Hesitate not, my dear girl,’ cried he kindly, ‘to unbosom your griefs or your apprehensions, where they will be received with all the tenderness due to such a confidence, and held sacred from every human inspection; unless you permit me yourself to entrust your best and wisest friend.’
Camilla now trembled, but could not even attempt to speak.
He saw her disorder, and presently added, ‘I will forbear to probe your feelings, when you have satisfied me in one doubt;–Is the sadness I have of late remarked in you the effect of secret personal disturbance, or of disappointed expectation?’
Camilla could neither answer nor look up: she was convinced, by this question, that the subject of her melancholy was understood, and felt wholly overcome by the deeply distressing confusion, with which wounded pride and unaffected virgin modesty impress a youthful female, in the idea of being suspected of a misplaced, or an unrequited partiality.
Her silence, a suffocating sigh, and her earnest endeavour to hide her face, easily explained to Mr. Tyrold all that passed within; and respecting rather than wishing to conquer a shame flowing from fearful delicacy, ‘I would spare you,’ he said, ‘all investigation whatever, could I be certain you are not called into any action; but, in that case, I know not that I can justify to myself so implicit a confidence, in youth and inexperience so untried in difficulties, so unused to evil or embarrassment as yours. Tell me then, my dear Camilla, do you sigh under the weight of any disingenuous conduct? or do you suffer from some suspence which you have no means of terminating?’
‘My dearest father, no!’ cried she, sinking upon his breast. ‘I have no suspence!’
She gasped for breath.
‘And how has it been removed, my child?’ said Mr. Tyrold, in a mournful tone; ‘has any deception, any ungenerous art–’
‘O no, no!... he is incapable... he is superior... he... ‘ She stopt abruptly; shocked at the avowal these few words at once inferred of her partiality, of its hopelessness, and of its object.
She walked, confused, to a comer of the room, and, leaning against the wainscot, enveloped her face in her handkerchief, with the most painful sensations of shame.
Mr. Tyrold remained in deep meditation. Her regard for Edgar he had already considered as undoubted, and her undisguised acknowledgment excited his tenderest sympathy: but to find she thought it without return, and without hope, penetrated him with grief. Not only his own fond view of the attractions of his daughter, but all he had observed, even from his childhood, in Edgar, had induced him to believe she was irresistibly formed to captivate him; and what had lately passed had seemed a confirmation of all he had expected. Camilla, nevertheless, exculpated him from all blame; and, while touched by her artlessness, and honouring her truth, he felt, at least, some consolation to find that Edgar, whom he loved as a son, was untainted by deceit, unaccused of any evil. He concluded that some unfortunate secret entanglement, or some mystery not yet to be developed, directed compulsatorily his conduct, and checked the dictates of his taste and inclination.
Gently, at length, approaching her, ‘My dearest child,’ he said, ‘I will ask you nothing further; all that is absolutely essential for me to know, I have gathered. You will never, I am certain, forget the noble mother whom you are bound to revere in imitating, nor the affectionate father whom your ingenuousness renders the most indulgent of your friends. Dry up your tears then, my Camilla, and command your best strength to conceal for ever their source, and, most especially... from its cause.’
He then embraced, and left her.
‘Yes, my dearest father,’ cried she, as she shut the door, ‘most perfect and most lenient of human beings! yes, I will obey your dictates; I will hide till I can conquer this weak emotion, and no one shall ever know, and Edgar least of all, that a daughter of yours has a feeling she ought to disguise!’
Elevated by the kindness of a father so adored, to deserve his good opinion now included every wish. The least severity would have chilled her confidence, the least reproof would have discouraged all effort to self-conquest; but, while his softness had soothed, his approbation had invigorated her; and her feelings received additional energy from the conscious generosity with which she had represented Edgar as blameless. Blameless, however, in her own breast, she could not deem him: his looks, his voice, his manner.... words that occasionally dropt from him, and meanings yet more expressive which his eyes or his attentions had taken in charge, all, from time to time, had told a flattering tale, which, though timidity and anxious earnestness had obscured from her perfect comprehension, her hopes and her sympathy had prevented from wholly escaping her. Yet what, internally, she could not defend she forgave; and, acquitting him of all intentional deceit, concluded that what he had felt for her, he had thought too slight and immaterial to deserve repressing on his own part, or notice on her’s . To continue with him her present sisterly conduct was all she had to study, not doubting but that what as yet was effort, would in time become natural.
Strengthened thus in fortitude, she descended chearfully to supper, where Mr. Tyrold, though he saw with pain that her spirits were constrained, felt the fondest satisfaction in the virtue of her exertion.
Her night passed in the consolation of self-applause. My dear father, thought she, will see I strive to merit his lenity, and that soothing consideration with the honourable friendship of Edgar, will be sufficient for the happiness of my future life, in the single and tranquil state in which it will be spent.
Thus comforted, she again met the eye of Mr. Tyrold the next day at breakfast; in the midst of which repast Edgar entered the parlour. The tea she was drinking was then rather gulped than sipped; yet she maintained an air of unconcern, and returned his salutation with apparent composure.
Edgar, while addressing to Mr. Tyrold his inquiries concerning Sir Hugh, saw, from the window, his servant, whom he had out-galloped, thrown with violence from his horse. He rushed out of the parlour; and the first person to rise, with involuntary intent to follow him, was Camilla. But, as she reached the hall-door, she saw that the man was safe, and perceived that her father was the only person who had left the room besides herself. Ashamed, she returned, and found the female party collected at the windows.
Hoping to retrieve the error of her eagerness, she seated herself at the table, and affected to finish her breakfast.
Eugenia told her they had discovered the cause of the accident, which had been owing to a sharp stone that had penetrated into the horse’s hoof, and which Edgar was now endeavouring to extract.
A general scream, just then, from the window party, and a cry from Eugenia of ‘O Edgar!’ carried her again to the hall-door with the swiftness of lightning, calling out, ‘Where?... What?... Good Heaven!’....
Molly Mill, accidentally there before her, said, as she approached, that the horse had kicked Mr. Mandlebert upon the shoulder.
Every thing but tenderness and terror was now forgotten by Camilla; she darted forward with unrestrained velocity, and would have given, in a moment, the most transporting amazement to Edgar, and to herself the deepest shame, but that Mr. Tyrold, who alone had his face that way, stopt, and led her back to the house, saying, ‘There is no mischief; a bee stung the poor animal at the instant the stone was extracted, and the surprise and pain made it kick; but, fortunately, without any bad effect. I wish to know how your uncle is; I should be glad you would go and sit with him till I can come.’
With these words he left her; and, though abashed and overset, she found no sensation so powerful as joy for the safety of Edgar.
Still, however, too little at ease for conversing with her uncle, she went straight to her own chamber, and flew i............