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. Berlinton 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 at a bell, her terrour, lest she should suddenly encounter Mrs. Tyrold, made her bid him open the chaise door, that she might get out and walk on, before he enquired for Molly. But, in stepping from the carriage, she discerned, over a paling 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; ‘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 horrour 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 a 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,–I have not the trinkets for my dear Sister–Mr. Bellamy–’ she stopt.
Called to her sad self by this shock, of which she strove to repress the emotion, Camilla recollected her own ‘almost blunted purpose,’ [Shakespeare] 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 enquiry; 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.
‘Ah, 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, and 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 besought 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 parlour, where, shutting the doors and windows, he said, ‘I must be concise, for both our sakes; and when you understand me, we must talk instantly of other things.’
Camilla could give only a tacit promise; but her air shewed 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... O, Camilla! Camilla! to my Parents, my Sisters, my Uncle, my dearly-loved Cleves!’
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 probity and honour hold all calamity at nought, if opposed to the most minute deviation from right-a proposal such as this... ah! let me not go back to the one terrible half instant of demur! It was heart-rending, 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 effected?’–
‘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 re-iterated promises I must break,-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 pious 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 bore my poor Mother-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 avowals, the law might revoke my plighted faith, it could not abrogate the scruples of my conscience. She thinks 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 soothed 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!’
The 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 a usurer; both sufficiently repugnant to the strictness and nobleness of Mrs. Tyrold, to seem ample justification of her displeasure.
Eugenia entered into the distresses of her sister, as if exempt herself from all suffering: and Camilla, thus commiserating an commiserated, knew now how to tear herself away; for though Eugenia pressed not her stay, she turned pale, when a door opened, a clock struck, or any thing 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 resolution. But when Camilla then rang to give orders for the carriage, the footman said it had been gone more than two hours. The postillion, 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, had given in her little packet, and driven off, without enquiry.
Far from repining at this mixture of impertinence and carelessness, Camilla would have rejoiced in an accident that seemed to invite her stay, had not her sister seemed more startled than pleased by it. She begged, therefore, that a post chaise might be ordered; and Molly Mill, the only servant to whom the mistress of ............