‘Ah! my dearest father, and may not I, too, stay with you and assist her?’
‘If my brother will spare you, my dear child, there is nothing can so much contribute to wile away to me your mother’s absence.’
Enchanted thus, without any explanation, to have gained her point, she completely revived; though when Mrs. Tyrold, whom she almost worshipped, entered the room, in all the hurry of preparing for her long journey, she shed a torrent of tears in her arms.
‘This good girl,’ said Mr. Tyrold, ‘is herself desirous to quit the present gaieties of Cleves, to try to enliven my solitude till we all may meet again.’
The conscious and artless Camilla could not bear this undeserved praise. She quitted her mother, and returning to Mr. Tyrold, ‘O my father!’ she cried, ‘if you will take me again under your beloved roof, it is for my sake — not your’s — I beg to return!’
‘She is right,’ said Mrs. Tyrold; ‘there is no merit in having an heart; she could have none, if to be with you were not her first gratification.’
‘Yes, indeed, my dear mother, it would always be so, even if no other inducement — .’ She stopt short, confused.
Mr. Tyrold, who continued writing, did not heed this little blunder; but his wife, whose quickness of apprehension and depth of observation, were always alive, even in the midst of business, cares, and other attentions, turned hastily to her daughter, and asked to what ‘other inducement’ she alluded.
Camilla, distressed, hung her head, and would have forborne making any answer.
Mrs. Tyrold, then, putting down various packets which she was sorting and selecting, came suddenly up to her, and taking both her hands, looked earnestly in her face, saying: ‘My Camilla! something has disquieted you? — your countenance is not itself. Tell me, my dear girl, what brought you hither this morning? and what is it you mean by some other inducement?’
‘Do not ask me now, my dearest mother,’ answered she, in a faltering voice; ‘when you come back again, no doubt all will be over; and then—’
‘And is that the time, Camilla, to speak to your best friends? would it not be more judicious to be explicit with them, while what affects you is still depending?’
Camilla, hiding her face on her mother’s bosom, burst afresh into tears.
‘Alas!’ cried Mrs. Tyrold, ‘what new evil is hovering? If it must invade me again through one of my children, tell me, at least, Camilla, it is not wilfully that you, too, afflict me? and afflict the best of fathers?’
Mr. Tyrold, dropping his pen, looked at them both with the most apprehensive anxiety.
‘No, my dearest mother,’ said Camilla, endeavouring to meet her eyes; ‘not wilfully, — but something has happened — I can hardly myself tell how or what — but indeed Cleves, now—’ she hesitated.
‘How is my brother?’ demanded Mr. Tyrold.
‘O! all that is good and kind! and I grieve to quit him — but, indeed, Cleves, now—’ Again she hesitated.
‘Ah, my dear child!’ said Mrs. Tyrold, ‘I always feared that residence! — you are too young, too inconsiderate, too innocent, indeed, to be left so utterly to yourself. — Forgive me, my dear Mr. Tyrold; I do not mean to reflect upon your brother, but he is not you! — and with you alone, this dear inexperienced girl can be secure from all harm. Tell me, however, what it is — ?’
Camilla, in the extremest confusion changed colour, but tried vainly to speak. Mr. Tyrold, suspended from all employment, waited fearfully some explanation.
‘We have no time,’ said Mrs. Tyrold, ‘for delay; — you know I am going abroad, — and cannot ascertain my return; though all my heart left behind me, with my children and their father, will urge every acceleration in my power.’
Camilla wept again, fondly folding her arms round her mother; ‘I had hoped,’ she cried, ‘that I should have come home to peace, comfort, tranquillity! to both of you, my dearest father and mother, and to all my unbroken happiness under your roof! — How little did I dream of so cruel a separation!’
‘Console yourself, my Camilla, that you have not been its cause; may Heaven ever spare me evil in your shape at least! — you say it is nothing wilful? I can bear everything else.’
‘We will not,’ said Mr. Tyrold, ‘press her; she will tell us all in her own way, and at her own time. Forced confidence is neither fair nor flattering. I will excuse her return to my brother, and she will the sooner be able to give her account for finding herself not hurried.’
‘Calm yourself, then,’ said Mrs. Tyrold, ‘as your indulgent father permits, and I will proceed with my preparations.’
Camilla now, somewhat recovering, declared she had almost nothing to say; but her mother continued packing up, and her father went on with his letter.
She had now time to consider that her own fears and emotion were involving her in unnecessary confessions; she resolved, therefore, to repress the fulness of her heart, and to acknowledge only the accusation of Miss Margland. And in a few minutes, without waiting for further enquiry, she gathered courage to open upon the subject; and with as much ease and quietness as she could command, related, in general terms, the charge brought against her, and her consequent desire to quit Cleves, ‘till, —— till — —’ Here she stopt for breath. Mr. Tyrold instantly finished the sentence, ‘till the marriage has taken place?’
She coloured, and faintly uttered, ‘Yes.’
‘You are right, my child,’ said he, ‘and you have acted with a prudence which does you honour. Neither the ablest reasoning, nor the most upright conduct, can so completely obliterate a surmise of this nature, from a suspicious mind, as absence. You shall remain, therefore, with me, till your cousin is settled in her new habitation. Do you know if the day is fixed?’
‘No, sir,’ she answered, while the roses fled her cheeks at a question which implied so firm a belief of the union.
‘Do not suffer this affair to occasion you any further uneasiness,’ he continued; ‘it is the inherent and unalienable compact of Innocence with Truth, to hold themselves immovably superior to the calumny of false imputations. But I will go myself to Cleves, and set this whole matter right.’
‘And will you, too, sir, have the goodness—’ She was going to say, to make my peace with Edgar; but the fear of misinterpretation checked her, and she turned away.
He gently enquired what she meant; she avoided any explanation, and he resumed his writing.
Ah me! thought she, will the time ever come, when with openness, with propriety, I may clear myself of caprice to Edgar?
Less patient, because more alarmed than her husband, Mrs. Tyrold followed her to the window. She saw a tear in her eye, and again she took both her hands: ‘Have you, my Camilla,’ she cried, ‘have you told us all? Can unjust impertinence so greatly have disturbed you? Is there no sting belonging to this wound that you are covering from our sight, though it may precisely be the spot that calls most for some healing balm?’
Again the cheeks of Camilla received their fugitive roses. ‘My dearest mother,’ she cried, ‘is not this enough? — to be accused — suspected — and to fear—’
She stammered, and would have withdrawn her hands; but Mrs. Tyrold, still holding them, said, ‘To fear what? speak out, my best child! open to us your whole heart! — Where else will you find repositories so tender?’
Tears again flowed down the burning cheeks of Camilla, and dropping her eyes, ‘Ah, my mother!’ she cried, ‘you will think me so frivolous — you will blush so for your daughter — if I own — if I dare confess—’
Again she stopped, terrified at the conjectures to which this opening might give birth; but when further and fondly pressed by her mother, she added, ‘It is not alone these unjust surmises, — nor even Indiana’s unkind concurrence in them — but also — I have been afraid — I must have made a strange — a capricious — an ungrateful appearance in the eyes of Edgar Mandlebert.’
Here her voice dropt; but presently recovering, she rapidly continued, ‘I k
now it is very immaterial — and I am sensible how foolish it may sound — but I shall also think of it no more now, — and therefore, as I have told the whole—’
She looked up, conscience struck at these last words, to see if they proved satisfactory; she caught, in the countenance of her mother, an expression of deep commiseration, which was followed by a thousand maternal caresses of unusual softness, though unaccompanied by any words.
Penetrated, yet distressed, she gratefully received them, but rejoiced when, at length, Mr. Tyrold, rising, said, ‘Go, my love, upstairs to your sister; your mother, else, will never proceed with her business.’
She gladly ran off, and soon, by a concise narration, satisfied Lavinia, and then calmed her own troubled mind.
Mr. Tyrold now, though evidently much affected himself, strove to compose his wife. ‘Alas!’ cried she, ‘do you not see what thus has touched me? Do you not perceive that our lovely girl, more just to his worth than its possessor, has given her whole heart to Edgar Mandlebert?’
‘I perceived it through your emotion, but I had not discovered it myself. I grieve, now, that the probability of such an event had not struck me in time to have kept them apart for its prevention.’
‘I grieve for nothing,’ cried she, warmly, ‘but the infatuated blindness of that self-lost young man. What a wife would Camilla have made him in every stage of their united career! And how unfortunately has she sympathised in my sentiments, that he alone seemed worthy to replace the first and best protector she must relinquish when she quits this house! What will he find in Indiana but a beautiful doll, uninterested in his feelings, unmoved by his excellencies, and incapable of comprehending him if he speaks either of business or literature!’
‘Yet many wives of this description,’ replied Mr. Tyrold, ‘are more pleasing in the eyes of their husbands than women who are either better informed in intellect, or more alive in sensation; and it is not an uncommon idea amongst men, that where, both in temper and affairs, there is least participation, there is most repose. But this is not the case with Edgar.’
‘No! he has a nobler resemblance than this portrait would allow him; a resemblance which made me hope from him a far higher style of choice. He prepares himself, however, his own ample punishment; for he has too much understanding not to sicken of mere personal allurements, and too much generosity to be flattered, or satisfied, by mere passive intellectual inferiority. Neither a mistress nor a slave can make him happy; a companion is what he requires; and for that, in a very few months, how vainly his secret soul may sigh, and think of our Camilla!’
They then settled, that it would be now essential to the peace of their child to keep her as much as possible from his sight; and determined not to send her back to Cleves to apologize for the new plan, but to take upon themselves that whole charge. ‘Her nature,’ said Mrs. Tyrold, ‘is so gay, so prompt for happiness, that I have little fear but in absence she will soon cease to dwell upon him. Fear, indeed, I have, but it is of a deeper evil than this early impression; I fear for her future lot! With whom can we trust her? — She will not endure negligence; and those she cannot respect she will soon despise. What a prospect for her, then, with our present race of young men! their frivolous fickleness nauseates whatever they can reach; they have a weak shame of asserting, or even listening to what is right, and a shallow pride in professing what is wrong. How must this ingenuous girl forget all she has yet seen, heard, or felt, ere she can encounter wickedness, or even weakness, and disguise her abhorrence or contempt?’
‘My dear Georgiana, let us never look forward to evil.’
‘Will it not be doubly hard to bear, if it come upon us without preparation?’
‘I think not. Terror shakes, and apprehension depresses: hope nerves as well as gladdens us. Remember always, I do not by hope mean presumption; I mean simply a cheerful trust in heaven.’
‘I must always yield,’ cried Mrs. Tyrold, ‘to your superior wisdom, and reflecting piety; and if I cannot conquer my fears, at least I will neither court nor indulge them.’
The thanks of a grateful husband repaid this compliance. They sent for Camilla, to acquaint her they would make her excuses at Cleves: she gave a ready though melancholy consent, and the virtue of her motives drew tears from her idolizing mother, as she clasped her to her heart.
They then set out together, that Mr. Tyrold might arrange this business with Sir Hugh, of whom and of Eugenia Mrs. Tyrold was to take leave.
CHAPTER VIII
Modern Ideas of Duty
Camilla now felt more permanently revived, because better satisfied with the rectitude of her conduct. She could no longer be accused of interfering between Edgar and Indiana; that affair would take its natural course, and, be it what it might, while absent from both parties, she concluded she should at least escape all censure.
Peaceably, therefore, she returned to take possession of her usual apartment, affectionately accompanied by her eldest sister.
The form and the mind of Lavinia were in the most perfect harmony. Her polished complexion was fair, clear, and transparent; her features were of the extremest delicacy, her eyes of the softest blue, and her smile displayed internal serenity. The unruffled sweetness of her disposition bore the same character of modest excellence. Joy, hope, and prosperity, sickness, sorrow, and disappointment, assailed alike in vain the uniform gentleness of her temper: yet though thus exempt from all natural turbulence, either of pleasure or of pain, the meekness of her composition degenerated not into insensibility; it was open to all the feminine feelings of pity, of sympathy, and of tenderness.
Thus copiously gifted with ‘all her sex’s softness,’ her society would have contributed to restore Camilla to repose, had they continued together without interruption; but, in a few minutes, the room door was opened, and Lionel, rushing into the apartment, called out, ‘How do, do, my girls? how do, do?’ and shook them each by the hand, with a swing that nearly brought them to the ground.
Camilla always rejoiced at his sight; but Lavinia gravely said, ‘I thought, brother, you had been at Dr. Marchmont’s?’
‘All in good time, my dear! I shall certainly visit the old gentleman before long.’
‘Did you not sleep there, then, last night?’
‘No, child.’
‘Good God, Lionel! — if my mother—’
‘My dear little Lavinia,’ cried he, chucking her under the chin, ‘I have a vast notion of making visits at my own time, instead of my mamma’s.’
‘O Lionel! and can you, just now — —’
‘Come, come,’ interrupted he, ‘don’t let us waste our precious minutes in old moralizing. If I had not luckily been hard by, I should not have known the coast was clear. Pray where are they gone, tantivying?’
‘To Cleves.’
‘To Cleves! what a happy escape! I was upon the point of going thither myself. Camilla, what is the matter with thee?’
‘Nothing — I am only thinking — pray when do you go to Oxford?’
‘Pho, pho, — what do you talk of Oxford for? you are grown quite stupid, girl. I believe you have lived too long with Miss Margland. Pray how does that dear creature do? I am afraid she will grow melancholy from not seeing me so long. Is she as pretty as she used to be? I have some notion of sending her a suitor.’
‘O brother,’ said Lavinia, ‘is it possible you can have such spirits?’
‘O hang it, if one is not merry when one can, what is the world good for? besides, I do assure you, I fretted so consumed hard at first, that for the life of me I can fret no longer.’
‘But why are you not at Dr. Marchmont’s?’
‘Because, my dear, you have no conception the pleasure those old doctors take in lecturing a youngster who is in any disgrace.’
‘Disgrace!’ repeated Camilla.
‘At all events,’ said Lavinia, ‘I beseech you to be a little careful; I would not have my poor mother find you here for the world.’
‘O, as to that, I defy
her to desire the meeting less than I do. But come, let’s talk of something else. How go on the classics? Is my old friend, Dr. Orkborne, as chatty and amusing as ever?’
‘My dear Lionel,’ said Camilla, ‘I am filled with apprehension and perplexity. Why should my mother wish not to see you? And why — and how is it possible you can wish not to see her?’
‘What, don’t you know it all?’
‘I know only that something must be wrong; but how, what, or which way, I have not heard.’
‘Has not Lavinia told you, then?
‘No,’ answered Lavinia; ‘I could be in no haste to give her pain.’
‘You are a good girl enough. But how came you hither, Camilla? and what is the reason you have not seen my mother yourself?’
‘Not seen her! I have been with her this half hour.’
‘What! and in all that time did not she tell you?’
‘She did not name you.’
‘Is it possible! — Well, she’s a noble creature! I wonder how she could ever have such a son as me. And I am still less like my father than her. I suppose I was changed in the cradle. Will you countenance me, young ladies, if some villainous attorney or exciseman should by and by come to own me?’
‘Dear Lionel,’ cried Camilla, ‘do explain to me what has happened. You make me think it important and trifling twenty times in a minute.’
‘O, a horrid business! — Lavinia must tell it you. I’ll go away till she has done. Don’t despise me, Camilla; I am confounded sorry, I promise you.’
He then hurried out of the room, evidently feeling more emotion than he cared to display.
Yet Lavinia had but just begun her relation, when he abruptly returned. ‘Come, I had better tell it you myself,’ cried he, ‘for she’ll make such a dismal ditty of it, that it won’t be over this half year; the sooner we have done with it the better; it will only put you out of spirits.’
Then, sitting down, and taking her hand, he began, ‘You must know I was in rather a bad scrape at Oxford last year—’
‘Last year! and you never told us of it before!’
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 175