WHEN the chaise drove from Cleves Park, all attempt at any disguise was over with Camilla, who alive only to the horror of appearing ungrateful to Edgar, wept without controul; and, leaning back in the carriage, entreated2 Eugenia to dispense3 with all conversation.
Eugenia, filled with pity, wondered, but complied, and they travelled near four miles in silence; when, perceiving, over the paling round a paddock, Mrs. Arlbery and a party of company, Camilla dried her eyes, and prepared for her visit, of which the impetuosity of her feelings had retarded4 all previous consideration.
Eugenia, with true concern, saw the unfitness of her sister to appear, and proposed walking the rest of the way, in the hope that a little air and exercise might compose her spirits.
She agreed; they alighted, and bidding the footman keep with the carriage, which they ordered should drive slowly behind, they proceeded gently, arm in arm, along a clean raised bank by the side of the road, with a pace suiting at once the infirmity of Eugenia, and the wish of delay in Camilla.
The sound of voices reached them from within the paddock, though a thick shrubbery prevented their seeing the interlocutors.
‘Can you make out the arms?’ said one.
‘No,’ answered another, ‘but I can see the postillion’s livery, and I am certain it is Sir Hugh Tyrold’s.’
‘Then it is not coming hither,’ said a third voice, which they recollected5 for Mrs. Arlbery’s ; ‘we don’t visit: though I should not dislike to see the old baronet. They tell me he is a humorist; and I have a taste for all oddities: but then he has a house full of females, and females I never admit in a morning, except when I have secured some men to take the entertaining them off my hands.’
‘Whither is Bellamy running?’ cried another voice, ‘he’s off without a word.’
‘Gone in hopes of a rencounter, I doubt not,’ answered Mrs. Arlbery; ‘he made palpable aim at one of the divinities of Cleves at the ball.’
Eugenia now grew uneasy. ‘Let us be quick,’ she whispered ‘and enter the house!’
‘Divinities! Lord! are they divinities?’ said a girlish female voice; ‘pray how old are they?’
‘I fancy about seventeen.’
‘Seventeen! gracious! I thought they’d been quite young; I wonder they a’n’t married!’
‘I presume, then, you intend to be more expeditious6?’ said another, whose voice spoke7 him to be General Kinsale.
‘Gracious! I hope so, for I hate an old bride. I’ll never marry at all, if I stay till I am eighteen.’
‘A story goes about,’ said the General, ‘that Sir Hugh Tyrold has selected one of his nieces for his sole heiress; but no two people agree which it is, they have asserted it of each.’
‘I was mightily8 taken with one of the girls,’ said Mrs. Arlbery; ‘there was something so pleasant in her looks and manner, that I even felt inclined to forgive her being younger and prettier than myself; but she turned out also to be more whimsical-and that there was no enduring.’
Camilla, extremely ashamed, was now upon the point of begging Eugenia to return, when a new speech seized all her attention.
‘Do you know, General, when that beautiful automaton9, Miss Lynmere, is to marry young Mandlebert?’
‘Immediately, I understand; I am told he has fitted up his house very elegantly for her reception.’
A deep sigh escaped Camilla at such publicity11 in the report and belief of the engagement of Edgar with her cousin, and brought with it a consciousness too strong for any further self-disguise, that her distress12 flowed not all from an unjust accusation13: the sound alone of the union struck as a dagger14 at her heart, and told her, incontrovertibly, who was its master.
Her sensations were now most painful: she grew pale, she became sick, and was obliged, in her turn, to lean upon Eugenia, who, affrighted to see her thus strangely disordered, besought15 her to go back to the chaise.
She consented, and begged to pass a few minutes there alone. Eugenia therefore stayed without, walking slowly upon the bank.
Camilla, getting into the carriage, pulled up the blinds, and, no longer self-deceived, lamented16 in a new burst of sorrow, her unhappy fate, and unpropitious attachment17.
This consciousness, however, became soon a call upon her integrity, and her regret was succeeded by a summons upon propriety18. She gave herself up as lost to all personal felicity, but hoped she had discovered the tendency of her affliction, in time to avoid the dangers, and the errors to which it might lead. She determined19 to struggle without cessation for the conquest of a partiality she deemed it treachery to indulge; and to appease20 any pain she now blushed to have caused to Indiana, by strictly21 following the hard prescription22 of Miss Margland, and the obvious opinion of Eugenia, in shunning23 the society, and no longer coveting24 the approbation25 of Edgar. ‘Such, my dear father,’ she cried, ‘would be your lesson, if I dared consult you! such, my most honoured mother, would be your conduct, if thus cruelly situated26!’
This thought thrilled through every vein27 with pleasure, in a sense of filial desert, and her sole desire was to return immediately to those incomparable parents, under whose roof she had experienced nothing but happiness, and in whose bosoms29 she hoped to bury every tumultuous disturbance30.
These ideas and resolutions, dejecting, yet solacing31, occupied her to the forgetfulness of her intended visit, and even of Eugenia, till the words: ‘Pray let me come to you, my dear Camilla!’ made her let down the blinds.
She then perceived Mr. Bellamy earnestly addressing her sister.
He had advanced suddenly towards her, by a short cut from the paddock, of which she was not aware, when she was about twenty yards from the chaise.
She made an effort to avoid him; but he planted himself in the way of her retreat, though with an air of supplication32, with which she strove in vain to be angry.
He warmly represented the cruelty of thus flying him, entreated but the privilege of addressing her as a common acquaintance; and promised, upon that condition, to submit unmurmuring to her rejection33.
Eugenia, though in secret she thought this request but equitable34, made him no answer.
‘O madam,’ he cried, ‘what have I not suffered since your barbarous letter! why will you be so amiable35, yet so inexorable?’
She attempted to quicken her pace; but again, in the same manner, stopping her, he exclaimed: ‘Do not kill me by this disdain36! I ask not now for favour or encouragement–I know my hard doom–I ask only to converse37 with you-though, alas38! it was by conversing39 with you I lost my heart.’
Eugenia felt softened40; and her countenance41, which had forfeited42 nothing of expression, though every thing of beauty, soon shewed Bellamy his advantage. He pursued it eagerly; depicted43 his passion, deprecated her severity, extolled44 her virtues45 and accomplishments46, and bewailed his unhappy, hopeless flame.
Eugenia, knowing that all she said, and believing that all she heard issued from the fountain of truth, became extremely distressed47. ‘Let me pass, I conjure48 you, Sir,’ she cried, ‘and do not take it ill-but I cannot hear you any longer.’
The vivacity49 of bright hope flashed into the sparkling eyes of Bellamy, at so gentle a remonstrance50; and entreaties51 for lenity, declarations of passion, professions of submission52, and practice of resistance, assailed53 the young Eugenia with a rapidity that confounded her: she heard him with scarce any opposition54, from a fear of irritating his feelings, joined to a juvenile55 embarrassment56 how to treat with more severity so sincere and so humble57 a suppliant58.
From this situation, to the extreme provocation59 of Bellamy, she was relieved by the appearance of Major Cerwood, who having observed, from the paddock, the slow motion of the carriage, had come forth60 to find out the cause.
Eugenia seized the moment of interruption to press forward, and make the call to her sister already mentioned; Bellamy accompanying and pleading, but no longer venturing to stop her: he handed her, therefore, to the chaise, where Major Cerwood also paid his compliments to the two ladies; and hearing they were going to the seat of Mrs. Arlbery, whither Camilla now forced herself, though more unwillingly61 than ever, he ran on, with Bellamy, to be ready to hand them from the carriage.
They were shewn into a parlour, while a servant went into the garden to call his mistress.
This interval62 was not neglected by either of the gentlemen, for Bellamy was scarce more eager to engage the attention of Eugenia, than the Major to force that of Camilla. By Lionel he had been informed she was heiress of Cleves; he deemed, therefore, the opportunity by no means to be thrown away, of making, what he believed required opportunity alone, a conquest of her young heart. Accustomed to think compliments always welcome to the fair, he construed63 her sadness into softness, and imputed64 her silence to the confusing impression made upon an inexperienced rural beauty, by the first assiduities of a man of figure and gallantry.
In about a quarter of an hour the servant of Mrs. Arlbery slowly returned, and, with some hesitation65, said his lady was not at home. The gentlemen looked provoked, and Camilla and Eugenia, much disconcerted at so evident a denial, left their names, and returned to their carriage.
The journey back to Cleves was mute and dejected: Camilla was shocked at the conscious state of her own mind, and Eugenia was equally pensive66. She began to think with anxiety of a contract with a person wholly unknown, and to consider the passion and constancy of Bellamy as the emanations of a truly elevated mind, and meriting her most serious gratitude67.
At the hall door they were eagerly met by Sir Hugh, who, with infinite surprise, enquired68 where they had left Dr. Orkborne.
‘Dr. Orkborne?’ they repeated, ‘we have not even seen him.’
‘Not seen him? did not he come to fetch you?’
‘No, Sir.’
‘Why, he went to Mrs. Arlbery’s on purpose! And what he stays for at that lady’s, now you are both come away, is a thing I can’t pretend to judge of; unless he has stopt to read one of those books he took with him; which is what I dare say is the case.’
‘He cannot be at Mrs. Arlbery’s , Sir,’ said Eugenia, ‘for we have but this moment left her house.’
‘He must be there, my dear girls, for he’s no where else. I saw him set out myself, which, however, I shan’t mention the particulars of, having sent for my brother, whom I expect every minute.’
They then concluded he had gone by another road, as there were two ways to the Grove69.
Edgar did not return to Cleves till the family were assembling to dinner. His visit to Mrs. Needham had occasioned him a new disturbance. She had rallied him upon the general rumour70 of his approaching marriage; and his confusion, from believing his partiality for Camilla detected, was construed into a confirmation71 of the report concerning Indiana. His disavowal was rather serious than strong, and involuntarily mixt with such warm eulogiums of the object he imagined to be meant, that Mrs. Needham, who had only named a certain fair one at Cleves, laughed at his denial, and thought the engagement undoubted.
With respect to his enquiries relative to Mrs. Arlbery, Mrs. Needham said, that she was a woman far more agreeable to the men, than to her own sex; that she was full of caprice, coquetry, and singularity; yet, though she abused the gift, she possessed72 an excellent and uncommon73 understanding. She was guilty of no vices75, but utterly76 careless of appearances, and though her character was wholly unimpeached, she had offended or frightened almost all the county around, by a wilful77 strangeness of behaviour, resulting from an undaunted determination to follow in every thing the bent78 of her own humour.
Edgar justly deemed this a dangerous acquaintance for Camilla, whose natural thoughtlessness and vivacity made him dread79 the least imprudence in the connexions she might form; yet, as the reputation of Mrs. Arlbery was unsullied, he felt how difficult would be the task of demonstrating the perils80 he feared.
Sir Hugh, during the dinner, was exceedingly disturbed. ‘What Dr. Orkborne can be doing with himself,’ said he, ‘is more than any man can tell, for he certainly would not stay at the lady’s , when he found you were both come away; so that I begin to think it’s ten to one but he’s gone nobody knows where! for why else should he take all those books? which is a thing I have been thinking of ever since; especially as he owned himself he should never read one half of them. If he has taken something amiss, I am very ready to ask his pardon; though what it can be I don’t pretend to guess.’
Miss Margland said, he was so often doing something or other that was ill-bred, that she was not at all surprised he should stay out at dinner time. He had never yet fetched her a chair, nor opened the door for her, since he came to the house; so that she did not know what was too bad to expect.
As they were rising from the table, a note arrived from Mr. Tyrold, with an excuse, that important business would prevent his coming to Cleves till the next day. Camilla then begged permission to go in the chaise that was to fetch him, flattering herself something might occur to detain her, when at Etherington. Sir Hugh readily assented81, and composing himself for his afternoon nap, desired to be awaked if Dr. Orkborne came back.
All now left the room except Camilla, who, taking up a book, stood still at a window, till she was aroused by the voice of Edgar, who, from the Park, asked her what she was reading.
She turned over the leaves, ashamed at the question, to look for the title; she had held the book mechanically, and knew not what it was.
He then produced the promised nosegay, which had been brought by his gardener during her excursion. She softly lifted up the sash, pointing to her sleeping uncle; he gave it her with a silent little bow, and walked away; much disappointed to miss an opportunity from which he had hoped for some explanation.
She held it in her hand some time, scarcely sensible she had taken it, till, presently, she saw its buds bedewed with her falling tears.
She shook them off, and pressed the nosegay to her bosom28. ‘This, at least,’ she cried, ‘I may accept, for it was offered me before that barbarous attack. Ah! they know not the innocence82 of my regard, or they would not so wrong it! The universe could not tempt1 me to injure my cousin, though it is true, I have valued the kindness of Edgar-and I must always value it! These flowers are more precious to me, coming from his hands, and reared in his grounds, than all the gems83 of the East could be from any other possessor. But where is the guilt74 of such a preference? And who that knows him could help feeling it?’
Sir Hugh now awakening84 from a short slumber85, exclaimed–‘I have just found out the reason why this poor gentleman has made off; I mean, provided he is really gone away, which, however, I hope not: but I think, by his bringing down all those books, he meant to give me a broad hint, that he had got no proper book-case to keep them in; which the maids as good as think too.’
Then, calling upon Camilla, he asked if she was not of that opinion.
‘Y-e-s, Sir,’ she hesitatingly answered.
‘Well, then, my dear, if we all think the same, I’ll give orders immediately for getting the better of that fault.’
Miss Margland, curious to know how Camilla was detained, now re-entered the room. Struck with the fond and melancholy86 air with which she was bending over her nosegay, she abruptly87 demanded–‘Pray, where might you get those flowers?’
Covered with shame, she could make no answer.
‘O, Miss Camilla! Miss Camilla!-ought not those flowers to belong to Miss Lynmere?’
‘Mr. Mandlebert had promised me them yesterday morning,’ answered she, in a voice scarce audible.
‘And is this fair, Ma’am?-can you reckon it honourable88?–I’ll be judged by Sir Hugh himself. Do you think it right, Sir, that Miss Camilla should accept nosegays every day from Mr. Mandlebert, when her cousin has had never a one at all?’
‘Why, it’s not her fault, you know, Miss Margland, if young Mr. Mandlebert chuses to give them to her. However, if that vexes89 Indiana, I’m sure my niece will make them over to her with the greatest pleasure; for I never knew the thing she would not part with, much more a mere10 little smell at the nose, which, whether one has it or not, can’t much matter after it’s over.’
Miss Margland now exultingly90 held out her hand: the decision was obliged to be prompt; Camilla delivered up the flowers, and ran into her own room.
The sacrifice, cried she, is now complete! Edgar will conclude I hate him, and believe Indiana loves him!-no matter!-it is fitting he should think both. I will be steady this last evening, and to-morrow I will quit this fatal roof!
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tempt
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| vt.引诱，勾引，吸引，引起…的兴趣 | |
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entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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expeditious
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| adj.迅速的，敏捷的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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mightily
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| ad.强烈地；非常地 | |
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automaton
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| n.自动机器，机器人 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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besought
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| v.恳求，乞求（某事物）( beseech的过去式和过去分词 )；(beseech的过去式与过去分词) | |
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lamented
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| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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prescription
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| n.处方，开药；指示，规定 | |
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shunning
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的现在分词 ) | |
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coveting
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| v.贪求，觊觎( covet的现在分词 ) | |
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approbation
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| n.称赞；认可 | |
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situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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bosoms
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| 胸部( bosom的名词复数 )； 胸怀； 女衣胸部（或胸襟）； 和爱护自己的人在一起的情形 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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solacing
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| v.安慰，慰藉( solace的现在分词 ) | |
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supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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rejection
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| n.拒绝，被拒，抛弃，被弃 | |
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equitable
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| adj.公平的；公正的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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forfeited
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| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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depicted
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| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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extolled
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| v.赞颂，赞扬，赞美( extol的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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juvenile
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| n.青少年，少年读物；adj.青少年的，幼稚的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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suppliant
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| adj.哀恳的；n.恳求者，哀求者 | |
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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unwillingly
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| adv.不情愿地 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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construed
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| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的过去式和过去分词 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
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imputed
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| v.把（错误等）归咎于( impute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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grove
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| n.林子，小树林，园林 | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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confirmation
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| n.证实，确认，批准 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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gems
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| growth； economy； management； and customer satisfaction 增长 | |
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awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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vexes
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| v.使烦恼( vex的第三人称单数 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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exultingly
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| 兴高采烈地，得意地 | |
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