The little girl gave the account with the utmost simplicity. Her mistress, she said, knew the gentleman very well, who was 'Squire Mandlebert, and lived at a great house not many miles off; and had just alighted to bait his horses, as she went to ask about sending for the clergyman. He inquired who was ill; and her Mistress said it was a Lady who had gone out of her mind, by seeing a dead body, and raved of nothing but having prayers read to her; which her husband would do, when his house was clear, if the humour lasted: for they had nobody to send three miles off; and by drawing the curtains, she would not know if it was a clergyman or not. The young 'Squire then asked if she was a lodger or a traveller, and her mistress answered: 'She's a traveller, Sir; and if it had not been for Peggy's knowing her, we should have been afraid who she might be; for she stays here, and never pays us; only she has given us a watch and a locket for pledges.' Then he asked on some more questions, continued Peggy, and presently desired to see the locket; and when he had looked at it, he turned as white as a sheet, and said he must see the lady. Her mistress said she was laid down upon the bed, and she could not send in a gentleman; unless it was her husband, just to quiet her poor head by reading her a prayer or too. So then the 'Squire said he'd take the prayer book and read to her himself, if she'd spare time to go in the room first, and shut up the curtains. So her mistress said no, at first; but Peggy said the poor lady fretted on so badly, that presently up they came together.
Ah! dear darling locket! internally cried Camilla, how from the first have I loved—how to the last will I prize it! Ah dear darling locket! how for ever—while I live—will I wear it in my bosom!
A calm now took place of her agonies that made her seem in a renovated existence, till sleep, by gentle approaches, stole upon her again: not to bring to her the dread vision which accompanied its first return; nor yet to allow her tranquil repose. A softer form appeared before her; more afflictive, though not so horrible; it was the form of her Mother; all displeasure removed from her penetrating countenance; no longer in her dying child viewing the child that had offended her; yet while forgiving and embracing, seeing her expire in her arms.
She awakened, affrighted,—she started, she sat upright; she called aloud upon her mother, and wildly looking round, thought she saw her at the foot of the bed.
She crossed her eyes with her hands, to endeavour to clear her sight: but the object only seemed more distinct. She bent forward, seeking conviction, yet incredulous, though still meeting the same form.
Sighing, at last, from fruitless fatigue; ''Tis wondrous odd,' she cried, 'but I now never know when I wake or when I sleep!'
The form glided away; but with motion so palpable, she could no longer believe herself played upon by imagination. Awe-imprest, and wonder-struck, she softly opened her side curtain to look after it. It had stopt by a high chest of drawers, against which, leaning its head upon its arm, it stood erect, but seemed weeping. She could not discern the face; but the whole figure had the same sacred resemblance.
The pulses of her head beat now with so much violence, she was forced to hold her temples. Doubt, dread, and hope seized every faculty at once; till, at length, the upraised arm of the form before her dropt, and she distinctly saw the profile: 'It is herself! it is my Mother!' she screamed, rather than pronounced, and threw herself from the bed to the floor.
'Yes! it is your Mother!' was repeated, in a tone solemn and penetrating;—'to what a scene, O Camilla, returned! her house abandoned ... her son in exile ... her Eugenia lost ... her husband, the prop of all!... where she dare not name!... and thou, the child of her bosom!... the constant terrour, yet constant darling of her soul ... where, and how, does she see, does she meet thee, again—O Camilla!'
Then tenderly, though with anguish, bending over her, she would have raised, and helped her to return to the bed: but Camilla would not be aided; she would not lift up her eyes; her face sought the ground, where leaning it upon her hands, without desiring to speak, without wishing to stir, torn by self-reproaches that made her deem herself unworthy to live, she remained speechless, immoveable.