The sea, the sea, the open sea.
SONG.
So begegnet Man sich immer wieder in der Welt.
“I am afraid Miss St. Maur is tired,” remarked Mr. Vincent, on the
second evening of their arrival at ----, speaking in his usual slow
oracular manner.
Camilla was leaning back in her chair, silent, idle, and unoccupied.
Day-dreams are often doomed to disappointment, especially the
day-dreams of those who, gifted with an ardent and vivid imagination,
endow a _distant_ scene with such virtues and properties as no
_present_ scene ever possessed. What Camilla had expected it would
be hard to say; but had her picture been far less glowing than it
really was, the private life of the Vincents would have furnished
few colours of enchantment to realize it. Mr. Vincent was kind, dull,
and heavy--amusing for a time by his peculiar habit, but annoying
afterwards. Mrs. Vincent, kind, but fussy--fussing about household
concerns, which to Camilla, being entirely new, was enough of itself
to destroy the romance of life. To those who are unaccustomed to the
necessity for such cares, the details of life, the misdemeanours of
servants, the extortions of butcher and baker, are very low, mean,
and grovelling things. Miss Vincent, too, in her own family, was
inclined to give herself airs--and altogether Camilla found that
however pleasing novelty may be, it must depend on circumstances.
This reflection was not a very new one, but it was new to Camilla,
and she was pondering upon it.
“Oh no! I am not tired,” she said, rousing herself at Mr. Vincent’s
voice, and sitting upright in her chair; “I was only thinking.”
“Miss St. Maur is kind enough to say she is not tired,” he
pronounced; “but if I might presume to contradict her, I should say
that there were some appearances of fatigue. How does it strike you,
my dear?” addressing his wife; “I should say that Miss St. Maur looks
a little pale.”
“You do look pale, my dear Miss St. Maur. No!” as Camilla laughed
and shook her head; “well, I dare say it is our fancy; you know we
must be anxious about you. After all, however, it is only natural you
should be tired. Sophia is tired too.”
“We have had a very tiring day, in my opinion,” Miss Vincent said,
laughing; “a great deal of exercise, and no amusement or excitement.
I am always tired when I am not excited.”
“I hope Miss St. Maur does not find it dull?” Mr. Vincent asked,
anxiously.
“Oh no, indeed!” Camilla said, with much earnestness, all her
natural courteousness aroused; “my feet are a little tired with the
shingles, but nothing else. I don’t know what Miss Vincent means: I
have enjoyed the day very much. If it were only to stand and look at
the rocks and the sea, I don’t think I should ever wish for anything
else. How very, very beautiful the sea is,” she continued, drawing
her chair a little nearer to Mr. Vincent, and endeavouring to make
herself agreeable.
“Sophia admires the scenery as much as you do, Miss St. Maur,”
observed Mrs. Vincent, “but she thinks that scenery, like most other
things, requires to be enlivened by living creatures, to make it
perfectly agreeable.”
“And Miss St. Maur feels the same, if she would own it,” Miss Vincent
said, looking up for a moment from a drawing on which she was engaged.
“Well, my dear Miss St. Maur, I am sure I hope you will have a little
better amusement another day.”--Mrs. Vincent spoke so fast that
Camilla could not interrupt her. “It is not the season here, but
there are a few people we know, and we shall see them to-morrow, I
dare say. We have been rather unlucky in timing our visit, for all
the world--all the world this place can boast of--are gone to some
races. I know young people like society, and I assure you we should
not have asked you to come here only to our dull selves.”
“But, Mrs. Vincent, I don’t want society,” Camilla at last succeeded
in saying. “I don’t the least agree with Miss Vincent. I should
like to sit on the beach by myself all day. Pray don’t think I am
tired,” and she left her seat and wandered to the open window to
prove the truth of her words. On her return she stopped to look at
Miss Vincent’s drawing. “Oh, Miss Vincent!” she exclaimed, “how very
pretty! Is that the sketch you took to-day? I can’t think how you,
who have so much to amuse you, can care about society. If I could
draw, I am sure I should never be dull or lonely.”
“You are always moralizing for other people, Miss St. Maur, never for
yourself,” Miss Vincent replied. “Perhaps I could answer you that if
I were queen of Clare Abbey--with such a brother as Mr. St. Maur, and
such a ...” she paused and looked with a smile at Camilla; “... as
Mr. De Grey, _I_ should never be dull or lonely,--_you_ envy me--_I_
envy you.” Camilla blushed and looked grave; the mention of Ernest
made her feel ashamed and sorry;--the blushes were usual, the gravity
not so usual, and perceiving that Camilla had no wish to pursue the
subject, Miss Vincent continued, “But if you have a mind to draw, why
don’t you draw?”
“Because I can’t--I never learnt. Reginald does not draw, and so I
never wished to draw in former times.”
“Should you like it now? I shall be very happy to teach you, if you
would.”
“I should like it better than anything in the world,” she exclaimed
warmly.
“Then take a bit of paper and copy this sketch; I am sure you will be
able to do it. Only determine you will. There are some pencils.”
Very eagerly Camilla sat down to her task, but protesting all the
while that it was impossible. And extremely surprised she was and
gratified when a very tolerable copy of a pencil sketch came forth
from her hands.
“There, Miss Vincent,” she said, handing it to her, “what do you
think of it? I hope you won’t say it is hopelessly bad.”
“Hopelessly bad, my dear Miss St. Maur? no, indeed, I shall say no
such thing. I call it a work of genius--you know I always tell you,
you are a genius if you would allow your genius to appear, and this
proves it. I assure you it is extremely well done, wonderfully well
done.”
“No, no, that is flattery,” Camilla said, “but if you don’t think it
very bad, that is enough; you must teach me again to-morrow. It is
not half so difficult as I thought. Do you think I could draw that
fine pointed rock we saw to-day?”
“Of course you could; you have only to copy nature instead of my
drawing. We will go to-morrow morning and try.”
Very early after breakfast, the following morning, Camilla reminded
Miss Vincent of her promise, and they set off together to a spot on
the beach, about half a mile from the hotel.
“How eager you are, Miss St. Maur,” her companion remarked, as they
walked along; “you take to everything so violently. What a treasure
you must have been as a pupil!”
“Oh! dear no,” Camilla said, “my governesses would have told you
quite a different story. If I like a thing I take to it, but I never
can do anything I dislike. I was a good child with my music and
history, because I like these things--but I never could do sums or
grammar, or anything difficult.”
“I am very fond of languages. Do you like that kind of study?”
“No, not at all--I know French, of course, but I don’t like it, and I
know a little Italian--but I don’t care about it--and as to German, I
tried it once--or rather it was tried on me, for I hated it from the
first moment--but quite in vain, I never could learn German.”
“I think you have a great loss then--I am particularly fond of German
literature. There is more feeling I think in the German writers,
than in all the authors of other countries put together.”
“You always talk and think about feeling, Miss Vincent,” Camilla said
musingly.
“Do you object to it?” asked her companion.
“No, I don’t know that I object--at least, I don’t _now_. I did at
first, for it made me feel melancholy--but now I don’t so much mind
feeling melancholy. I don’t quite feel as I used to feel. I feel very
odd sometimes.”
Miss Vincent looked at her with a smile, and with some amusement.
“And what has made a change?” she inquired.
“Oh! I don’t know--I suppose you have.”
“Me! impossible. _I_ should not have been likely to make you _feel_.
Do you know, I begin to hope that poor Mr. De Grey has at last made
some slight impression on your stony heart. Now confess it.”
“No, indeed, Miss Vincent,” she said gravely; “and I wish you would
not talk any more about Mr. De Grey--I don’t like it--and besides,
he is a clergyman; and that makes him quite different to other
people. You should not talk about clergymen in that way.”
“I don’t see that. Clergymen feel like other people, as you know very
well. Now, Miss St. Maur, it is no use attempting to deceive me; I
see very plainly what has happened, and I should only be punishing
you properly for your reserve with me, if I were to teaze you about
it. But I will be generous. Now, here we are. Do you think your rock
will do from this spot?--or do you like to go higher?”
“I think it looks very pretty from here.”
“Well, then, you can sit on this stone, and I will lend you my block:
it will be easier for you to hold than a bit of paper.”
“What shall I do?” Camilla asked, looking despairingly at the number
of objects before her and about her. “You must tell me exactly. I am
very sorry to give you so much trouble.”
“It is no trouble: I am particularly fond of teaching. Look now: I
would make that rock the object of your drawing. I would take in
those prettily-shaped distant ones in the background, and the rest
should be water. Then, just in front, you might introduce those two
boats. It will be a very pretty sketch; and I shall do it myself.”
Camilla sat down to her drawing, and Miss Vincent moved to a distance
of five or six yards, to take the sketch in a slightly different
point of view.
She talked as she sketched, lightly and easily; but Camilla remained
entirely engrossed with her drawing for upwards of a quarter of an
hour. She then called to her companion.
“I wish you would come here, Miss Vincent. It don’t look the least as
I wish it to look. I wonder what you will think of it.”
It was another voice, coming from immediately behind, that answered
her. “Much genius,” the voice said, “but little art.”
Camilla started, looked up, and blushed deeply. It was Frank Hargrave
who stood behind her.
He held out his hand without speaking, and then left her to meet Miss
Vincent, who had been slowly moving towards Camilla, but now paused.
To Camilla’s surprise, she shook hands with him also; and, though she
asked him how long he had been at ----, she evinced no extraordinary
degree of astonishment at the sight of him.
They stood conversing for a few minutes; then, while Miss Vincent was
gathering her things together, he returned to Camilla, and his first
words were as if they had parted but an hour before.
Waving his hand over the wide-spreading ocean before them, he said,
“Is that the great world we spoke of?” and, while he spoke, he looked
at her with that same smile and that same piercing gaze, which had
before affected her so strangely.
She blushed, and forgot to answer him; then, remembering she had
forgotten, blushed more deeply.
A rather awkward silence followed; then, with a kind of impatience
against herself, Camilla took her book in her hand, and went towards
Miss Vincent, who was still arranging her pencils.
“Do look at my drawing, Miss Vincent,” she exclaimed; “it is all
wrong, I know; but I don’t know _what_ is wrong.”
“I don’t think it is at all, all wrong, my dear Miss St. Maur. It
shows, I think, extraordinary talent; and if you take a little pains,
I am sure you will be a great artist. Now, Mr. Hargrave, look at Miss
St. Maur’s first sketch. Don’t you think it is wonderfully well done?”
“May I say what I really think, and without offence?” he said, with a
smile, to Camilla.
“Oh, certainly,” she replied. “I like the truth a thousand times
better than flattery.”
“I thought so. Then I may say that you and Miss Vincent are both
right: as _she_ says, it is very well done for a first attempt; and
as _you_ say, it certainly is all wrong.”
“I see it is; but I can’t see where. Can you show me?”
“I certainly can, if I may. Do you see your rock?” taking the
drawing, and pointing upon it; “it is well done, very well done.
I think your pencil touches are very promising; but how strangely
you have placed it--how out of proportion, I mean, to all the other
parts of your drawing. These boats, which are close to you, look like
nutshells; and those fine distant rocks are more like hills of sand
than bold rocks. I am sure you have genius, but you want a little
art.”
“I see now,” Camilla said, laughing; “and I am very much obliged to
you for your criticism.”
“I must make again, Miss St. Maur,” Miss Vincent exclaimed, “a remark
I made just now: what a good pupil you make. I could never have
stood, as you have done, to have my performance laughed at.”
“Miss St. Maur is perfectly aware,” Mr. Hargrave said, with a look of
annoyance, “that laughing at her drawing was far from my mind.”
“If you did laugh, it is only what everybody must do; and, besides,
as I really wish to learn to draw, I am very glad to have the faults
pointed out so as I can understand them. Can you draw as well as
criticise?” she asked, after a moment.
“Yes,” he replied.
“How extremely honest you are, Mr. Hargrave,” Miss Vincent said,
laughingly. “You ought to have said ‘a little,’ as most people would
have done, and then that would have left me the satisfaction of
contradicting you, and perhaps paying you a compliment.”
“I know I draw pretty well,” he said, carelessly, and in a tone
different to that in which he addressed Camilla; “it would have been
affectation, therefore, to call it only a little.”
“You are right. Mr. Hargrave draws very well,” said Miss Vincent,
turning to Camilla; “indeed, beyond praise; and if you wish to have
a pretty drawing of your favourite rock, I advise you to ask him to
sketch it for you.”
Camilla was silent, and seemed unwilling to make the request.
“Should you really like it?” he asked, eagerly. “It would give me the
greatest pleasure to do it.”
“I should like it, certainly,” she replied, shyly; then with her
fitful manner, which, like herself, was now a woman and now a child,
continued animatedly, “I can’t think what it reminds me of; but I
think it must be the rock in ‘Anne of Geierstein.’ But I should be
sorry to give you the trouble.”
“It shall be done in a moment; and if you and Miss Vincent can wait a
few minutes, I will return with it here.”
Without waiting for an answer, he sprang on a piece of rock above
them, and disappeared.
Camilla walked to a little distance, then sat down on a stone, and
began to draw circles on the sand with her parasol. Miss Vincent put
a few more touches to her drawing, then came and seated herself at
her feet.
“You knew Mr. Hargrave before, I think?” she inquired.
“Yes, a very little. He came once to Clare Abbey--I forget exactly
when, but it was some time last winter.”
“_I_ remember exactly when. He called at Carrington the day after he
called on you.”
“Did he?” she said, with some surprise, but said no more.
“Now, Miss St. Maur,” Miss Vincent remarked, laughingly, “what do you
want to ask me?”
“Nothing,” Camilla said, decidedly.
“Oh, Miss St. Maur,” shaking her head, “I don’t believe you. But I
shall punish you well: I shall not tell you one word of what Mr.
Hargrave said about you.”
“I don’t want to know,” she said, impatiently; “I would rather not
hear. I wish you would believe me, Miss Vincent: I hate not to be
believed.”
“I am very sorry to say such an uncivil thing,” she replied
playfully; “but there are some things I really cannot believe. If
anybody says a pretty thing about me, I like to hear it; and I cannot
help thinking, that if all people were as honest as I am, all would
own the same.”
Camilla made no answer, but proceeded with innumerable circles on the
sand. Before a fresh subject could be started, Mr. Hargrave stood by
Camilla’s side, and placed the desired sketch in her hand.
She made an exclamation of pleasure and amazement. He had been absent
barely a quarter of an hour; but the sketch was a prettily finished
water-coloured drawing, in tints of blue and brown.
“Is it possible you have done this now?”
He smiled, and seemed gratified by her surprise; but he proceeded to
explain it.
“The colours seem perhaps miraculous,” he said; “but they would not,
if you were accustomed to drawing. I am very fond of travelling, and
very fond of sketching, when an object strikes me: I am obliged,
therefore, to carry my materials with me. You shall see the whole
apparatus.”
He drew from his pocket a set of drawing and painting materials in
miniature, and exhibited them to her pleased and wondering eyes.
“How very, very pleasant it must be to draw so well,” she said,
returning again to admire the pretty sketch. “It makes me more
envious than I can say.”
“You will soon draw well, if you wish it so much. Wish and fancy
go a great way.” He paused a moment, and seemed to be considering,
then continued: “Perhaps I am going to make a strange proposal--Miss
Vincent must correct me if it is so; but if I could be of any use
in teaching you the first elements of drawing, I shall be here for
two or three days, and I can only say that it would give _me_ the
greatest pleasure to assist you.”
Camilla looked at Miss Vincent. She did know what she ought to say,
was not sure what she wished to say.
“I advise you to profit by Mr. Hargrave’s proposal, Miss St. Maur. It
is so good a one, that if I am allowed, I shall take advantage of it
myself.”
Camilla still hesitated. “I should like it,” she said, “but do you
think Mrs. Vincent will not object?”
“Mamma would not, I think, object to _anything_ you proposed--I am
sure she would not to this; you need not be afraid.”
“Then I should be very much obliged to you;” and she raised her eyes
with a faint blush to Mr. Hargrave.
He looked as if he could scarcely restrain himself from saying
something extremely pretty--but he did refrain, and only replied,
that she need not be obliged, as it would make him very happy
to assist her. Immediately afterwards remarking that he had an
appointment with a friend, he bowed and left them--and Camilla and
Miss Vincent returned homewards.