... He says he loves my daughter,
I think so too; for never gazed the moon
Upon the water, as he’ll stand and read
As ’twere my daughter’s eyes.
THE WINTER’S TALE.
The drawing lessons began the next day, and as the master was
extremely attentive, and the lessons were prolonged for three or four
hours, it was natural that the pupils should make great progress.
And they did so. Camilla had a good deal of genius; not for drawing
in particular, but she had that turn of mind which seizes on ideas,
and by quickness and originality of perception makes them its own.
If she had hitherto profited but little in her studies, it was for
want of patience and perseverance, not capacity; and perseverance
was not wanting now. Miss Vincent drew tolerably well--she did most
things well up to a certain point--and she had sufficient taste to
appreciate Frank Hargrave’s superior talent, and to profit by it.
Few pupils have had so entertaining a teacher. At first he watched
over them incessantly, but varied his instructions by a fund of
conversation of the most interesting and amusing kind--then he read
to them, at short intervals, little pieces of his own selection,
well chosen and well read. On the morning of the fourth lesson,
he said such constant watchfulness was no longer necessary, and
placing before the two a rough bold sketch prepared for their special
instruction, he sat down opposite to them, and commenced a reading of
a more continuous kind.
For the morning’s entertainment he had chosen Miss Baillie’s
beautiful play of Count Basil, and Camilla’s most intimate
acquaintance; the most watchful student of her character could not
have chosen better, so far as her tastes were concerned. There is a
chivalrous spirit in the play, in the Love, as well as in the Love
of glory, which peculiarly adapted it to the strongest features of
her disposition; and if in former times the latter passion would have
touched her most, a change was coming over her, which made the former
no less interesting now.
Frank Hargrave read well, and more than well. It was scarcely
reading; it was nearer acting; and as the play proceeded, and as
raising his eyes again and again, he ever met Camilla’s glance, now
sparkling with excitement, now tearful with emotion, he gathered
increase of power, increase of passion, till he and his hearers alike
were carried away.
At the conclusion of the play, he sat for a few moments silent; then,
closing the book, he said, “Such is the power of Love.”
“And yet it is a power Miss St. Maur doubts,” Miss Vincent said,
laughing; “she has told me so again and again. It is possible her
opinion may be changed, for I have certainly caught her weeping over
these sorrows of love; but it is not very long ago since she doubted
whether.... What have you not said, Miss St. Maur? for I may mistake
your opinions.”
“Do you doubt the power of love?” Frank Hargrave inquired, fixing his
eyes earnestly on Camilla as he spoke.
“I don’t know,” she replied, bending her head over her drawing. A
moment afterwards, however, raising her eyes and speaking with some
vehemence, she added, “Yes, I think I do doubt the existence of any
power which could, in real life, make a brave man forget glory and
duty, as Count Basil did.”
“I was right, you see,” Miss Vincent said, mockingly; “Miss St. Maur
not only doubts, but actually does not understand what the power of
love may be. I wish I could teach her better things--I confess I have
tried, and in vain.”
“You wrong her, I think,” Frank Hargrave said, watching Camilla as
he spoke; “Miss St. Maur may agree with the sentiment expressed in
Landor’s emphatic words ‘_Love is a secondary passion in those who
love most; a primary in those who love least. He who is inspired by
it in a great degree, is inspired by honour in a greater._’ That, I
think, was all she meant to express. Have I explained your meaning
truly?” he inquired, and he waited for an answer.
“Yes, very well, exactly;” she replied, hastily raising her eyes and
looking down again.
“_I_ don’t understand your meaning,” Miss Vincent said; “at least, if
I do, I think I could disprove it by a thousand examples; witness the
noble, chivalrous, ambitious Count Basil himself. But I won’t stay to
argue with you, for I promised mamma to write to the housekeeper at
Carrington, when I had done my drawing, and it is done;” and throwing
it on the table, and without noticing Camilla’s look of uneasiness,
she left the room.
That Frank Hargrave’s society was pleasant to her,--that his power
over her was a strange one, none could doubt; but she never found
herself alone with him without a feeling of uneasiness, which changed
her into a different being. The feeling was on this occasion
increased by the remembrance of the subject under discussion.
But her uneasiness was needless, for observing her embarrassment, his
only desire was to dispel it. Pushing the book from before him, and
taking Miss Vincent’s drawing in his hand, he began to comment upon
it in playful and rather sarcastic terms.
“Don’t you admire it?” Camilla asked, recovering herself, and looking
up with surprise. “It seems to me so very pretty; I only wish I could
ever hope to draw half as well.”
“You already draw a thousand times better,” he said quietly and
sincerely, not complimentarily.
She laughed and shook her head.
“I mean what I say,” he continued, and he came towards her to examine
her drawing. “Miss Vincent puts on her colours smoothly, and gives a
very finished look to her sketches; but there could not be a question
that there is more genius in that one drawing of yours than in all
Miss Vincent’s put together.”
“But what is the use of genius, then,” Camilla said, laughing, “if it
is only to make a mess and look very ugly? It would be better to be
without it.”
“Now do you see what I mean?” he cried, taking the two drawings, and
placing them together at a distance; “do you understand what I mean
by genius, now?”
Perhaps Camilla internally confessed that in the distance her rough
bold colouring did put Miss Vincent’s more minute workmanship to
shame; for she said no more: but as she held out her hand for her
drawing, inquired, “Don’t you like Miss Vincent?”
“Why should you think I did not?” he said, looking at her smilingly.
“I don’t exactly know; I thought you did till to-day, but I fancied
just now that you did not like her.”
“Do _you_ like her?”
“Oh! yes, very much.”
“But do you love her?”
“No,” Camilla said hesitatingly, “I don’t think I do.”
“No more do I!” he continued laughingly, “and never could nor
can conceive any one’s loving her. She is handsome, I think, and
agreeable in a certain way, and very kind and good-natured; but that
is all. I may not do her justice; I don’t know her well enough to
pretend that I fully understand her character, but she seems to me,
judging from the surface, to be both frivolous and worldly, and I
should fancy she might be a dangerous companion.”
“You speak exactly like Reginald,” Camilla said thoughtfully. She was
thinking not of _him_, but of Miss Vincent and of Reginald’s strong
prejudice against her; but to _him_ her thoughts were drawn when she
saw the flash of pleasure that lighted his eyes and flushed his cheek.
“Do you know,” he said, stooping down a little, “that you have paid
me the highest compliment that I ever have received, or could wish to
receive?”
She blushed, but attempted to laugh. “That was not your opinion a few
days ago; you did not wish to be like Reginald then.”
He made no immediate answer, but placed himself behind her, and
commented on her drawing before he said, in a lower voice, “I confess
I have changed, in a degree. May I tell you why?”
“Oh, no!” she said hurriedly; “of course, people may change;” and
she nervously dashed her brush into the glass of water (no longer
harmless) that stood beside her, splashing it over her drawing in her
tremor.
He quickly took the brush from her hand, and remedied the evil, and
then calmly returned to his instructions, till Mrs. and Miss Vincent
re-entered the room.
* * * * *
Mrs. Vincent was called by all her acquaintance a kind motherly
woman; and she was so, but a most injudicious one. Most mothers--even
injudicious mothers--would have seen the danger of such an
intercourse as that now established between Frank Hargrave and her
daughter and Camilla, but Mrs. Vincent did not think of it. Governed
in all such points by her daughter, she had acquiesced at once when
permission was asked for the proposed plan, and having acquiesced,
allowed things to take their course. She was accustomed to singing
lessons with her daughter; there was nothing very new therefore in
the present arrangement. Mr. Vincent, more observant, made an effort
at remonstrance.
“Miss St. Maur is very young, my dear, and she and Mr. Hargrave are
a great deal together. I hope nothing will come of it that Lord and
Lady Vere may disapprove.”
“What should come of it,” Mrs. Vincent replied, laughing, “but a
little flirtation, at the very worst? you are so fond of interference
for nothing. Do you remember how uneasy you were when Mr. Langley
came to practise with Sophia last year? but what harm did it do? You
confessed you were mistaken then.”
“I confessed I was mistaken then!” he repeated solemnly.
“Nevertheless....”
“Oh, pray don’t make a fuss about it! Consider what a dull life the
poor little thing leads at home. I am sure no word of mine shall
spoil her pleasure here.”
“She leads a dull life at home, and therefore the more....” but a
speech of considerable wisdom and observation from Mr. Vincent was
lost to posterity from the indifference of his wife, who did not
pause to hear its conclusion. She opened the door into the adjoining
room, where a drawing lesson was taking place, and was immediately
appealed to by her daughter for her decision, on a point which put
her wisdom and judiciousness to the test.
Among Frank Hargrave’s drawings some little crayon portraits,
cleverly and prettily done, had been found by Miss Vincent. Extremely
delighted with them, she had first called upon him to attempt her
likeness; then, on second thoughts, had suggested that Camilla
should sit to him. Frank Hargrave caught eagerly at the proposal,
but on observing Camilla’s very evident distaste, had refrained
from pressing it. Miss Vincent, however, conscious of his wish, and
supposing that Camilla’s shyness was only common shyness (perhaps a
little put on, as she had sometimes observed among her acquaintance),
held to her point, and with many arguments was endeavouring to
overcome her reluctance. It was not overcome at the time of Mrs.
Vincent’s entrance, for shrinking and embarrassment might plainly
be read on her countenance. But Mrs. Vincent could not resist her
daughter’s appeal; or, if she had resisted, being unable to conceive
reluctance to have a portrait painted gratis (a point, rich as she
was, far from indifferent to her), gave her decided opinion in favour
of the proposal, and so it was settled. Wilful and wayward as Camilla
was at home, her wilfulness was that of habit, not of nature. She was
at the command of those who chose to command her, as her submission
to Miss Vincent had from the first plainly proved; and now, like a
puppet in their hands, she acquiesced in their will.
And so, the live-long day, she and Frank Hargrave were together. In
the morning there were the drawing lessons; in the afternoon the
portrait painting; in the cool evening there were wanderings along
the beautiful sea-shore, or excursions on the water, prolonged till
the moon was high in the heavens; and (though seldom entirely alone,)
Frank Hargrave was ever at her side;--so much uncertainty only in
his attention as prevented comments he did not desire to excite; and
as recalled now and then, when she had time for thought, the warning
received (a warning not intended, yet accepted as such) from Miss
Vincent’s lips.
But there was truly little time for thought: the days passed as in
a dream,--the excitement never died away, and so they came to the
conclusion of the fortnight and to the last day but one of Camilla’s
stay.
On the afternoon of that day the portrait was to be concluded; the
whole of the next was to be devoted to an excursion to some beautiful
ruins, which Camilla had much wished to see.
The drawing had been attempted in a more ambitious style than was
common to him, and so had been prolonged from day to day; but Frank
Hargrave was clever, and failure was a word scarcely allowed in his
vocabulary. The sittings had passed pleasantly, for he had himself
taken pains that nothing should occur to cause embarrassment to
Camilla. Mrs. and Miss Vincent had remained in the room, and Miss
Vincent had generally read aloud at his request, when the more minute
parts of the picture occupied his own attention.
On this last day, however, Miss Vincent was out, and Mrs. Vincent was
suddenly called by visitors into the adjoining room.
Frank Hargrave stopped her as she was hurrying away. “I know you
have thought me whimsical and ridiculous, if not arrogant and
presumptuous, for refusing to hear comments or criticisms upon my
performance. But the fact is, that criticisms, to me at least, are
utterly useless, till the idea is thoroughly worked out;--they only
ruffle my temper, and make me appear like an arrogant bear. Now,
however, the picture will be finished in half an hour, and I shall
be most grateful for any criticisms you can make, and the more the
better.”
Mrs. Vincent stood behind him, and was sincere as well as warm in her
praise.
“I wish I could find a fault, Mr. Hargrave, for the sake of showing a
little discernment, but I am sorry to say I cannot. You have made a
pretty picture and a perfect likeness, and what can one say more? One
thing more, however, I will say, not to you, but to Miss St. Maur,”
and she turned with a smile to Camilla; “Mr. Hargrave has made a
very pretty picture, my dear Miss St. Maur; but notwithstanding, he
has not flattered you,” and nodding her head with kind admiration at
Camilla, she left the room.
A silence followed the closing of the door. The close intercourse
of the past days had not been without effect on Camilla’s mind.
They had deepened and strengthened the attraction with which Frank
Hargrave had from the first attracted her--and in the same degree
had dispelled the fear with which she had originally resisted the
attraction. If now she sat silent and uneasy--if she desired to
break the silence, yet found in every subject a meaning which made
it dangerous--it was simply from shyness, and proceeded rather from
confidence than doubt.
While she sat thus timid and shrinking, wishing yet dreading her
companion would speak, he continued his work, and as if to relieve
her, without raising his eyes; at length he spoke.
“I have almost finished my work, and for the first time in my life,
for I am not naturally persevering, I think of its conclusion only
with regret.”
He gave a single glance, then withdrew it again.
If Camilla had once had a childish propensity to flirt, that time was
past. It _must_ be past when true feeling is excited; for what are
flirtations and sentimental conversations but an acting of that on
the surface, which, in its intensity, “has that within which passeth
show?” Far, therefore, from desiring to enter on such a conversation
now, her only thought was to escape from it; yet she paused; fearful
even in escaping to understand too much.
“I should like to take likenesses,” she said at last, not answering
his speech, yet not entirely changing the subject; “it must be very
interesting, but I suppose _very_ difficult.”
“Not very difficult, I think,” he replied; “it is of course more or
less difficult to do anything _well_; but the mere act of taking a
likeness is not difficult. It is a peculiar talent which all, even
all artists, do not possess; but it is not a talent of a high order
in itself, as village sign-posts may tell us. It is not difficult,”
he added, after a moment’s thought; “but in some cases, I think it is
dangerous.”
“More than any other kind of painting?” Camilla said, innocently,
supposing him to allude to some physical dangers to which artists are
exposed.
“Yes,” he replied, a scarcely perceptible smile playing over his
mouth; “much more. Can you not fancy what danger might in some
cases spring from it?” He paused and glanced at her for a moment;
then, uncertain whether or not she understood him, returned to his
occupation.
“Do you know the story of the Monk of Camaldoli?” he inquired.
“No,” she replied, shaking her head and playing with some flowers she
held in her hand; for though she was not sure what he meant, she felt
nervously afraid that something was coming.
“It is a pretty story, but as it is much prettier in poetry than in
simple quickly told prose, I must try and remember some lines I once
heard. I am not sure that I can repeat them, but I will try;” and
after a little reflection, with his usual expressive manner and deep
feeling, he began the following lines:
The world shut out--the vows eternal spoken,
By which the latest links to earth are broken;
The live-long day passed in the lonely cell,
Or where the hymns of praise to Heaven swell,
With drooping eye that humbly seeks the ground
With closed lip, from whence proceeds no sound;
Thus severed from thy kind, from thine own will,
Hast thou with mortal man communion still?
Yes, doubt it not; though parted from the strife
Of earthly tumult, feeling yields not life;
Yes, doubt it not; this lonely, silent heart,
Thus from all human solace drawn apart,
The power of earth’s affections still can prove
And even here we own the might of Love.
Follow him to his cell--there bending down,
Ask what the work his wasted fingers own?
With eye that wanders not, with earnest gaze,
Ask what the ceaseless labour of his days?
He will not speak! then watch his pencil trace
Those features soft and fair,--that young, sweet face,--
The brow so clear; so deep, so blue the eye,
Madonna-like in its still purity,
All fresh, serene, and calm, and yet the while
Entrancing with a lightly dawning smile.
Whence is she? is’t a dream, that day by day
He strives to rescue from mere fancy’s sway;
Is it a glimpse of heaven before the time,
To which his earthly pencil strives to climb?
Nay, not a dream--too speaking and too bright;
That waking smile--it _must_ have blest his sight,
He _must_ have met those eyes so full, so clear,
’Tis more than beauty that is breathing there;
A chord aroused from memory’s long-hushed strain,
The past, the living past, called back again.
’Tis love--man’s love, and, oh! how deep, how true,
In the far convent’s calm, blooming anew,
How must he once have gazed--how drank that spell,
How worshipped once--ah! e’en perchance, too well!
And who was she, the spirit of the past?
Still o’er the world her beauty does she cast,
Walks she in glory with that angel face,
Loved, cherished, blest, and blessing with its grace;
Or all that heavenly dawn, that faultless bloom,
Lies it unseen and mouldering in the tomb?
Vainly we ask. He spoke not of the love
Which time had not removed, nor could remove;
His hand first traced, then gazed his blissful eye--
His tale is told!--There he remained to die!
Camilla listened breathlessly. She had a very youthful appetite for
tales, and the double interest which Frank Hargrave gave to all he
spoke, made her listen to this present one with an eagerness which
carried her thoughts from herself and from the peculiar circumstances
under which it was told.
“How very strange,” she said, as he concluded. “It is such a pretty
story that I hope it is a true one. Do you think it is?”
“I believe it is true, and I see no reason to doubt it. If he
was a painter, there was nothing strange. Many have painted from
memory--many do so still; and if he was not a painter, yet there is
nothing beyond belief. It would be,” he added, with a slight smile,
“only another instance of the power of love. Love has made many more
curious transformations than changing a poor monk into a painter.”
“I think it curious still,” Camilla said, but she was growing uneasy
again.
“Do you now see what I meant by the danger of which I spoke?” he
began again, after a silence of a few moments. “Do you think the poor
monk’s employment in his cell would have made it more easy for him to
banish the remembrance of the past? If he had wished to do so, do you
think, after those days of earnest contemplation, it would have been
possible?”
She made no answer, nor did he wait for one. Suddenly rising, he
turned towards her the portrait of herself, and placed himself at her
side.
It was the first time she had been allowed to see it; and while
startled at its likeness, she was pleased and flattered by its
beauty. With a deep blush, she contemplated it, and though fearful
and agitated, could not but say, “It is a great deal too pretty for
me.”
But Frank Hargrave was not in the mood for mere compliments. He
scarcely heard what she said, but bending towards her, murmured, “Do
you think it will assist _me_ in forgetting these last few bright
days of happiness, if indeed you tell me to forget?”
She turned away her head and trembled; but her trembling was but with
confusion--there was no shrinking in it, and in another moment her
eyes might have been raised with full confidence to his;--but Miss
Vincent suddenly appeared and interrupted them.
Quick to discover at any time the slightest symptoms of a flirtation,
Camilla’s countenance was not likely to escape her now. She
immediately retreated, and with a peculiar movement which seemed to
say jestingly, “I go because I see that I am not wanted,” hurriedly
closed the door.
Frank Hargrave’s eyes were fixed on Camilla. He was intently studying
her countenance, and gathering from it the signs that might plainly
be read. But he had no wish to incur Miss Vincent’s witticisms, or
to be forced by her faster and further than he chose to go, and
immediately following her, and throwing open the door, he recalled
her.
“I was afraid I was in the way,” she said, with an arch smile.
“By no means,” he replied quietly; “Miss St. Maur’s picture is just
finished, and I am anxious to have your opinion upon it.”
After Miss Vincent’s unqualified admiration had been given, and very
justly given to the picture, she turned to Camilla. “My object in
coming home, Miss St. Maur, was to tell you that Mrs. Wetherall has
decided on giving a dance to-night. You heard her talking about it
yesterday; or perhaps you did not hear, for I believe you were better
employed--but she _was_ discussing the possibility yesterday, and
gave it up in despair. It appears, however, that in the course of the
afternoon she found that there were a great number of new arrivals,
and, as is always the case with her, that the new arrivals were all,
or almost all, acquaintances. She immediately set to work, and her
list of guests is very respectable, I assure you. Twenty couple of
dancers, at least. She desired me to give her compliments to you, and
to tell you, with numberless pretty messages, how happy she should be
if you would grace her ball.”
“I should like it very much,” Camilla said, “for I have never even
seen a dance.”
“Never!” Frank Hargrave said, looking at her with a smile.
“That is not to be wondered at,” remarked Miss Vincent. “Miss St.
Maur is only just seventeen; she has only just attained a right to be
out.”
“Still never even to have _seen_ a ball must be a very peculiar
feeling,” Frank Hargrave said, musingly; “the idea carries me back to
days, that I sigh to think I have forgotten.”
“It carries me far beyond my own memory,” laughingly remarked Miss
Vincent; “for I came out when I was two years old. I was very
dissipated in my youth.”
“So I should have fancied.”
“Why?” Miss Vincent inquired shortly, and a little offended.
“I only meant to say,” Frank Hargrave observed, “that I should have
supposed your knowledge of the world to have begun early.”
“I believe you don’t mean anything very civil: but your observation
is just. I have lived in the world since I was two years old, and I
very early began to make it my study. I have heard many girls talk of
their first ball as an era in their life; but it is an era I do not
remember at all. You have a great advantage over me, Miss St. Maur;
and I beg, if there is anything remarkable in your feelings, that you
will write a history of them for my benefit, and for Mr. Hargrave’s
also, for I am sure, if I made an early acquaintance with the world,
he made an earlier.”
“Perhaps not,” was all he replied, but he approached the window where
Camilla was leaning as he spoke; and while Miss Vincent hurried from
them, he said, “If there is nothing remarkable in your first ball,
will you intrust it to my hands to make it at least a happy one?”
Camilla blushed and turned away, but as she followed Miss Vincent,
the thoughts of the evening, and hope and happiness, were making her
heart bound with excitement.
While she was dressing for the evening’s party, Miss Vincent entered
her room, and laid on her table in silence, but with a peculiar
smile on her lips, a bouquet of the choicest flowers. When she
entered Mrs. Wetherall’s room, her eyes downcast but sparkling, her
cheeks glowing with mingled hope and fear, Frank Hargrave stood ready
to watch her entrance with looks of earnest admiration, and to be the
first to approach her side.
She excited a great degree of attention; for the style of her beauty,
its singular degree of simple grace, blended with a high-born and
stately air, was uncommon in the society to which Mrs. Wetherall
belonged. Wherever her eyes turned she might have read admiration;
she might have heard the language of admiration, had she so pleased
it, from many lips; but she heard it not, heeded it not. Her thoughts
were centred on one alone,--her ears filled with sounds which made
all other language poor; for then and there her last doubts died
away, as Frank Hargrave, in somewhat vague, perhaps, yet not the less
earnest and passionate terms, confessed that he loved her.