... How joy fulfilled
Makes the heart tremble!
EDWIN THE FAIR.
How fading are the joys we dote upon!
Like apparitions seen and gone;
But those which soonest take their flight
Are the most exquisite and strong;
Like angel’s visits, short and bright,
Mortality’s too weak to bear them long.
JOHN MORRIS.
Camilla returned home, though wearied in body by unusual dissipation,
in a trance and wild delusion of happiness; and in a delusion of
happiness she woke the following morning. It was delusion; for a
little, a very little thought must have disturbed, if not banished
it; but, though a delusion, it was very real for the time. It was
like the unclouded ecstatic happiness of a child, no thought of past,
present, or future agitating its existence,--no reflection laying a
hand upon it to give it consciousness of being.
It was late when she awoke from a sweet and dreamless sleep; and,
fearful of being late for the destined expedition, she hurried
through her dressing. No time was allowed for meditation or
self-reflection,--no thoughts admitted but such as were excited
by the bright sunshiny day, and the soft breeze playing from the
sea,--thoughts as bright and sunny,--hopes that like the breeze
perhaps were to die away.
Breakfast was nearly over when she entered the room, and Frank
Hargrave, ready to accompany them, was standing in the window.
Conscious, blushing, and trembling, Camilla scarcely dared to raise
her eyes, and sat down suddenly silent, in the midst of an apology
for her lateness.
“You had a right to sleep after your first ball,” Mrs. Vincent said,
good-naturedly. “You are not accustomed to late hours, as Sophia is.”
“I hope Miss St. Maur enjoyed herself?” inquired Mr. Vincent.
“Very much, thank you,” she replied, with a deepening colour.
“You must have enjoyed yourself, my dear Miss St. Maur, if giving
pleasure to others and receiving admiration yourself can cause
enjoyment. I don’t know how many conquests you made; but I am sure
that we shall not be the only people who will think with regret of
your return home to-morrow.”
Her return home!--Her colour first rose, then faded away at the
words, and she grew suddenly grave. It was the first thought of her
home since Frank Hargrave’s confession, since his words of love had
fallen upon and blessed her ear; and with the thought came shadows
over the hitherto shadowless bliss.
“You are eating nothing, my dear Miss St. Maur,” Mrs. Vincent
observed, remarking Camilla’s untasted breakfast. “Pray, don’t think
we are in any hurry. If we are off by half-past eleven, it will be
time enough and plenty.”
“Oh, I have quite done, thank you,” she said, jumping up, as if happy
to be released. “I suppose I had better get ready as fast as I can.”
And she left the room.
“You must take care of Miss St. Maur, Sophia,” remarked Mr. Vincent,
anxiously; “she does not look very strong. That rapid change of
colouring is a symptom of weakness, and should be attended to.”
“There may be other causes for it, papa,” Miss Vincent said,
laughing, with a glance at Frank Hargrave; but he paid no attention
to the remark.
“I hope not,” Mr. Vincent said, gravely; and he too glanced, but with
as little success, towards the window where Frank Hargrave stood.
A shadow was still on Camilla’s brow when she returned to the
drawing-room. The word “home” had awakened reflection, and
between her and her previous happiness Reginald seemed to stand,
with reproach in his countenance. Never came the thought of his
displeasure without a pang; and in proportion to the greatness of
her happiness was the sense of that displeasure now. Vague it was
and shadowy, even like the trance of thoughtless joy in which she
had been reposing; but a mist was falling round her, light clouds
gathering,--she was no longer in paradise.
Frank Hargrave approached her: he saw the shade, and with earnest
words and magic power endeavoured to chase it away. And he was
successful; the clouds dispersed, the frown of Reginald melted into
air.
They descended the stairs together, and stood together within the
door of the hotel, while Mrs. Vincent, who had preceded them,
arranged some parcels in the barouche which was to convey them to
their destination.
“Now, Miss St. Maur,” she called at last; and Camilla retreated a few
steps to summon Miss Vincent. When she returned again to the door of
the hotel, she paused with sudden surprise; for within three yards of
the house stood Ernest De Grey.
He looked so strange, so unlike himself, that for one moment she
even doubted the evidence of her senses; but the next instant there
flashed before her the remembrance of when and where that gaze of
sadness had met her before, and swift as thought, with more than
her usual courteousness and grace, she hastened down the steps, and
held out her hand. The new feelings springing within her had taught
her repentance, had taught her to feel for him; and, with anxious
kindness, she desired only to atone for the heedlessness of her
former conduct, and the petulance of their last farewell.
“Are you here, Mr. De Grey?” she said, in her sweet frank voice, and
with her sweet smile. “I did not know you had any thoughts of coming.”
He murmured a reply; but he received her advances, she thought,
coldly, and with something of hauteur she drew back.
The gravity of his countenance increased, and for a moment he stood
irresolute; then following her, he said hurriedly--and the very sound
of his voice was altered; “Are you going out?--could you let me speak
to you for a moment?”
A sudden and strange vision floated before her eyes. Reginald had
returned to Clare Abbey; Ernest had told him of what had passed
between them. Reginald had been displeased,--had been desirous to
forward Ernest’s wishes; and now armed with his--perhaps with her
father’s--authority, he came to press his suit.
The idea made her draw herself up with all her brother’s
stateliness;--“I am just going out with Mrs. Vincent,” she said
haughtily, “and I really cannot detain her.”
“Mamma is in no hurry,” Miss Vincent remarked, contemplating the
scene with a look of much amusement; for to her fertile fancy it was
perfectly comprehensible.
“I would rather not detain her,” Camilla repeated determinedly.
Ernest seemed scarcely to hear her words, or to heed her haughtiness.
He seemed at a loss how to act. Suddenly, however, he turned and
shook hands with Miss Vincent, then going down the steps approached
the carriage where Mrs. Vincent was already seated.
His back was turned towards them, and his words were unheard; but
Mrs. Vincent’s countenance was visible. She became extremely grave;
and, after a moment’s thought, got out of the carriage and approached
Camilla.
“Don’t talk of detaining me, my dear Miss St. Maur; for it really is
of no consequence whatever. Mr. De Grey has got a message for you,
and I think you had better go back into the house and talk to him.
Come, my dear!” and kindly laying her hand on Camilla’s arm, she led
her back to the drawing-room, and left her there.
Camilla submitted, because she did not know how to refuse; but she
seated herself with a reluctant and haughty air. One idea only was in
her mind.
When the door was closed, and he found himself alone with her,
Ernest’s look of gravity vanished: it had been assumed only to cover
other feelings; but his distress was so evident, that there was
compassion as well as petulance in Camilla’s voice and manner when
she addressed him.
“What have you got to say, Mr. De Grey? I am quite ready to hear it
now.”
“Nothing for myself,” he replied, a sudden idea crossing his mind,--a
sudden flush overspreading his face; “do not fear; such rash
presumptuous words as once you heard shall never pass my lips again.”
He paused; “I wish it was so; I wish that what I have to tell was
such as would cause grief only to me. I am sent from Clare Abbey to
fetch you--to beg you, at least, to return without delay.”
“And why?” Camilla said, haughtily; but she turned away her head
with a crimson blush as she spoke. She paused not to consider the
improbability of Ernest’s being sent to separate her from Frank
Hargrave. Conscience only, wakeful and reproachful, pointed to her
separation from him as the one ill to be dreaded,--her acquaintance
with him as the one evil to be condemned.
Ernest made no answer, but coming nearer to her, bent over her
with a look of intense and tearful compassion. “I am trying not to
frighten you,” he said, in a faltering voice, “and yet I shall but
frighten you the more; I had better tell you all at once;” yet still
he paused, as if to watch for a sign of fear, as if to soften,--that
first shock of evil tidings beneath which some young hearts have
trembled all their days. Seeing at length her eyes opening and her
cheeks beginning to grow pale, he went on hurriedly, “Your brother
has had a fall,--a bad fall, and he is ill,--very ill.”
The cry of agony that rang through the house pierced more hearts than
one.
“_Dead!_” she cried, convulsively clasping her hands. “Reginald is
dead!” for if the evil forebodings of the young and thoughtless are
slow to be aroused; once aroused, there is no limit to their terror.
“No! no!” Ernest said, tenderly and hurriedly; “he is not dead: he
lives; he himself sent me to you,--he is longing to see you.”
“Then _dying_!” exclaimed the same piercing voice.
“No, no, indeed! you may trust me, I _have_ told you all,--I _will_
tell you all. Can you now listen to me calmly?” and without waiting
for an answer, he sat down beside her, and gently and soothingly
began his sorrowful tale.
But when told with every alleviation which his conscience would
permit, with all the tenderness of which his tender nature was
capable, it was a tale to harrow up her soul, and freeze her young
blood within her.
With tearless eyes, with a blanched cheek, with strong composure, she
listened to him. The words he spoke conveyed no meaning to her ears;
but when, hurrying from the sad incidents of his tale, he began to
speak of _hope_, the unnatural calmness gave way, and throwing her
arms over the head of the sofa near which she sat she wept bitterly.
There are some hopes which convey a sense of reality of woe no
crushing narrative of ill can give. Hope--what hope!--that he from
whom she had parted in the vigour of life, the pride of health, the
bloom of beauty, might linger on a few short years a pale, mangled,
helpless, hopeless form.
Her stony calmness had terrified Ernest; with joy he had seen her
tears, and he had moved away and left her to herself that she might
weep in peace; but, wrung to the heart at witnessing such tears from
her, whose bitterest had hitherto been but as the dewdrop on the
flower, a few minutes only passed before he was again at her side.
“Will you not try and command yourself?” he said, stooping tenderly
over her, and taking her hand with a brother’s affection; “will you
not for his sake exert all your strength?--he is longing to see you;
think what a comfort you may be to him!” But she drew her hand away,
and his words seemed but to increase the agony of her grief.
“Your brother,” he began in a more serious tone, for unaccustomed to
grief, he was terrified at the excess of her sorrow, “submits himself
without a murmur to the will of God. I know that it must be harder
still for you; we may bear for ourselves what we cannot for others;
but your grief will add to, not soften his misery,--will you not, at
least for his sake, be patient?”
“I would,” she said, raising her head and fixing her sad dark eyes on
his face, “I think I could, if I had been there; but you do not know
how I have displeased him: I was wilful,--I _would_ leave him and
grieve him, and now I shall never, never see him again;” and she laid
down her head in despairing penitence.
“You _will_ see him again,” Ernest said, endeavouring to speak calmly
and steadily, endeavouring to give such assurance as he could.
“Everything is ready, even now; why should you delay?--a very few
hours, and you may be there to comfort him.”
She started hastily from her seat, but when she stood up she paused:
there, without, was the dazzling sunshine shining heedlessly on her
sorrow; there, within, were the signs and tokens of a past dream of
happiness--in an hour life was changed, and there were few seeds of
faith and trust and heavenly hope to make the change endurable. She
paused, looked around her; then, shuddering, hurried away.
Every preparation for her departure had been made by Ernest, with
thought and care, before he attempted to see her; and as he entered
the house he had implored Miss Vincent to overlook the packing, and
to make sure that there was no delay. The Vincents were naturally
kind; and now shocked and grieved for Camilla, showed their kindness
with all the tact that true feeling prompts. Everything that _could_
comfort or assist her was done; and when they took leave of her with
tears in their eyes, their kind and affectionate farewell overcame
the little strength she had to resist the violence of her grief.
Ernest forced her to take his arm, and led her down the stairs which
she had passed so lightly and happily a short half hour before.
When they reached the door, another parting was awaiting her.
With folded arms and downcast eyes Frank Hargrave stood, leaning
against the railings which formed the enclosure round the hotel.
His attitude, his whole appearance betokened feeling,--feeling for
Camilla and for himself. Far away as were his thoughts from his own
hopes, or jealous fears, Ernest felt instinctively that a rival was
near, and needed not the tremulous movement of the hand that rested
on his arm, to assure him--so swiftly came the knowledge--that that
rival had won what he had sought in vain. But Ernest’s nature--weak
and earth-bound as it was--was not a selfish one. He gave one look
of intense scrutiny (a guardian’s rather than a rival’s gaze), and
though that glance might not bring entire satisfaction, felt that it
was not a moment for him to exercise a guardian’s care. He led her to
the door of the carriage that awaited her; then, without stopping to
place her in it, re-entered the house, averting even his eyes from
her movements, lest he should be a restraint upon her freedom, or add
one drop of bitterness to the sorrow of the hour.
Camilla made, however, little use of her freedom. She gave no glance
around her, and entered the carriage alone. But thus she was not
suffered to depart. Frank Hargrave had _waited_ for a summons, he
had waited to be called to comfort her,--he had waited at least, for
a wandering glance of her eye; but now, lull of fear and forgetful
of all but the parting of the moment, he sprang to her side. She
was seated, and at his approach she drew back--but leaning forward
and seizing her hand, he passionately exclaimed, “Camilla, my own
Camilla! only say that we shall meet again.”
The soft melodious accents, the passionate pressure of her hand, made
her whole frame tremble with emotion--but she answered him neither
by word or look; one moment she sat powerless, stupified--the next,
releasing herself even with violence, she drew to the further side of
the carriage and buried her face in her hands.
The maid, loaded with parcels, approached and entered the carriage;
Ernest sprang up upon the box, Mrs. Vincent and her daughter, with
tearful eyes, kissed their hands to the unheeding Camilla, and they
drove away.
Frank Hargrave stood for a moment looking after them, then walked
rapidly from the house.
* * * * *
The afternoon sun was still shining brilliantly on the windows and
towers of Clare Abbey, when Camilla returned after her first absence,
to the home she had left so buoyant in spirit a fortnight before. But
even the external appearance of the house bore witness to the change.
It looked dreary and deserted; profound silence reigned around, and
the grave countenance of the single old servant, who anxiously waited
her approach, struck terror and dismay into the mind.
“Mr. St. Maur is no worse,” he said, as the carriage stopped; but
look and words both were full of woe. He was fondly attached to
Camilla, and had approached to offer such consolation as he could;
but her appearance betokened a grief beyond _his_ consolation, and he
respectfully drew back that Ernest might appear.
The first acquaintance with anxiety, sorrow and death, is a fearful
thing to all; it is doubly so to a young thoughtless being, on whose
guarded life no reality of sickness has ever intruded,--in whose
tranquil sheltered existence pain has been but a name. Such was
Camilla; even common sights of poverty and distress had been hidden
from her eyes, and terror, a simple terror of what she might see, and
what she might hear, had added its bitterness to the sorrows that
were bowing her down. Ernest found her so exhausted with fear and
misery, that he was forced almost to lift her to the ground.
He held out his arm, and she clung to him; and so, rather supporting
than leading her he guided her through the deserted passages to her
brother’s room. One meeting she had by the way, and though in that
meeting comfort for a future day might have dimly dawned upon her
mind, it brought no comfort then; it spoke too much of fear and a
troubled spirit to do aught but increase her dread. As she passed
down the first corridor a door softly opened, and her father for an
instant appeared; seized her with violence in his arms,--pressed a
convulsive kiss on her brow, and disappeared again. Surely, surely
there must be a change, if her father could meet her thus.
She stood like one stupified at her brother’s door, and yielded a
mechanical obedience to all that Ernest proposed.
He entered the darkened room alone, to prepare Reginald for her
appearance,--and silent, tearless, she sat without awaiting his
return.
“He is longing to see you,” Ernest said, stooping tenderly over her;
“and do not fear, he is quite himself.”
He held the door open for her to pass; but she looked up fearfully in
his face and clung to his arm. And so he led her to the bedside; but
there the sight of Reginald,--no change to terrify or appal, changed
only so as to touch the hardest heart,--restored her to sense, to
feeling, to forgetfulness of dread in the consciousness of present
sorrow; and falling on her knees beside his pillow, she burst into an
agony of tears.
Ernest made a sign to the old housekeeper who had approached in
alarm; and both together they left the room, while Reginald faintly
but calmly soothed the grief, and quieted the mind of his young and
sorrowing sister.