Our life has flowed into its deep dark stream,
Where silent waters sleep and shades are lying;
Our noon is come, and all bright colours seem
Fading and dying.
SEWELL’S SACRED THOUGHTS.
Lorsque sur cette terre on se sent delaissé,
Qu’on est d’aucun objet la première pensée,
Lorsque l’on peut souffrir sure que ses douleurs
D’aucun mortel ne font couler les pleurs,
On se désinteresse à la fin de soimême,
On cesse de s’aimer si quelqu’un ne nous aime.
“With the unhappy,” it has been said, “the happy may not enter into
judgment.” _To_ all indeed, and _for_ all the precept has been given,
“Judge not lest ye be judged;” but if in a precept so given, we may
speak of a question of more or less, it becomes of double force in
the case of the prosperous and the afflicted. If in the days of
hopefulness and prosperity, when the sun shines smilingly on our
pathway, temptation is hard to be resisted,--and who shall say it
is not so?--if, when blessings lie like flowers beneath our feet,
repining and discontent is hard to be subdued,--and who shall say it
is not often thus?--what excuses should not man make for those who
have erred and strayed in the days of trouble and misery. It is true
that sorrow is a heavenly teacher; that it calms the excitements of
this world, and lifts the thoughts from earth to heaven. But it does
not always so act on its first approach--it does not so act when it
falls stunningly and unexpectedly; especially not so when it falls
on those who are uninstructed in its meaning, and undisciplined to
submit:
“Sorrows like showers descend, and as the heart
For them _prepares_, they good or ill impart.”
The cases I think are few and rare in which their ultimate end is
evil; but rare too are the cases in which their first approach does
not bring something of temptation to an unprepared spirit.
Days and weeks went by, and the monotony of sorrow began to replace
the first hours of excited feeling among the inhabitants of Clare
Abbey. There was nothing to hope, and _in the present_ little to
fear. Reginald’s calm strength and patience--the command he kept
over his mind, had prevented the danger of fever; his strength of
constitution had surmounted the danger of weakness and depression.
Little, very little improvement in his condition was held out to
hope; but until the constant presence of pain had worn him out, and
undermined the strength and vigour of his constitution, there was
little to fear.
On none did this monotony of life fall with a more depressing and
dangerous effect than on Camilla. Others had their occupations either
from without or from within. Pain is a great consumer of time; so
also is the struggle between contending passions, such as day by day
was carried on in the mind of Lord Vere; but Camilla, save her own
sorrowful thoughts, had real occupation neither from without nor from
within. It would not have been so, had she been allowed to be, as
she could have been, her brother’s devoted nurse. It was no office
too high for her; childish as in many ways she had been, there was
in her character a strength and power of devotion which needed only
circumstances to call them forth; and she who had been his constant
and chosen companion in prosperity--in adversity would never have
been found wanting. But that place, that office, had been--not
usurped--for who shall say that a mother usurps?--but taken from her
hope, her expectation, by another.
More marvellous in its outward effects than the change in Ernest De
Grey, though perhaps less marvellous within, was the change that
had taken place in Lady Vere since the time of her son’s accident.
The love of a mother is one of those unsearchable things which no
wisdom can measure or fathom; where human calculation has least
expected to witness it, there often the perfect flower springs
up. So was it with Lady Vere. The selfishness, the indolence, the
frivolous cares which had seemed to form her existence, were--not
extinguished--perhaps, but put away, mastered by one master passion.
After two days’ prostration of mind and body, beneath the first shock
of a first affliction, Lady Vere became at once calm, self-collected,
her son’s untired and devoted nurse,--that wisdom which she had
not, that experience which she did not possess, gathering from the
intuitive power of love. No hand but hers was allowed to minister to
his wants by day; and, if not by night also, it was because Lord Vere
exerted his authority with a manner which could not be withstood,
and commanded her to rest. And who could have wished it otherwise?
Even Reginald, though at times he missed the more intellectual
companionship of his sister, felt soothed and blessed when that soft
hand touched his brow, when those soft eyes met his wearied glance,
when those soft tones stole gently upon his ear.
Yet a wise mother would have seen the danger attending so weary and
joyless a life as Camilla’s now was;--the days had suddenly come
upon her when there was no pleasure in them--and they had come at a
time when she seemed least fitted to bear their pressure--at a time
when every feeling had been roused, when opening visions of a distant
and exciting world had sent her glances far forward to build a
shadowy paradise. But in learning the intuitive wisdom of love, Lady
Vere had not learned--could not learn to think. Reginald occupied
all her care, all her thoughts; she lived in him. She was, besides,
a jealous nurse. Even the daily visits of Ernest De Grey she had at
first attempted to resist; and though his perfect understanding of
such feelings, and perfect wisdom and gentleness in dealing with
them, had given him a victory--it _was_ a victory. She daily yielded
her place to him, and left them together with a smile; but she felt
it a daily gift, a daily grace, and it was a grace for him alone.
Left to herself, Camilla sank into an apathy of misery. She wandered
listlessly in and out of her brother’s room, rarely finding him
alone, rarely able to express her wretchedness, or gather from his
lips consolation. Her old occupations were become hateful to her. It
is not the unhappy who _can_ divert themselves; from those arts and
pleasures which charm and bless a happy existence the miserable turn
with even loathing away. She was wretched, and none ministered to her
misery.
In this sad and softened state of her feelings it might have been
expected that those religious principles, unheeded in her joyous
and excited youthfulness, would have found an entrance; nor was she
altogether beyond their influence. But here too she was unfortunate:
the character under which these principles were now forcibly
presented to her was not such a character as could win her heart to
love.
If there was a fault in the perfect patience with which Reginald
submitted to his hopeless fate, it was in the stoical character which
it assumed. Pride is the evil ever to be dreaded in the practice of
the highest virtues, and the pride of Reginald’s disposition was
living yet. He had fancied it crushed for ever by the hand that
crushed him to the earth, and guessed not that it was springing up
strong and vigorous in the form of unmurmuring submission. He guessed
not how tainted by pride was the motive which made him unceasingly
repeat in the silence of his heart, that, whatever he felt, none
should hear him complain; that none should know the wildness of his
regrets for the past,--the shrinking with which he thought of the
future; that come what might, if mortal strength could bear it, he
still would smile above his pain.
Stoicism is not to the young an attractive form of heroism. None
could admire heroic characters with more unbounded admiration than
Camilla; but then her heroes were men. Self-conquest she reverenced
from her heart, but not that form of self-conquest which denies the
existence of the ill. When she listened to Reginald’s words,--when
she heard him so calmly reason on his fate--she sometimes doubted
whether he could feel. _To submit_,--she knew he must--she knew _she_
must for him; but what consolation was there in the knowledge?--it
was the inevitable nature of the doom from which she shrank!
Ernest would have been, nay, was in some degree, her better teacher,
but Ernest.... It is the painful character of our errors and
weaknesses that their effects follow us on earth long after we may
hope they have been forgiven in Heaven.
“The Past lives o’er again
In its effects, and to the guilty spirit,
The ever-frowning Present is its image.”
When the first excitement of affliction had passed, Ernest found that
a barrier stood between him and Camilla, and never did humiliation
oppress him more deeply than when this consequence of his moment’s
weakness appeared. Whence came the barrier? he could hardly tell.
It was not in Camilla, for she, wrapt in other thoughts and other
sorrows, had almost forgotten what he could not forget; but it was,
as it will ever be--self-indulgence bringing its sure and bitter
fruit in man’s chief chastener--his own conscience. He who might
have had, who should have had, something of a father’s right to
watch over her, had approached her as a lover; and he was humbled
before her yet. He who might have brought words of heavenly hope and
heavenly comfort, had disturbed the serenity of her soul with words
of earthly passion, and even if not so with _her_, the echo of the
words were vibrating around him yet.
It was not an irretrievable error. Time might restore the high
position he had forfeited: self-control of words and looks, and
above all of thoughts, might redeem the past. But evil works more
rapidly than good, and to undo is harder than to do. Now when he saw
her wandering alone in the mazy walks about the house, conscience,
no longer innocent, made him doubtful of his motives, and forbade
him to wander by her side. When he saw her listlessly seated in the
deserted drawing-room,--her hands unoccupied, her cheeks pale, her
eyes downcast in dreary meditation,--conscience made him distrust the
tenderness he felt, and he passed on, not daring to approach her with
a brother’s love, not daring to draw her from her griefs, and wile
them away with his sympathy.
The fault was his, in the punishment Camilla shared; and the
consciousness of this (though even he knew not how deeply her
desolation was felt) made _his_ punishment as great as he could bear.
There was yet another cause which at this time drove Camilla to the
solitude of her own thoughts, and made something of estrangement, not
in the affection, but in the intercourse between her and her brother.
A violent headache had, one afternoon, displaced Lady Vere from her
post, and joyfully and eagerly was that post seized upon by Camilla.
Seated by her brother’s side,--happy to have him all to
herself,--happy to have it permitted to her to serve him and wait
upon him,--the dreary present floated from before her eyes, and once
again, for a few short moments, she was Camilla, and he was Reginald,
such as they had been in the old joyful days.
She smoothed his pillow, and gave him his accustomed medicine; and
with a smile gladder than it had been, though sadder and softer than
the smile of the olden time, forgetful almost of the sad necessity
for her cares, hung fondly over him, and asked if she too did not
deserve the name of nurse. He saw her abstraction from the present,
and rejoiced to see it; and anxiously avoiding all painful thoughts,
went back with her into the past.
“Now tell me, Camilla,” he said, when at last she seated herself
beside him, “how did you pass your time with the Vincents? Were you
very happy?”
“Very happy,” she replied, and sighed; then recovering herself:
“how beautiful the sea is! I could never have fancied anything so
beautiful. I should like to live by the sea-side always.”
Reginald smiled: it was the old Camilla, with her fruitless wishes.
“And was it the beauty of the sea that made you happy?” he inquired,
and he looked at her with a confiding expression, as if he truly
hoped it was so.
“Not quite,” she replied, and blushed.
He watched her with some curiosity. “Did you make many new
acquaintances?” he asked.
“Yes, a few,” she paused, and blushed more deeply; then, as with
a sudden resolution, proceeded, “I met there your friend, or
acquaintance, Mr. Hargrave.”
“Did you, Camilla? I am very sorry.”
“Why?” she inquired, and she raised her eyes a little indignantly.
“Because I do not like him, and have not a good opinion of him. I
should be very sorry to think he was a friend of yours,” and he
turned his eyes upon her anxiously.
“You never are pleased when I am pleased!” she replied petulantly;
but then she paused, for as she saw a faint flush of pain pass over
his cheek, the trance which had seemed to carry her from present
misery passed away, and in a passion of remorseful tenderness she
burst into tears--“Forgive me! forgive me!” she exclaimed; “what a
wretch I am to speak so to you; how could I do it? Oh, Reginald!”
and she laid down her head upon his pillow, “how happy we were, and
how miserable we are now! _I cannot, cannot_ bear it!”
He turned away his head, either to conceal some expression on his own
countenance, or to avert his eyes from hers. When he looked at her
again and held out his hand, it was with a calm sweet smile: “Dear
Camilla,” he said, “do not speak like that! it grieves me to hear you
say such words. We _must_ bear it, both you and I; it is what we have
to learn.”
“I cannot!” she repeated, passionately.
He said no more then; another thought was weighing upon his mind, and
he was anxious to return to it. To divert her thoughts, and give her
time to recover herself, he employed her for some minutes in moving
books, and arranging various parts of the room and furniture. When he
saw her calm again, he called to her, and she sat down again by his
side.
“You were telling me about Frank Hargrave,” he said, speaking kindly,
but in vain endeavouring to conceal his anxiety; “did you see much
of him?”
“Yes,” she replied, sitting by his side with her eyes fastened on the
ground.
“And did you like him, Camilla?” He watched her with intense interest.
“Yes,” she replied, in a low voice, her colour rising gradually till
her cheek and brow were crimson.
“Camilla!” he exclaimed excitedly, “you did not _love_ him?”
She made no answer, but her countenance needed no words to declare
its meaning.
A blush as deep as hers flushed Reginald’s pale cheek; it was a blush
of many feelings--of regret, of shame, perhaps more than all, of
earthly pride; but Camilla did not see it: in the pause that followed
his question she sat immovable, with downcast eyes, and her hands
nervously folded together.
“Camilla,” at last he said again, in the same excited tone, “you
cannot mean it; surely he did not dare....”
“Why _dare_?”--and she raised her head haughtily.
“You cannot mean it,” he repeated; “he did not dare to tell you he
loved you, to ask your love, to ... Camilla! could he dare?”
“Why _dare_?” she asked again, and her eyes were sparkling with pride.
“Camilla; surely, Camilla, you would not stoop to such a
_mésalliance_.”
“_Mésalliance!_” she exclaimed, and as she pronounced the word, every
tender feeling towards Frank Hargrave, every charm with which her
imagination had invested the name, seemed to dissolve into mist.
“No, Reginald; you need have no fear. I never would stoop to a
_mésalliance_.”
“Forgive me, Camilla,” he said, and held out his hand, and the
momentary excitement over, his head, which he had slightly raised,
sank back exhausted on his pillow. “Forgive me,” he continued,
faintly, “forgive me for distrusting you. I should not have spoken
as I have done--it was my pride. My pride,” he repeated, and an
expression of intense anguish passed over his countenance.
“Say no more,” Camilla murmured, bending over him tearfully and
tenderly, “and think of it no more. You need have no fear.”
Then observing his pale cheek, and alarmed at his appearance of
exhaustion, she changed her tone, and with a promptitude which spoke
of strength and decision lying beneath her childish character, “You
must rest now,” she said, with quietness and cheerfulness; “mamma
will call me a bad nurse if she finds you tired, and never let me
come back again. Now rest or sleep, I shall stay here; but I shall
not speak a word.” She kissed his brow, and drew down a curtain, and
closed the shutters, and sat by his side in silence.
A forbidden subject brings constraint; and where constraint enters,
peace departs. It seemed by mutual consent that the subject which
had so much excited both brother and sister should be recurred to no
more. To both it was painful--to both in an almost equal degree; and
by one, because painful, it was banished even from his thoughts. But
the consciousness that this subject on which both felt strongly, was
hidden in the minds of each, destroyed the freedom of even the little
intercourse which now was theirs.
Pride is in some natures so dominant a principle, that it enters into
and colours all their views and feelings. It was so with Reginald;
it touched almost all his virtues, and was the source of all his
faults. But in commoner and more versatile characters, no one quality
holds supreme dominion, and the ruling passion of one hour may be
the very opposite of the ruler of the next. Camilla was proud, like
Reginald; she had a proud and high spirit--a proud sense of honour,
a proud idea of ancestral glory and duty; but in her variable nature
it came and went, and, as has been seen, yielded to the temptation of
some other ruling quality. On Frank Hargrave’s position in life she
had never pondered; he was so different in manner to the Vincents,
that she had never associated him with them; but rather had imagined
that as Reginald’s friend, he was on a perfect level with herself.
Reginald’s slighting tone had roused her pride; when he spoke
the word _mésalliance_, all the blood of the St. Maurs had risen
rebelliously in her veins--but the pride was evanescent--a reaction
came; and when it came, it came as reactions will, with a fuller
return to the feelings that had been forsaken.
Her sentiments for Frank Hargrave had from the first undergone
perpetual variation; her opinion had perpetually altered. She had
yielded to him slowly and after much resistance; but in the ebb and
flow of interest, her affections had been more, even than she was
aware of, entangled, and pride had not sufficient power to shake her
opinion now.
In the flow of feeling that repentance brought, she, for the first
time since their parting, allowed--that is, for the first time,
consciously and wilfully allowed--herself to dream of him; but once
allowed, the temptation returned. The future had never had a place
in her thoughts, and now less than ever; for love to Reginald, and
principle, and even pride--that word _mésalliance_--forebade any
defined wish. But she began to dream of the past; she began to
beguile the vacancy and sadness of her lonely hours with pictures
of past enjoyment--to excite herself with the remembrance of past
excitement--until at last, not invited yet not repelled, in waking
dreams and dreaming wakefulness, those last low sounds, “Camilla, my
own Camilla!” were breathed again and again upon her ear.