She is gone from me for ever!
But this remains ... I can devote my life
To serve her and protect her.... Broken hearts
Have service in them still.--Oh! more than strength
Is in the sad idolatry that haunts
The ruinous fane of their deserted faith!
I can adore her, serve her, shield her, die....
I pray you pardon me....
EDWIN THE FAIR.
A witty speaker, in some wise essays of the present day, has given
it as his opinion, that when novelists “draw a veil” over particular
scenes of their narration, it is simply because they find the scenes,
so concealed, beyond the powers of their pen to draw. This may
not always be the case, for some scenes are _better_ left beneath
the veil, and others, no pen, however gifted, can describe as the
imagination can picture it: but no doubt there is much truth in
the remark, and certainly it is the truth here; for if a veil is
drawn over the meeting in the garden and some scenes that followed
it, it is from inability to describe them. I am unable to convey
the persuasions with which Frank Hargrave, a master in the art,
persuaded Camilla to listen to him--the sophistry with which he
lulled, though he could not blind, her sense of right and wrong--the
arts with which he drew her and entangled her, till, bewildered in
mind, she submitted herself to his guidance. When I say arts, it is
not intended to convey that Frank Hargrave was actuated by other
motives than sincere, though utterly selfish, passion; they were not
cold-blooded, deliberate arts, but the arts used by a mind engrossed
with one all-engrossing object. Refusing to take, in the garden at
Carrington, a final farewell, he wrung from the reluctant and weeping
Camilla a promise to meet him once more, not at Carrington, but in
some appointed spot in her father’s demesne; and so on--and on--and
on--each time Camilla more reluctant, but less able to resist, until
her consent was gained to that object, on which, not from their
first acquaintance, but since their last parting, his mind had been
determinedly set.
Camilla had been led, but she had also led herself into temptation.
She had entered again into the sphere of an attraction whose force
she knew; and now it was, when her mind was weakened by solitude
and sorrow, by a sense of loneliness and neglect, by repining and
rebellious thoughts, by the indulgence of idle dreams; when her high
spirit was tamed by sadness, and the clear freshness of her mind
was troubled and perturbed with depression, that a new and strong
temptation assaulted her. From the path which lay before her, every
feeling within her revolted, and yet still she entered upon it. The
weakness of even a proud spirit, a lofty sense of honour, and a
determined will, in the absence of those principles which cannot be
moved, was shown strongly here.
Frank Hargrave had separated himself from the Vincents, from
a perfect consciousness that to anything more serious than a
flirtation their assistance would not be given. Mrs. Vincent,
good-natured and thoughtless, and guided by her daughter, thought
flirtations foolish things, but nothing more. She was accustomed to
the sight of them with Miss Vincent--accustomed to see them brought
to very heartless conclusions; and yet to produce no very serious
effects. She rarely assisted them herself, or indeed interfered in
any way, but allowed things to take their course. “Young people
will flirt;” that was her argument and defence. Miss Vincent had
considered the subject more deeply--could moralize well--could even,
if needful, give wise counsel; but she loved to be engaged in a
flirtation herself; and next to being engaged herself, she loved
to be a party to the flirtations of others, to be confided in, to
be a go-between, to assist in making up quarrels, in overcoming
difficulties. But with the flirtation her interest ended. When
matters became more serious, she was deaf; an elopement, even if
better feelings did not prevail, was strongly condemned by her
worldly sense and discretion.
The assistance given by the Vincents to Frank Hargrave’s affairs, and
his own motives, may very shortly be told.
He had been much struck with Camilla on the day of his first
meeting,--struck with her extreme beauty, and still more with the
piquancy and freshness of her manners and conversation. He was not
without good elements in his character, but he was selfish and
weak principled; he was also indolent, (the mother of many vices,)
unless when stimulated by feeling,--and therefore he was fond, as
the indolent often are, of the excitement that does stimulate to
action. He was not very old, and hitherto his chosen excitements had
been a series of unmeaning flirtations. He was acquainted slightly
with the Vincents, and calling at Carrington, the day after his
meeting with Camilla, he spoke in strong and glowing terms of his
admiration for her. Miss Vincent laughed at him, assured him that
he was desperately in love, and begged that if he found himself
suffering from dejection of spirits, he would let her know, and she
would assist him to a further acquaintance with Camilla. It was
jestingly spoken, but seriously remembered by Frank Hargrave. Finding
his thoughts recurring to Camilla--finding some new acquaintances, in
comparison with her, tame and spiritless, he wrote to Miss Vincent,
reminding her of her promise. The consequence was, the invitation
to Camilla; but the motive for the invitation was a secret in Miss
Vincent’s breast. To Mrs. Vincent, the appearance of Frank Hargrave
at the sea-side seemed to be accidental. Thus he met her again, and
every day her power over his fancy or affection increased. He saw her
able and willing to resist him, even while unconsciously confessing
his influence, and her confession and her resistance both were added
charms. He went on and on, still without definite thought or meaning,
leaving it to chance, which often before had assisted him, to direct
him. Even at last it was only the excitement of the dance, the sight
of the admiration she excited, and the fascination of her freshness
and youthfulness of mind, contrasted with those around her, that drew
him to a full confession of his love.
They parted suddenly, and the words he spoke in parting were the
only ones which spoke of meeting again. Up to that point selfish
vanity had been his guide; and well aware of the gulf that separated
them, his thoughts had not gone beyond. But the heart, even such
a heartless heart as Frank Hargrave’s, will sometimes make itself
heard; and, separated from Camilla, _his_ spoke loudly. He _could_
not forget her, he felt he _could_ not live without her; with the
thought of her, visions--in his ideas of happiness, visions entirely
new--of domestic happiness began to dance before his eyes; nay, for
her sake, he began to feel that even labour and toil would not be
irksome. Nor did he entirely misjudge himself in so feeling. He was
selfish, thoroughly selfish; but love is the appointed destroyer of
that master evil, and once truly excited, all things are possible.
Feeling therefore thus, his thoughts turned only on the possibility
of union with her. Openly he felt it could not be, but there was
another way. Her position, as probably her father’s heiress, was not
forgotten--yet to do him justice, its influence was small. He loved
her, reluctantly loved her; but still loved her, with all his selfish
heart: _selfish!_ for no thought of the misery he must bring upon
her in gratifying himself, was allowed place in his mind. To one
point his endeavours were directed, for one purpose all his arts of
persuasion were used, and in that purpose he succeeded.
* * * * *
One fresh, mild evening in the beginning of October, Ernest De Grey
stood at the door of a cottage on the outskirts of Lord Vere’s park,
on the side opposite to and at some distance from the village of
Cranleigh.
“Good-bye and good-night,” Ernest said, with a smile, to the old
woman he was visiting; “it is almost sun-set; I had no idea it was so
late.”
“It’s a pleasant evening, sir,” the old woman remarked, accompanying
him to the cottage-gate and, looking about her; “and if I were your
honour, I would go through them pleasant fields of my lord’s, far
before the dusty road.”
“They are pleasanter, certainly,” Ernest replied, surveying some
rough, heathy meadows in the less frequented parts of the park, well
known and much prized in the days of his youth; “and if I avoid
them,” he added, “it is only because they are apt to lead me into
meditations which take up more time than I can well spare.”
“It is no bad thing, sir, to walk in the fields at eventide, and
meditate on the bounties of Providence.”
“It is not, indeed,” Ernest said, colouring slightly, as he felt that
his meditations would have been of another nature. “Well, I think I
will take your advice; and now, good-night;” and he hastened away.
The old woman paused to look after him, till he was out of sight.
“I remember him a blythe and gladsome lad,” she mused, in silent
meditation; “and we used to say, that whoever was sad, Mr. Ernest’s
smile could make them merry again. But it isn’t so now. He’s as
frank and as free as ever, and his face as bonnie, as they say in
the north; but some clouds have dimmed his bright blue eye, and his
smile seems touched with tears. Well, and how should it be otherwise,
with the young lord so sad, and the young lady too? Ah! there it
is; he loves her, I’ll be bound, and why shouldn’t he?” Here her
silent meditations ended, for as if a negative had been put to her
last question, she repeated it aloud and with some vehemence; and,
striking her apron and shaking her head, repeated it again and again
till she disappeared.
Ernest pursued his way, and endeavoured to turn his thoughts in the
direction pointed out by his unconscious monitress. Yet ever as he
passed along, and the startled hares sprang beneath his feet, his
thoughts, with a movement as rapid, bounded back to the days of his
youth--those days whose brightness, no sadness in the present, no
dreariness in the future, could dim. It is not all who have this
fair and fresh abode for their wandering fancies; yet happy, surely
happy are those who have it--for though the joys of childhood have
not the thought and feeling which animate the joys of riper years,
yet are they in themselves so pure and cloudless, that where the
breath of their memory comes, it brings a fragrance that is always
sweet.
His wanderings led him along the top of a grassy bank which
overlooked a kind of dell. Suddenly he paused. What arrested his
attention he knew not, but he looked hastily about him, then started,
and stood aghast. Not fifty yards below the spot where he stood,
slowly pacing beneath some overhanging oak trees, two figures passed
along. No voices reached his ear, but the attitude of one was that of
intense, imploring supplication. One moment he stood horror-struck
and amazed, then hurried on, his cheeks glowing with indignation
and shame. One figure, the still and silent one, whose bowed head
concealed her from his view, was but too well known--but too dearly
loved--and one moment’s thought recognized the other also.
That evening was the longest, the saddest, the most hateful, that
Ernest had ever passed. The bitterness of disappointment, the pangs
of separation, are as nothing when compared with the pang of such
knowledge as he had gained that day--the sudden dread that one; too
fondly, perhaps too idolatrously loved, was unworthy of the throne on
which he had placed her.
“Something ails his honour,” was Mrs. Cook’s remark, when, in the
course of the evening, having tormented Ernest with some household
questions, she returned to the kitchen; “something more nor common.
Don’t tell me it’s the young lord’s misfortune, for it hasn’t nothing
to do with it. Amost nights I finds him as mild and quiet as a lamb;
reading now and again, or writing, or now and again in a kind of a
_reevery_; but to-night I finds him tramping about on the new carpet,
as if carpets grew on hedgerows; and he minded no more that the new
tea-set he set such store by was broke, than I minds a darn in my
old stockings. It’s something more nor common, but what it is for the
life of me I don’t know.”
The trampings on the new carpet were not unavailing in composing
Ernest’s mind and assisting his meditations. Before he sought his
sleepless bed his resolution was taken.
It was early in the following afternoon when he paid his accustomed
visit at Clare Abbey; and so practised was he now in self-command,
that no symptoms of the fever of agitation, which made his heart now
bound, now die within him, were sufficiently perceptible to attract
even Reginald’s affectionate eyes.
He remained with him his usual time; then, without further thought,
went straight to the drawing-room.
The door was partly open, and he had entered, and once or twice
had looked anxiously around before he discovered Camilla. She was
seated in a window at the furthest end unemployed, listless; her
hands clasped on her knees, her eyes cast downward. He approached
her, making many movements as he crossed the room to attract her
attention, but her abstraction was so profound, that he stood by her
side before she perceived him. When at last she became aware of his
presence, her violent start and crimson blush betrayed a restless
mind and an uneasy conscience.
“I beg your pardon,” Ernest said, in his anxious, tender voice, “I
did not mean to frighten you.”
She smiled--but sadly and faintly; and without even attempting to
speak to him, immediately resumed her listless attitude and vacant
musing.
As he gazed upon her, so sad, so pale, in her whole air such an
expression of humiliation and sorrow--every hard thought he might
have had, almost every feeling of condemnation, passed from his mind.
It was no happy love that was leading her astray; misled she might
be, weak and wandering, but in her heart, he could not doubt it, she
was his own pure and true Camilla still.
When next he spoke, his voice was the voice of tenderness itself.
“I came to you,” he said, stooping towards her, “to ask you if you
would listen to me for a little while? I have something that I wish
very much to say to you.”
She got up from her seat--her colour coming and going, her eyes
downcast, her hands folded--and so stood before him, a picture of
docile obedience.
“Won’t you sit down again?” he said, struggling to maintain the
composure which her lowliness and sadness almost destroyed: “or will
you sit here?” and he drew a chair from the glaring window, and
pushed it among the shadows of the room.
She sat down in silence, and he stood leaning against the side of the
window, in a position a little averted from her. He dared not stand
gazing at her confusion.
“I feel that I am doing a strange thing,” he began, in a low and
slightly tremulous voice. “You will think, perhaps, that I am
speaking where I have no right, where it is only presumption in me to
speak; but I must ask you to think of me, not as I am myself, but
as one whom God himself has appointed to watch over your welfare.
Nothing but the sense of this, and the most earnest desire for your
best happiness, could make me dare to speak as I must speak.”
Her head sank still lower, and the blood slowly mounted to her
temples; but she said nothing.
There was a long silence--it was broken by Ernest’s voice, almost in
a whisper. “I saw you yesterday afternoon in the glen.”
She made no sound, gave no start, but, turning still further from
him, hid her face, oppressed with shame, in her hands, while thick
and fast, but silently, tears fell through her fingers.
“Forgive me, forgive me!” Ernest exclaimed, coming towards her, and
stooping tenderly over her. “It breaks my heart to grieve you thus;
but indeed, indeed it is to save you from misery.”
“I _am_ miserable!” she cried, in a passionate, broken voice.
“I know,” he said, “I know how much you have suffered, I feel how
your life is changed and blighted; but believe me, there is no sorrow
like the sorrow we bring on ourselves, no misery like the misery of
remorse.”
She trembled, but said nothing.
“You have not considered,” he continued, in much agitation; “you do
not know--you are so young and innocent it is impossible you can
know, to what this may lead.”
“But I do know,” she cried, excitedly; then, as if hardly conscious
what she was doing, she looked up in Ernest’s face, and laid her hand
on his arm. “I am going--going this very night. It is useless to
speak--useless to advise: I _must, must_ do it.”
Ernest was so shocked at her communication, that he sat down at a
little distance in silence.
“I know what you must think of me,” she exclaimed, weeping bitterly;
“I know how you must condemn; but do not judge me too harshly. You do
not know what I have suffered; you do not know how miserable I have
been, and am still.”
“And shall you be less miserable to-morrow?” he said, earnestly.
Her colour went and came, and her heart beat so violently, that she
pressed her hand upon it to still its tumult; but when she spoke, her
voice was calm.
“I don’t know--I have not power to think; but I know he loves me, and
it can never be utterly miserable to be loved. And, besides,”--and,
though still calm, her voice sank almost into a whisper, “I shall
make one person happy, and that is something to live for.”
“And do none love you here?--and will your loss make none miserable
here?” and, though the thought of self was far away, his voice
trembled as he spoke.
“None,” she said, and her tears flowed faster, but with more
softness. “I do not say it to excuse myself. I know,--I know well
what I do; but I have been so miserable, that I can bear no more.
I have been so lonely and so desolate--the whole earth is so dark
and so dreary--and no one has thought of my misery, and no one has
comforted me--but one.” The last words were after a pause, and in a
whisper.
The pangs of humiliation and self-reproach struck like daggers into
Ernest’s soul; but for the moment he endeavoured to stifle them, and
to think of her only.
“Your brother,” he said, gently and seriously, “can you think of him,
and speak thus?”
“Reginald!” and a cloud of inexpressible sadness overspread her
countenance. “I am nothing to Reginald now. He is so calm and strong,
he cannot bear to hear of my misery. He bears his pain and sorrow, I
know, I know, like an angel, and not a mortal; but _I_ cannot, and he
despises _me_. I have thought and thought, till I am mad. The past
makes me shudder, and the future--there is no hope--no hope but one.”
She laid her arms upon the table near which she sat, and hid her face
upon them. She seemed almost exhausted with feeling--she was calm and
still.
Ernest sat for a few minutes in deep thought; then, feeling that it
was no moment to shrink from speaking of himself, no time when an
allusion to his own love could be condemned, he moved nearer to the
place where she sat, and began in a low voice:
“I can understand all you say; for I have felt such madness of misery
myself. Perhaps, if I had dared to approach you, you would have
let me share your sorrow,--perhaps, if I had dared to try, I might
have made you less wretched. I have longed--no words can tell you
how I have longed--to come to you and comfort you; but I dared not,
and you know why I dared not.” She made a slight movement, which,
as movements sometimes will, said much; it spoke of gratitude,
and penitence, and self-reproach; or at least he fancied so, and
it encouraged him. “A short time ago,” he went on,--“it is but a
short time, though it seems years of life to me,--I was indulging
(I scarcely knew it then, but own it now) in vain and idle dreams
of happiness beyond my reach. In one moment they were destroyed
for ever; most justly destroyed,--but I did not think so then. My
life became a burden to me, my calling hateful; I looked into the
future, and shuddered at it; and in my madness--I dread to think
of it now--I rebelled against the will of God, and accused him of
dealing hardly with me. And how do you think I was awakened from this
guilty despair? A blow fell on one to whom, as far as we could see,
every gift of God most justly should have been given. It fell on him
in the pride and beauty of his life, when all his health and vigour
he would have used for God who gave them. In one single hour, every
hope he had cherished, every joy he had pictured was torn from his
grasp, and he was laid down amongst us to bear his blighted being
in this life for ever. I make you weep,” he said tenderly, as low
gasping sobs burst from her concealed face; “but should we not think
of this?--should it not shame us,--yes, you and me, to think of _his_
suffering, _his_ dark future, and how _he_ has bowed his head, and
submitted to his lot.” He paused a moment, then left his seat, and
came close to her. “I know you love your brother,” he said; and he
laid his hand gently on her hand, and stooped towards her with his
whole soul of tenderness and compassion in his countenance.
“You know I do,” she repeated, in extreme agitation; “and you must
never let him doubt; you must tell him how I loved him when--when I
cannot do it.”
“That must never be,” Ernest said, very gravely, “while you live. You
must not, cannot leave him. I do not speak to you now of deceiving
your parents, of deserting your home, of leaving it when sorrow is
upon it, though these things you will most bitterly feel; but I ask
you if you can leave _him_?--can you bear to add one drop of misery
to his cup, already so full?--can you bear to think what his wakening
to-morrow will be?--will you ever bear hereafter, when you are far
away, to know that he is suffering--dying,--and that you cannot
comfort him, or be forgiven by him? It might be thus. Oh! think
before it is too late.”
“No, I _cannot_ bear it!” she exclaimed, starting wildly from her
seat. “I thank you, I thank you! No, never shall Reginald have cause
to doubt that I have loved him, that I do love him more than all the
world beside. But how ...”--and her colour faded, and she sat down as
one without strength, torn with varying emotions, and exhausted by
them. “I have _promised_.”
“There are higher promises than this,” Ernest said, seriously.
He waited, hoping she would speak again; but, though she offered no
contradiction to his words, nor appeared inclined to retract her late
declaration, she sat powerless and inactive.
“Will you write?” he asked, at last; “or what will you do? There
should be no delay, for both your sakes. If you would, if you could
trust me to act for you,--you _might_ trust me,--I would do all you
could wish.”
“No, I must write,” she said, and sighed deeply.
He drew some writing things, and placed them before her; then,
feeling that solitude might speak more powerfully than words from
him, he quitted her, simply saying he would return again when her
painful task was accomplished.
He entered the garden, and walked up and down, agitated, fearful
still, and yet most thankful. What, had he found her resolute and
immovable, his duty should have been, he could not bear to think.
Painful,--most painful, most abhorrent it must have been; and he
closed his eyes to shut it from his view.
He re-entered the drawing-room in about a quarter of an hour. She
was sitting as he had left her, in the same attitude of profound
dejection, her head resting on her hands.
“Am I too soon?” he inquired, approaching with a pang of fear.
She did not raise her eyes as she replied to him. “No, it is done--I
hardly know how; but it is enough--he will see.... Oh! Mr. De Grey,
if you see him, tell him not to think hardly of me.”
“He will not think hardly--none could do it. That, believe me, you
have not to fear.”
She put the letter into his hand, still without looking up.
“You had better go--it is getting late. Did I tell you where? My head
is bewildered--I cannot think. You must place it....” She stopped,
and sinking her head lower, while her very neck was dyed with
scarlet; “Oh! how you must despise me!”
“I do not--I do not, indeed,” he said, with earnestness. “Do not
trouble yourself to speak--I will discover him, and be assured I
will do all you can wish. And now,” he continued gently, taking her
passive hand, “God bless you, and may God comfort you; for I know you
are very unhappy.”
“I am,” she cried, bursting into an agony of tears, “and I am so
weak, that I can hardly trust myself to think, and cannot tell if
even now I am doing what is right. Oh! Mr. De Grey, if ever you pray
for the weak-hearted, then think of me.”
“I will, I will,” he said fervently,--and, with one anxious serious
gaze, he hurried away.
It was nearly sun-set, for the days were growing short, and the
interview with Camilla had been a long one. Ernest directed his
steps towards the dell, scarcely expecting to find the object of
his search, yet anticipating little difficulty in discovering his
movements in the course of the evening. On reaching it, however, one
glance revealed that all search might be at an end. In precisely the
same spot in which he had seen both figures the previous day, Frank
Hargrave stood. He was leaning against a tree with folded arms, and
was apparently in deep thought.
At the sound of a footstep on the crisp fallen leaves, he uttered an
exclamation of pleasure, and turned hastily round; and affection, as
well as joy and surprise--Ernest could not deny it--lighted up his
countenance and smiled in his eyes.
Ernest saw him with pain, but the fierce indignation which his
appearance had excited the day before, had died away. It was
Ernest’s nature,--a _fault_ in his nature, because any approach to
that “senseless cant of charity,” which, in pity for the erring,
loses the perception of error, _is_ a fault,--to be too lenient in
his judgments of the errors of others. His whole heart and soul,
indeed, revolted from Frank Hargrave’s conduct, but still, as he had
hurried along, his meditations had been these: if the mere love of
Camilla, the hopeless love, had so caused _him_ to fall from honour
and duty, what must the temptation be to be loved by her?
There was no haughtiness, nor even coldness in his manner, as he
approached to perform his unwelcome task.
The sight of the intruder had quickly changed the expression of Frank
Hargrave’s countenance; he drew back haughtily, and with a movement
as if to bid Ernest pass on.
But he still advanced, and without greeting or apology, said gravely;
“I am sent to you,--this letter will explain wherefore.”
Frank Hargrave held out his hand, and glanced, hastily at the
direction;--it was in trembling, agitated, characters, and without
further study, he guessed at the contents within.
His brow grew black as night.
A short silence followed, during which they stood face to face. A
tumult of varying passions, in which mutual distrust and mutual
dislike held no inconsiderable sway, was expressed on the countenance
of each; but a remembrance of Camilla’s feelings towards him who
stood before him, more, perhaps, at the moment, than any higher
principle, gave Ernest power to subdue the storm that was rising
afresh within him,--and there was compassion and regret in his mind
as he advanced a few steps and opened his lips to speak.
But at the first movement, Frank Hargrave recovered himself, and no
conflict of feelings was expressed in _his_ withering glance, as
drawing himself up to his full height, he bent his head and strode
away.
Unwilling to annoy Camilla by further discussion, or to excite
speculation by a second visit at an unusual hour, Ernest contented
himself with writing a few lines, detailing what had passed, and
returned home.