I _will_ rejoice--I do--though mortal eye
Must still have lookings backward; yet ’tis best.
The holiest verily are the sweetest thoughts.
THE VIRGIN WIDOW.
The week following her brother’s death was passed by Camilla in her
room.
Total exhaustion of body and mind laid her prostrate; and lonely and
dreary as were the sad and silent hours, that exhaustion perhaps
was not unavailing in stilling her first and acutest sufferings.
She was as yet unaccustomed to self-control,--as yet, in great
measure, ignorant how to seek the highest sources of consolation;
and though there were many such in store for her, they failed in
those first hours in carrying comfort to her mind. The companion of
her childhood, the friend of her youth,--him whom she had looked on
as born to carry by storm the world’s applause,--was _dead_! On
earth, he could share her thoughts, bless her eyes, draw upward her
admiring gaze no more. She had pondered much on death,--she had, as
she thought, prepared herself for the separation; but now death in
its reality was come, and not even her dreadest, most fearful dream
had realized what that separation would be. She endeavoured to follow
him,--to picture a meeting in another world; but that world to her
was distant, and awful, and unknown; and she fell back on the dreary
present, not in faithlessness, but in ignorance and in dread.
She left her room, for the first time, on the day of her brother’s
funeral: her intense desire to follow him to the grave overcoming the
exhaustion that had paralyzed her powers. There she stood with her
father!--and there, by that grave, she and Ernest met again.
It had been Reginald’s special request that Ernest should read
the service over his head: and it was done; but at a cost of
suffering,--an agony of self-command,--which it is scarcely good
that man should have to exert. As he consigned “earth to earth, and
dust to dust,” the remains of him whom he had loved with more than
a brother’s love, and saw drooping over the grave the form of her
whose life and happiness were garnered in his heart, he felt as if
the strings of life itself must burst in his effort to be calm. But
it was done, and the cost to him was blessing to others; for the
words of hope and consolation which came so full from his heart were
carried to the hearts of all who heard.
The funeral was early in the morning; on the afternoon of the same
day Ernest proceeded to the Abbey, to visit Camilla. It was no pain
of selfish suspense which carried him to speak of love on such a
day,--it was the desire to set for ever at rest those only thoughts
and hopes which could separate and agitate them. Firm, full, and
clear was the determination in his mind to renounce them _for ever_,
unless she loved him; and by so for ever renouncing, to make his
promise of brotherly care and affection availing. He had seen her
pale cheek, her trembling form, her fixed gaze on Reginald, but he
had seen no eye turn on him,--felt no willing movement in her passive
hand. These things had been scarcely heeded at the time, but they
spoke to him now.
The feelings of his own heart led him to Reginald’s room; and there,
as he hoped, he found Camilla alone. All had been re-arranged,--all
by her desire had been restored, as far as was possible, to the room
of the old time, before the days of sorrow came. She was seated in
the bow-window, her arms leaning on the window-sill,--in her deep
mourning dress, looking so fair, so youthful, so sad, so much in need
of one to love and cherish her, that Ernest’s heart fluttered at the
thought of renouncing his dearer right, and the calm resolution with
which he had armed himself began to give way to an aching agitating
fear.
He softly closed the door, and approached her: “I thought I should
find you here,” he said, gently; “I hoped to find you here.”
She looked up with a faint smile of welcome, but said nothing. She
seemed to have been weeping, for her eyes were heavy and sad,--heavy,
not swollen with tears; but it was over,--there was no agitation now,
she was perfectly calm, strangely still.
“I am come to speak to you,” Ernest said, “to say a very few words.
Will it be painful to you to listen to me to-day?”
“I also wished to speak to you, Mr. De Grey,” she replied.
He gazed at her intently. Her voice was low, but calm,--and no blush,
not the faintest nor the softest, flitted over her cheek. Hope
sank in his heart--hope for himself; but as it sank and died, such
thoughts of her and her happiness arose as made him resolute again.
“It seems a strange place and a strange day,” he began, with a
tremulous voice, and tears shining in his clear eyes, “to speak of
hopes and cares of earth and earthly love; but those hopes are so
bound up with him of whom all around us is full, that it was here I
wished to speak of them once, perhaps only once again.” He paused,
then more agitatedly went on: “You know how once I dared to address
you,--with what vain hopes and presumptuous words,--and you know how
you answered me. They should have been--they were, set at rest, and
never, never should have offended you again, but at his bidding; and
though now at his bidding once again these words are said,--though
once again I confess, that as I loved you then I ever have and
ever shall love you, I do not speak as then I did,--the madness
and selfishness that moved me at that hour is past. I have been
taught--you know how we have both been taught--that our own selfish
desires are not to be the rule and guide of our lives. You must not
fear, therefore, to speak to me as you feel. I do not say,”--and
his voice trembled as he said it,--“that you can cause me no grief;
but there are, there are indeed, other and higher thoughts in my
mind,--and the best and highest, is the hope to be to you in place of
him who has been taken from you. Will you then,” and he took her hand
with grave and earnest tenderness in his, “look on me as a brother,
and a brother only, and speak to me of all that is in your mind?
If, indeed, if it be possible, that you can love me, as he hoped
you might love, then ... but if not, do not fear to speak,--rather
fear to be silent, for even _his_ wish must not mislead us from what
is right. Believe me, it will be best and happiest....” He paused,
thoroughly to weigh the words he was about to say,--then seriously,
even solemnly repeated them: “Yes, _happiest_ even for me to know all
the truth;--there is no happiness where there is not perfect trust;
and those who love as I do must also perfectly be loved.”
She had heard him till then in silence, and as if pondering intently
on what he said; but at the last words she drew her hand away, and,
turning from him in extreme and trembling agitation, exclaimed, “It
can never be! Reginald, even Reginald did not know me as you know. I
am not--you know I am not what I was. I am ...” she paused, unable to
proceed.
In the far distance Ernest saw his fading hopes and vanishing dreams,
and closed his eyes to hide their fading from his sight; but so pure
and perfect was his love for her,--so single and intense his desire
for her happiness, that for an instant only his eyes fell on himself,
and it was with scarcely an effort that he replied to her.
“Think of it no more. You know how little cause I had to hope,
and therefore ...”--the rest was not spoken, but with a hardly
perceptible pause he hastened on. “Your brother’s only wish was
for your happiness,--and that he knew, however obtained, he might
fearlessly intrust to me. Will you trust me as well? Will you
believe?”--and, as he bent anxiously and tenderly towards her, there
was not a shadow of a doubt of his own powers in the calm affection
of his gaze,--“will you believe that henceforward, and _for ever_, I
renounce all such thoughts and hopes as might cause restraint between
us, and that never by word or sign shall they offend you more?”
She had once or twice endeavoured to interrupt him, and now looked up
with so deep a blush, that a sudden hope bounded into Ernest’s heart.
“Oh! Mr. De Grey, don’t say offend--you cannot offend; it was not
that I meant--it was my unworthiness. I have not thought of it as I
should. To you,” and, turning from him, she burst into tears, “to
my dearest brother’s dearest friend I would have given a perfect
love, and such an untainted heart as your wife should bring--but I
cannot, and you know I cannot. You have seen all my sinfulness, all
my wanderings, and what can you do but despise?”
“Camilla,” he said, softly and reproachfully, the first time ever his
lips or even his thoughts had been so bold, as to call her by that
name.
She looked up at him earnestly, anxiously. If his grave words, his
calm manner, and the remembrance of his hesitation, causing her more
deeply to feel her unworthiness to be his wife, had made her almost
doubt his willingness to receive her as such,--she could doubt no
more.
“Can you indeed trust me, as if all the past had never been?”
“As I would have trusted him whom we have lost,” he said, solemnly.
“When I speak of perfect love, and perfect trust, do not think I ask
an impossible thing. Why should we shrink from speaking of the past?
I know that what you have felt you do not feel, and perhaps never may
feel again; but there are better things--perfect confidence and true
affection, no regret for what is gone, and no doubt for the future.
This is all I would ask, Camilla,--dearest--dearer, far dearer than
when first I dared to speak--is there a hope that ever thus you can
learn to love me?”
She raised her streaming eyes, and steadily and unshrinkingly placed
her hand in his; and though no word was said, and no assurance given,
even Ernest’s jealous fears for her happiness were satisfied.