In joyous youth, what soul has never known
Thought, feeling, taste, harmonious to its own?
Who hath not paused while beauty’s pensive eye
Ask’d from his heart the homage of a sigh?
Who hath not own’d with rapture-smitten frame,
The power of grace, the magic of a name?
THE PLEASURES OF HOPE.
“My love,” said Lady Vere, addressing her husband, who came one
afternoon into the drawing-room, to look for a book, “Reginald wishes
his new friend, Mr. De Grey, to dine here.”
“As Reginald pleases,” replied Lord Vere, coldly.
“Very well, then, my love, shall he come to-morrow?”
“As you please,” he replied again, and taking up his book, was
leaving the room. At the door, however, he turned round, and after
a moment’s thought, observed; “As you have the rector, you may as
well have the curate and his mother too; they have been due these six
months.”
“Very true, my love. Reginald shall write a note for me;” and she
sank back on the sofa, and reposed till her son appeared.
“Reginald,” she then said, “I want you to write a note for me; you
must begin, ‘Dear Mrs. Hervey,’ and end--I forget how I end--Camilla
will know. Ring the bell, if you please.”
“What am I to say, mother?” Reginald asked, sitting down at the
writing-table.
“I thought I told you; your father says they are to dine here as well
as Mr. De Grey,--‘Dear Mrs. Hervey, will you dine with us to-morrow,
and your son?’--you know about the hour;” and she closed her eyes, as
if after the exertion of explanation.
Reginald looked excessively annoyed at his mother’s communication;
but he made no remark upon it.
“Camilla,” Lady Vere began again, opening her eyes as her daughter
entered, “how do I end to Mrs. Hervey?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, mamma,” Camilla said carelessly. Meeting her
brother’s eye, she added, laughing, “I should think, ‘yours truly’
would do.”
“Yes, that was it, Reginald,” remarked Lady Vere in a satisfied tone;
‘yours truly, Florinda Vere.’”
“It would be a good deal too much for me,” Camilla observed, seating
herself by her brother; “not that I dislike that poor old woman,
either. Dining here! my dear, Reginald, are they going to dine here?
that Mr. Hervey; _you_ must talk to him--I can’t; he is quite beyond
my patience.”
“I will talk, Camilla, since he must come.”
“I really do pity the poor man,” she continued; “it must be
unpleasant to be such a bore. It is quite impossible that anybody
ever did, or ever could, like him; and that seems a hard fate.”
“His poor mother seems to like him,” observed Lady Vere.
“His mother? yes, it would be hard indeed if she didn’t like him; but
that must be all. His sisters can’t--I shouldn’t like you the least,
Reginald, if you were like Mr. Hervey. It is a thing that often
puzzles me; you now, my dear Reginald, who know everything, will
you tell me what Mr. Hervey was made for? I am sure the world could
manage to get on without him.”
“Everybody has their place,” said Reginald smiling; “and dull as you
think Mr. Hervey, I dare say there are some things which he can do
better than you.”
“Dull as _I_ think him? now, my dear Reginald, I will not have all
the blame put upon my shoulders. I am sure I say many more words to
Mr. Hervey than you do; _I_ am very civil and say a great many pretty
things about the weather when we meet him--you, just say, ‘Good
morning, Mr. Hervey,’ and bow as stately as a king.”
“I don’t want to have Mr. Hervey for a friend or companion--he does
not suit me; but I rather respect him, Camilla, than otherwise. He
does well what he has to do, and seems contented and satisfied in
what I should think a dull and tedious life.”
“I am not sure that I particularly admire contentment,” Camilla said,
laughing, “but what are you writing now, Reginald? Mr. De Grey--is he
to dine here too? oh! well, that is something better; mamma will talk
to Mrs., you to Mr. Hervey, and I will have Mr. De Grey.”
“What will you wear, Camilla?” asked her mother.
“Really, mamma, I have not thought.”
“I think I shall wear my primrose silk, with pinked flounces.”
“With _pink_ flounces!” exclaimed Reginald, with an expression of
astonishment and disgust.
“Yes,” said his mother, raising herself on the sofa, pleased at his
appearance of interest; “six pinked flounces; it came from Madame
Elise.”
Camilla, laughing, would not explain; and Reginald, after a look of
wonder, but unwilling to offend his mother by a further expression
of dissatisfaction at a dress with which she was evidently so well
pleased, sealed his letters and left the room.
The presence of Mr. Hervey, at the dinner-party at Clare Abbey, was
rather an assistance than otherwise, especially after the ladies had
left the dining-room; indeed if he had not been there, it seemed
probable that total silence would have ensued. Reginald had little
of what is called “small talk”--as minds absorbed in subjects of
little interest to those about them rarely have; Ernest, though
more conversable and with many more feelings of general sympathy,
was naturally unpresuming, required to be drawn out; and was, above
all, extremely averse (no uncommon aversion) to being snubbed.
Having therefore been three times snubbed by Lord Vere, he felt
little inclined to make a further trial of his or of Lord Vere’s
forbearance. But Mr. Hervey, either more used to Lord Vere’s manner,
or less conscious of that which he had long been in the habit of
receiving from the world in general--or all such lower feelings
being overcome by his desire for information on several points
connected with the dining-room, talked placidly on, well satisfied if
the desired information was gained. He wished to know the date of the
building of the dining-room, which was evidently a modern addition to
the house; the relative sizes of the drawing-room and dining-room,
and the names of the grim-looking De Greys, who still hung in large
oak frames against the walls of the apartment. As these subjects may
not be of universal interest, we will pass them by, and follow the
party into the drawing-room.
Lady Vere was, as usual, half-reclining, supported by cushions on the
sofa; her primrose silk with pinked flounces, was extremely becoming
to her fair fresh complexion and beautiful dark hair; and a stranger
would have gazed at the young mother of her tall handsome son, with
surprise and admiration. She was covered with lace, and her arms
and fingers were bright with jewels--altogether forming a strange
contrast to the homely Mrs. Hervey, who, in a black gown and close
white cap, sat by her side on the sofa. Lady Vere was perfectly
happy; she never wanted conversation or amusement--but when it came
to her, particularly in the form of narrative, which saved her the
trouble of answers or comments, it was agreeable to her, and she sat
listening to Mrs. Hervey’s anecdotes of persons whose very existence
was unknown to her, with a complacent smile.
At a little distance, Camilla was engaged in copying music. She
was fond of dress in her way, but her mother had never succeeded
in inspiring her with a love of finery. Nothing could be prettier
or simpler than her toilette this evening,--nothing more graceful
and interesting than her appearance, as she sat stooping over her
music-book, her long bright curls carelessly streaming over her white
shoulders, or resting on her beautifully-formed hand and arm.
She raised her head, and watched with a mingled expression of
amusement and interest the arrangement of the party. Mr. Hervey drew
near--down went her head, and with singular care and attention she
copied a few bars of her song. She had had him at dinner,--and endure
him longer, she could not, and would not; besides, she had arranged
it otherwise,--she wished to make more acquaintance with Mr. De Grey.
He passed her by, and went to Lady Vere; whose complacent smile was
more inviting. Camilla’s attention to her music then slackened; and
looking up, she observed her father take up a newspaper and seat
himself for the evening, and Reginald and Ernest place themselves
by the fire and enter into conversation. The conversation continued
for some little time--no apparent recollection of her presence; she
watched them for a few minutes, then shaking back her curls with a
slight impatient petulant movement, she devoted herself again to
her song. Though not by nature a student of the thoughts of others,
Reginald always saw, and was indulgent to the feelings of his
sister--and she had only written one or two bars before he and Ernest
stood beside her.
“Mr. De Grey is fond of music, Camilla,” he said, laying his hand
upon her shoulder; “will you play?”
She looked up with a start. “Are you in a hurry, Reginald? If not, I
would rather finish this song, which I have been trying to finish for
three days.”
“Not at all,” he said, with a smile. Then turning away, went to
relieve his mother, who was yawning under the exertion of answering
Mr. Hervey’s questions. After a moment’s consideration, Ernest sat
down on a chair which stood near them.
Camilla wrote a few words; then rested. “Are you really fond of
music, Mr. De Grey, or do you only say so?”
“I _really_ am,” he replied, laughing; “I always say what I think.
But then I only am fond of it. I don’t understand it at all, and I
very, very seldom hear it.”
“Why don’t you hear it, if you are fond of it?--that must be your
fault.”
“Perhaps it is; but it does not seem to come in my way; especially of
late years.”
“But everybody plays and sings--all _young ladies_--as I suppose you
call them, at least.”
“Do they?--I dare say they do; but my acquaintance with young ladies
is very small. I know very few people of any kind,--and among these
few, only three or four young ladies. Some of them sing and play as
you say; and perhaps they all do, but I really don’t remember.”
“Why, Mr. De Grey,” and she put down her pen and looked at him, “I
begin to think that you must be almost as stupid as myself.”
He laughed.
“I don’t know why you laugh,” she continued with a kind of sigh,
“it does not seem to me a laughing matter. It is a great evil to be
stupid; nobody should be so if they can help it; and a man _can_ help
it.”
“Do you think a man can do everything, he pleases?” Ernest inquired,
smiling.
“If not absolutely everything, _almost_ everything. He must be, at
any rate, perfectly independent, and able to go where he pleases, at
any moment he pleases. See how different to my case. If you were to
wish as I do, to go to London, or to the sea-side, or to see some
of the beautiful Scotch lakes and mountains Walter Scott describes,
you could set off to-morrow morning without any fuss, quite by
yourself,--whereas I can only wish and wish and wish, as I have done
all my life, and I dare say always shall. Oh! no, a man is a very
enviable being, and I never pity a man for anything.”
“But a man must submit to circumstances, in the same way that you are
forced to submit. Ever since I was ordained, and that is nearly three
years ago, I have been a country clergyman in a very quiet village.
If I had wished to move, I could not have moved, and if I had wished
for society, I could have had very little except the society of the
poor.”
Again she put down her pen and looked at him--this time with a look
of profound pity. “Is this really true? Well then, I am sorry for
you, though you are a man.”
“Don’t suppose that I am complaining of my life,” Ernest said with
some anxiety; “I was very far from meaning to do that--I only wished
to apologize for my stupidity.”
“But do you like your life?--do you never wish for anything else?”
She waited, determined to have an answer.
“If I wish for anything,” he replied after a moment’s thought, “it
is not for what is generally called society; I don’t much care about
that. In former days, I wished for adventures, and excitements,
battles, and shipwrecks, and desert islands; and though I hope some
of my wishes are a little wiser now, still I think something of those
old tastes remain.” She looked at him so eagerly and approvingly,
that almost involuntarily he continued--“My first wish was to be
a great general, a great conqueror, and I used to dream about it
so much, that when I was told it could not be, I made myself very
miserable. Then I used to think, that if I was not allowed to be
great in a regular way, I should be satisfied to be a pirate, or a
highwayman; and yet,” he added with a smile, “after all my dreams, I
find myself a quiet country clergyman.”
“Oh! how exactly like me,” Camilla exclaimed, laughing; “I never
expected to hear anybody express just what I feel.”
“Have you a great ambition to be a highwayman?” Ernest inquired
playfully.
“You are laughing at me, which is very unfair when you are as bad
yourself. But really I often have thought, that if I could be nothing
else great or exciting, I should be a pirate. You don’t know how dull
it is here when Reginald is away--nobody can have any idea of it;
so when I walk by myself, I amuse myself with wishing and fancying.
First, I wish to be Henry the Fifth, or Montrose, or Bonaparte,--but
that is quite useless! so then sometimes I wish to be Joan of Arc, or
Queen Elizabeth, or even our own quiet Queen! And that is almost as
useless, isn’t it?” she added, laughing.
“Camilla! Mrs. Hervey, says she would like to hear you play,” broke
in her mother’s drawling voice.
“Directly, mamma, only one or two bars more. Now, Mr. De Grey, it
is your fault that I have been so long--why did you talk of such
exciting things?”
When the song was finished, she went to the pianoforte and began to
play. She played well, with both taste and execution; but Ernest, in
common with a large part of the world, preferred singing to playing,
and was disappointed. As she finished one piece of music, and was
looking for another, he asked her if she ever sang.
“Do you like singing better than playing?” she looked up and
inquired. Seeing he hesitated. “You need not mind saying so, for I do
sing as well as play in a sort of way.”
“Well then, I do like it best.”
“I am glad, for I like it best myself, and I sing a good deal when I
am alone; but I never thought you would like singing best.”
“Why?” Ernest inquired with surprise.
“Because Reginald does not. He is really fond of music, and
understands it; and sometimes he makes me play to him for hours
together, while he sits there in the window thinking; but he never
likes me to sing to him. He says my songs disturb him--and you are
rather like Reginald, I think.”
Ernest shook his head with a faint blush of humiliation at the bare
idea. “I am afraid that is not true. I wish it was; except,” he
added more lightly, “on this one point; I am sure I should like your
singing.”
“I only sing common English things,” Camilla said; “I can’t manage
fine music at all.” She took down a few songs from a music-stand, and
as she looked them over continued, blushing slightly as she spoke, “I
must tell you the reason why, Reginald does not like my songs. If I
could find Odes to Mr. Pitt or Mr. Canning, or if I could sing fine
sacred music, I dare say he would like it very well; but my songs
are chiefly what are called love-songs, and he says they are nothing
but trash. Now perhaps you will change your mind, and object to my
singing as he does?”
“I don’t see why love-songs should necessarily be trash,” Ernest
said, glancing at one or two that lay before him. “Some are so,
certainly; but I have sometimes heard such pretty ones, that I
should very much like to hear them again.”
“Well, then, I will sing you one. I like them myself. You know it
depends a good deal on people’s feelings. Reginald thinks them
trash, in the same way as he thinks most novels are trash, because
his mind does not turn on such follies as love at all. Not that _I_
am sentimental either,” she continued, looking up with a fearless
smile, “quite the contrary; and I often wonder why it is I like them.
I don’t the least care about such things in general; but people
are inconsistent. I don’t know the reason why, but I do like these
songs; and the more melancholy they are, the better I like them. Here
is one, however, that is not melancholy: I must not begin with a
melancholy one. This is from a gentleman to a lady; and afterwards,”
she added, laughingly, “I will sing you a very melancholy one from a
poor forsaken lady to a gentleman.”
She sang a verse or two from one of the simplest and prettiest of
love-songs:
“Oh! if thou wert my own love,
How I would cherish thee;
Thine image, in my heart of hearts,
Its talisman should be.
And joys that now ideal seem
Should make my life one sunny dream.
“Oh! if thou wert my own love,
I could not fail to prove,
From thy sweet converse day by day,
More worthy of thy love.
And I would live for thee alone,
Beloved, if thou wert mine own.”
Her voice was not a powerful one; but it was sweet and bird-like,
with some pretty low tones, and her heart was in her voice.
Better--that is, more critical--judges than Ernest would have been
pleased with her singing. That he _was_ pleased might be gathered
from the kind of musing attention with which he listened; but when
she ceased he said nothing.
She waited for a few moments, playing the last bars carelessly over.
As he did not speak even then, she said, a little impatiently,
“Do you dislike the song, Mr. De Grey?”
He started from his reverie. “Dislike! I am only sorry that it is so
soon over.”
“I am glad you like it. But, now, you must like this one still
better,--at least, I like it better myself. It is one of Mrs.
Arkwright’s, and I fancy such a melancholy story in it.”
“And will she love thee as well as I?
Will she do for thee what I have done?
See all the pomps of the world pass by,
And look only to thee, beloved one.”
Her changeful countenance became sad and subdued as she sang, but not
less lovely; and when this was done, Ernest asked for another, and
still another; and, seating himself at a little distance, he seemed
to abandon himself to such thoughts and feelings as the music excited.
His enjoyment (for though he felt rather sad than otherwise,
enjoyment it was) was interrupted by Reginald.
“My dear Camilla,” he said, as he approached her, in a slight tone of
remonstrance, “what are you singing?”
“Mr. De Grey likes these songs,” she said, in explanation. Turning
to him with an appealing, animated countenance. “I did not force my
trash upon you, did I?”
He smiled his answer as he stood by the pianoforte.
“I will have you speak,” she exclaimed, “or Reginald will hardly
believe me. You _must_ tell him you like the songs.”
“I really do, very much,” he said, emphatically.
“Then, I suppose, I must not call them trash any more,” Reginald
remarked, with a glance at Ernest; “but I confess, if I do not call
them so, it will be difficult to me not to think them so.”
Mr. Hervey at this moment approached, and seized on Camilla to make
a few inquiries concerning her songs, and music in general; and,
although he was perfectly aware that she could not have done so, to
ascertain whether or not she had been fortunate enough to hear Jenny
Lind.
Ernest turned to Reginald, and said,--“These songs are the expression
of very common feelings, and very common events in life; and the
expression appears to me to be, for the most part, very simple and
very natural. Why, then, should they be called trash? Have you no
sympathy with such feelings as these?”
“I hardly know,” he said. “I have not thought much upon the subject.
But are you quite right in saying that these songs express _natural_
feeling? It appears otherwise to me. Take this one, for instance and,
turning over a song, he read the following lines:
‘Hopes that now beguiling leave me,
Joys that lie in slumber cold;
All would wake, if thou couldst give me
One dear smile like those of old.’
“Is this natural?--Is it not forced and exaggerated?”
Ernest shook his head with a slight, thoughtful smile.
“I don’t know what you will think of me, if I say so; but I must
confess I _can_ quite conceive the state of mind under which such
words and feelings would be perfectly natural.”
“I see we are very different, Mr. De Grey,” Reginald said,
contemplating his companion with a look of some curiosity.
“Have you among your songs, Miss St. Maur, an extremely pretty song,
called ‘We may be happy yet?’ inquired Mr. Hervey; but before he
could be satisfied on the point, Lady Vere called her daughter.
“Camilla, Mrs. Hervey wants to go,” she said, making her
communication as concisely as possible.
“Pray, don’t let me disturb you, Miss St. Maur,” said Mrs. Hervey;
“but it’s past half-past ten o’clock, and our Jane will hardly be
able to keep her eyes open.”
Lord Vere had lent his coach for the accommodation of Mrs. Hervey,
and a few minutes afterwards Ernest found himself seated by her side,
and hearing, though he scarcely listened to, the remarks of his
uncongenial companions on the party they had left.
“How wonderfully well Lady Vere has worn,” said Mr. Hervey. “I should
hardly suppose her to be above six-and-twenty.”
“And she must be as near to forty as I am to seventy, Edward, and
that is but a few months. How the time runs away! It seems but a day
since I was down at Mr. Hargrave’s at the Woods.”
“Nothing can be more pleasing than Lady Vere’s manners when she
exerts herself. I am sorry, mother, that you don’t see more of her.”
“It’s as well as it is, Edward. Lady Vere is too fine for me, and I
am too homely for her. She smiles very sweetly when I speak; but,
somehow, I don’t fancy that she understands or cares for what I say.
It’s very well for once and away, and I’m sure I feel obliged to Lord
and Lady Vere for asking us; but, as to conversation, I would as soon
talk to our Jane;” and she slightly yawned as she spoke.
“I think young St. Maur improves,” continued her son. “He was
exceedingly civil to-night, and I begin to think we shall get on
better. Mr. St. Maur has many good points; don’t you think so, Mr. De
Grey?”
“He has indeed many,” Ernest said, as quietly as he could.
“There is more in him than in his sister; though, perhaps, her
manners are the most generally pleasing of the two. Young St. Maur
will, I have no doubt, make a figure in the world. What his sister
will be, I am afraid, is doubtful. We had more conversation to-day
at dinner than I ever remember to have had before, and I confess I
was a little startled at her sentiments. She appears to be rather
thoughtless on some important points. Did you find her agreeable, Mr.
De Grey?”
“Very,” he said calmly, though he felt much inclined to toss his
curate out of the carriage window.
“I inquired what she thought of your sermon on Sunday morning, and
she made me rather a singular answer. She said that she had liked
it, and had listened to it for once and away; but that she could not
say she liked sermons in general. And I am much afraid she spoke the
truth; for I have often observed her careless way at church.”
“Oh! Edward, don’t be severe,” said his mother. “To my mind, she is
as sweet a young lady as ever I saw. And how like a young bird’s
her voice is! I only know it’s well I’m not a young man like you and
Mr. De Grey; for I should be half beside myself if she smiled upon
me.” She paused, then added, with a sigh, “I don’t know how it is,
but that likeness runs strangely in my head. While she was singing
to-night, she looked the very picture of sweet Amy Mills. I mentioned
Amy Mills to you, didn’t I, Mr. De Grey? It’s a sad thing to think
that death or sorrow must blight those bright young creatures, but
so it is; and yet, perhaps, we should not grieve. Sorrow has brought
many a wandering sheep back to the fold. Well, Mr. De Grey, your
house stands first--here we are. Good night.”