It pleases me to bear what you call pain,
Therefore to me ’tis pleasure. Joy and grief
Are the will’s creatures.
THE SAINT’S TRAGEDY.
Bien que le caractère de son ésprit fût l’enthousiasme, il
ne savait se passioner que pour ce qui n’était plus; ses
espérances mêmes n’était que des souvenirs.--LASCARIS.
Uneventful and apparently unexciting times are not always
uninteresting. It is hoped,--but it is a hope much mixed with
fear,--that they will not be so in this case; for it is necessary
to pass through many months after Ernest’s re-establishment at
Cranleigh, and yet in those months no event took place.
It was a month after the dinner at Clare Abbey, and the day before
Reginald St. Maur’s return to Oxford. Camilla stood at her brother’s
door, fastened, as usual, to prevent intrusion, and petitioned for
admittance. Her voice was a shade less gay than was common; there
was even a touch of sadness in it, and Reginald could not resist her.
He unfastened the door with a smile, but when he had closed it again,
he returned to his seat, and sat down before a large book open on his
writing-table, with an air of pre-occupation and abstraction.
There was character in Reginald’s room; all who had studied his
disposition, saw Reginald in its arrangements. It looked comfortable,
for it looked inhabited, and the windows were all open, and the
air flew in freshly and sunnily; but there was nothing of ease or
luxury,--not so much as a couch or an arm-chair to be seen. The
tables were covered with books,--not light, comfortable-looking
books, but volumes, whose grave and severe exteriors proclaimed
that as little ease was allowed to the mind as to the body. Over
the fireplace hung a long print of Mr. Pitt; and on the marble
slab beneath it stood four small busts,--Frederick, of Prussia;
William the Third, of England; Lord Strafford; and the present
Emperor of Russia. Other prints and busts ornamented different
parts of the room; characters of celebrated men of various ages,
various destinies, various dispositions. But the whole selection,
whatever their variety, were classed together by one unfailing
characteristic--_indomitable will._
Camilla approached her brother, and stood beside him.
“Are you reading Greek, my dear Reginald, all by yourself? How I pity
you! What is the book?”
“Aristotle’s ‘Ethics.’”
“Aristotle must have been a great man to have such a great pupil
as Alexander the Great; but I can’t say these ‘Ethics’ look very
attractive. What dirty pages, and what close bewildering lines! And
have you been sitting here poring over this, instead of going out
this lovely morning? My dear Reginald, I do pity you!”
“Not poring over it much, I am afraid,” he said, with a sigh; “I
should have been, but I have been thinking instead.”
“I am glad of that; for then I don’t mind interrupting you. You know,
Reginald, I wish you to be great, and so when I disturb your reading,
my conscience often troubles me; but thinking never made anybody
great, did it?”
“Not my kind of thinking, at any rate,” Reginald said, and he smiled.
“But is anything the matter, Camilla?--do you want me?”
“I only want to tell you how miserable I am,” she said, sadly, “or
rather, how miserable I shall be to-morrow when you are gone. I have
been so happy, so very happy. My dear Reginald, what _is_ to become
of me now?”
“It will only be for two months, Camilla. Two months are soon over.”
“Soon over when you are at home, I know,--too soon; but when you
are away, the months are years. No, not years, that is not half
enough,--they are centuries. I only wish I once could make you feel
what this place is when you are away! Nobody speaks to me from
morning till night; and the only change is a walk in the tedious
garden, or a drive in the more tedious barouche. I often wish I was a
child again, and had a governess and lessons.”
“It must be dull, I know,” Reginald said, kindly; “but I hope it will
not always be so. And, Camilla, why not be so much of a child again
as to try to learn? You are not so wise but that you might learn
something.”
“I would, if it was of any use; but I cannot see that a woman does
any good by making herself clever. Poor, wretched women! try as they
may, they can do nothing unless they happen to be born queens. I wish
I were a queen.”
Reginald smiled. Arguing with his sister he knew was in vain; and, to
say the truth, her opinion was in a great degree his own also.
“But to return to what I was saying,” she continued; “I am so sorry,
so very sorry, that you are going, and what makes it worse is, that
you are glad to go. Now tell me truly, Reginald; you are not sorry,
are you?”
“I am sorry to leave you, Camilla,” and he put his arm affectionately
round her waist; “you know I am. But in other ways you are right. I
am glad to move; I am glad to think that time is passing, and the
future approaching. Only one more term at Oxford ... and then....”
And a look of intense thought passed over his brow.
“And then ... what?”
“And then ...” and his colour rose, and the shadow of thought
deepened, “the time comes when I must learn whether the dreams I have
dreamed are to be dreams only.”
Camilla watched his countenance for a moment; then drawing a chair
from another part of the room, she sat down opposite to him, resting
her arms upon the table.
“What are your dreams, Reginald?” she asked, with interest in her
tone.
“I hardly know myself”; and he shook his head, with a smile.
“Sometimes they are clear and bright, and I understand them; but
sometimes they are misty and vague, and so they have been to-day.”
“There is one thing I want very much to know, though, perhaps, you
will be angry with me for asking you. But, do you think you shall
ever marry?”
“No,” he replied, rather hastily, “I don’t think I ever shall.”
“I knew very well what you would say, and I don’t think I very much
wonder at you; but I am sorry. I often dream of your wife, Reginald;
I should be so fond of her.”
“Perhaps not,” he said, with a slight smile; “I am afraid she would
be too grave for you.”
“No. If she were grave, it would be a pleasant gravity, like yours;
not severe and disagreeable. But Reginald, I wanted to speak
seriously. Do you know, I really think you ought to marry, for my
sake and yours. For mine especially. I know I am not at all what
you wish me to be; and how can I, when I never have seen a really
nice woman? I cannot wish to be like any woman I ever saw. And then,
besides,--my dull life, you really ought to take compassion upon me.
Sometimes I feel that I shall either do something very wrong, or
else go mad.”
“But, Camilla, you would not wish me to marry this moment, or this
year; and perhaps in a year or two your own position may be changed.
Would not that do as well?”
“You mean, I might marry; but no, Reginald, that would not do at all.
I should be afraid to marry at present, while I am so discontented
and changeable, because how could I tell that I should not be
discontented and changeable afterwards? and that would be horrible.
I am afraid you will be angry with me for saying so, but I want a
little freedom first. I _cannot_ be tied down to anybody just at
present;--and so we come back to your wife. You must marry a wife to
give me freedom, and to give you just that little bit more indulgence
which I think you want. Now tell me, Reginald, is there really no
chance?--have you quite made a vow not to marry?”
“No, indeed, Camilla, that would be a foolish and presumptuous thing
to do at my age. I only feel that I do not wish to marry, and I hope
that I shall never feel otherwise.”
“But have you considered the subject; have you been thinking about
it?”
“I have been thinking a great deal about my future life since Ernest
De Grey came, and the question of marriage did arise among other
questions.”
“Well?” Camilla said, eagerly.
“I have nothing to tell you, Camilla; your curiosity is quite
wasted. Ernest De Grey was speaking one day of his early days, and
his happy home, and somehow the conversation changed, and we spoke
of our future hopes and dreams of happiness; and he drew a picture
of domestic happiness, which I could not but own was bright and
beautiful; and it drove me to consider as I had never considered
before, and to ask myself, as I had never asked before, what the
_reality_ of my future life should be.”
“Well?” Camilla said again.
“Well, Camilla, and I do not think, after serious thought, that such
pictures of happiness, however beautiful, are compatible with my
old, my best, my cherished dreams. No,” he continued, and his colour
deepened, and his voice took a tone of excitement, “they may be
bright, they may be good,--but let them go, they are not for me. I
feel as if a steep path was set before me, and that such thoughts are
but temptations to draw my eyes away. They shall not do it.”
“But, Reginald,” his sister said, thoughtfully, “do you know I
sometimes think your idea of greatness is too dry. I don’t like the
greatness that despises common feelings. I never could care about
Brutus or Cato. What I like is a young hero who can get above himself
for the sake of being great, but who is not cold and dry, and, in
short, a monster. You used to like my favourites, Alexander the
Great, and Charles the Twelfth, and Henry the Fifth, but I am afraid
you scorn them now.”
He shook his head, with a smile, but there was a look of melancholy
and abstraction on his brow.
“What _are_ you thinking of, Reginald?” she said, anxiously.
“Your words make me think, Camilla, for you have spoken all the vague
thoughts that have been drawing me from my duty this morning. I used
to know what I wished; the very thought of greatness made my blood
boil; but now I find myself asking where are the deeds of those who
have left so great a name? and I cannot answer myself.”
“This comes of talking so much to Mr. De Grey,” Camilla said,
impatiently. “I knew how it would be. I dare say he will end by
making you a clergyman; or, if not that, at least as severe as he is
himself.”
“Severe!” exclaimed Reginald, his abstraction vanishing as he looked
with surprise at his sister; “do you call Ernest De Grey severe?”
“Not severe, like a cross old schoolmaster,” she said, laughing.
“I don’t mean that, but I know what I mean. He is full of severe
notions, and fancies, and ideas that I don’t like at all, and I am
very sorry to think that he should put them into your head.”
Reginald made no answer; he was meditating again, and he smoothed the
pages of his book, as if he were preparing to begin his studies.
“Oh! Reginald,” said his sister, drawing it from before him, “no
Greek to-day, pray, pray. See how fine it is! Do let us go out.”
He hesitated for a moment, then closed the book and went to the
window.
“Well, Camilla, it shall be as you please to-day. You shall not think
of me as severe when I am gone.”
“My dear Reginald, _you_ cannot be severe,--_you_ cannot be anything
that displeases me. Even if you were to become a clergyman, I suppose
I should get to like it in time. Don’t try me, though,” she added
quickly and laughingly; “you had better not.”
He looked at her for a moment, and seemed to be on the point of
asking some question of interest, but, apparently, he changed his
intention, for the only observation that was made aloud, was a
desire that she should put on her bonnet and meet, him in the garden.
“And where shall we go to, Reginald?” she inquired as she joined him.
“Shall we go and ask Ernest De Grey to ride with us this afternoon?”
“Always Ernest De Grey!” she said, playfully.
“Do you object to it, Camilla? I will not ask it if you do.”
“Object to it? Oh dear, no. I meant to have proposed it myself; but
you should have left it to me. I shall be jealous if you think of
nothing but Mr. De Grey.”
* * * * *
“What do you suppose to be the amount of Mr. De Grey’s annual income,
mother?” This question was asked by Mr. Hervey, as he sat in the
window of his mother’s little drawing-room, an hour or two later in
the same day.
“None know better than yourself, Edward; five hundred a year, or
little more; and one hundred pounds of that he gives to you.”
“I was speaking of his private income, mother.”
“There’s not much of that, Edward, if all tales be true. I suppose
you’re wondering, like the rest of them, where his charities are to
come from? It’s a pity, to be sure, that he should encourage the
idle; but they say he has not the heart to refuse if any come in his
mother’s name; and he’ll be wiser in time. For my part, I like to see
him talking so pleasantly to the poor: what is it the poet says--‘a
heart open as day to melting charity.’”
“No, mother, I was only wondering if such a marriage would be
acceptable to Lord and Lady Vere.”
“What marriage, Edward?” and Mrs. Hervey took off her spectacles to
listen.
“Miss St. Maur and Mr. De Grey, mother. They say that must be the end
of it, before long.”
“No, no, Edward! no thought of that.”
“I don’t know, mother; young St. Maur is never satisfied unless Mr.
De Grey is with him, and Miss St. Maur is always with her brother.
It is a dangerous position, to say the least.”
“And why dangerous, Edward? If it should be so, I should say there
was a Providence in it. But I doubt it--I doubt it! there’s no love
there.”
“Come here, mother, and look at them!” exclaimed Mr. Hervey, pulling
the blind a little aside, as the three passed along the road
together. “What do you say now? see how Miss St. Maur leans across
her brother to talk to Mr. De Grey! and see how he watches her
countenance!”
Mrs. Hervey joined her son at the window, and put on her spectacles
again to examine the group. “Well, Edward,” she said, when she had
followed them till they were out of sight, “I believe you are right,
as far as Mr. De Grey is concerned. He seems to worship the very
ground she treads on; and no wonder, sweet, sprightly creature as she
is! But it’s all on his side: there’s no care or heartache in her
young face.”
“What do you take to be the exact symptoms of love, mother?”
inquired Mr. Hervey.
“Nothing so frank and free as that young lady is, Edward; no, no!
depend upon it there’s no love there. Mr. De Grey is another thing.
Poor young man!--and is he to be disappointed again? What a world it
is!” and she shook her head, and sat down again to her work.
Such was Mrs. Hervey’s judgment of the effects of the intimacy
between Camilla and Ernest De Grey.
* * * * *
A windy night, which had disturbed some slates on the roof of
Cranleigh Church, had revived in Ernest’s mind his old project of
improvement and restoration; and when sought for on this morning by
his two young companions, he was found seated on a bank opposite the
church with drawing materials about him.
Camilla approached him with her usual careless frankness and winning
cordiality. “What a very, very long time it takes to discover
people’s merits,” she said. “We have known you now for nearly two
months, and we have never found out that you were an artist.”
“My merits lie so deep, that it takes time to discover them,” Ernest
replied, laughing; “and none lie deeper than my merits as an artist.”
“That is for us to decide. I should like to see your drawing; may I
look at it?”
“I was doing it for you to see,” he said, as he put it into her hand.
“I was trying to express upon paper some ideas I have about the
church. Don’t you think it a very pretty church?”
“Is it pretty?--yes, I suppose it is; but I never thought so before.
I don’t think I easily find out beauties in things I see every day;
but I do think your drawing pretty, very pretty! Look, Reginald, are
not these windows prettily done? I think you are much too humble, Mr.
De Grey: I call this very artist-like, and it makes me wish I could
draw.”
“I am afraid an artist would say otherwise; but I am quite satisfied
with your good opinion. Though I was doing it for you and your
brother, however, it was not for the sake of your admiration: I
wished to interest you in a plan which once, long ago, occupied much
of my thoughts. Perhaps you have not thought about it; but if you do
think, you will see how spoiled the church is, inside and out, by the
strange additions that have been made to it. And I have discovered,
since I have been here, that partly from these very additions, and
partly from increase of population, the church is much too small.
There is now neither room nor beauty; but in this way,”--and he
pointed to his drawing--“with these few alterations, the beauty might
be restored, and sufficient room would be given. Do you think you
understand my plan?”
Camilla had listened to him civilly, but indifferently, and now,
shaking her head, said, “No, nor ever should; plans always make my
head ache. But it does not matter, for I know nothing about such
things. You had much better talk to Reginald; and that you may talk
in peace, I will go on to Mrs. Pope’s, and buy a bit of ribbon
for my bonnet.” She was turning away, but suddenly stopped. “Are
you disappointed?” she said kindly, struck by a look in Ernest’s
countenance.
“A little,” he replied, with a smile.
“Then I am sure I will stay, if you like. But you know I don’t
naturally care about such things. I should only be a hypocrite if I
pretended I did.”
“But you will, will you not? If you don’t care about the beauty,
don’t you think it might be right to feel regret that so many of the
poor people are shut out?”
“Right--O yes! I dare say it is right. I only mean to say that I
don’t care naturally; and besides,” she added with a half smile and
a half sigh, “I had better say the truth,--I don’t think I very much
wish to care. Such thoughts only make people look grave, as you and
Reginald do. But never mind me now; talk to Reginald, and I will
listen, and understand if I can.” She seated herself upon the bank as
she spoke.
With an effort Ernest endeavoured to arouse his flagging interest,
and turned to Reginald with his plan; but he was doomed again to
disappointment, not this time from indifference, but from want
of harmony in opinion. Among those minds which rise above the
average mediocrity, two extremes are often to be found,--those who
find _perfection_ in the past, and those who seek _perfection_ in
the future. A perfect character is formed from the union of the
two; for however contrary their apparent tendencies may be, each
standing alone ends in narrowness and prejudice, inconsideration,
and want of sympathy. No circumstances or discussions are too small
to prevent the collision of such opposite dispositions, and a
student of character might have been amused at the growing warmth
of the argument that followed, the shudder with which Ernest heard
Reginald’s sweeping denunciations of the old edifice, and the
scorn with which Reginald turned from Ernest’s lowly and simple
propositions. _To restore_ this was Ernest’s only desire, and by
restoration to beautify. Before Reginald’s eyes, with the first
mention of the plan, a fair and noble structure began to rise, which
made the suggestions of his companion appear mean and low.
Camilla, rather amused than interested, listened with a smile; at
last she rose from her seat, and put an end to the discussion.
“It is no use for you to talk any more, you never will agree. Poor
Reginald cannot like anything that is not perfect; and as to you, Mr.
De Grey, though you talk of improvement, it seems to me that you are
unwilling to part even with the faults.”
“Have I been very obstinate?” Ernest said, colouring slightly, as
the consciousness came that he had been so. “I am afraid I have; but
I don’t think you can have any idea of what I feel about this old
church. Perhaps it is foolish; but I don’t think any degree of beauty
would repay me for the loss of its present self.”
“I dare say I am too fastidious,” Reginald said, thoughtfully; “give
me the plan, Ernest, and I will think about it; and when I have
thought, I suppose other considerations should come.” But when he
took the plan, it was evidently without interest.
“I hope you forgive me for my obstinacy?” Ernest inquired, with a
smile.
“You need not say that, Mr. De Grey; Reginald likes people to be
obstinate, in which I agree with him. I think people who have no
opinions of their own are worth just nothing. But, now, if we have
done with our grave conversations, will you come with me to buy my
ribbon? I must have it this morning, for this will be my last walk to
Cranleigh for weeks and weeks to come.”
They set off together to the little shop of the Cranleigh milliner,
passing Mrs. Hervey’s windows as they went. Camilla’s remark had cast
a shade upon Ernest’s brow.
“You are very thoughtful to-day, Mr. De Grey,” she remarked, after
they had walked a little way in silence. “I am afraid you are still
grieving over the poor old church.”
“No, indeed!” and he shook his head. “I had forgotten it. If I was
thoughtful, I was thinking of what you said; and I am afraid I was
wishing that there was no such place as Oxford in the world.”
“So do I,” she said, bending eagerly across her brother, “with all my
heart; and I am very glad to find that I am not the only person who
can indulge in foolish wishes. Now, I suppose,” laughing a little,
“that, as usual, I have said something rather uncivil; but, I assure
you, _I_ do not think the wishes foolish, and that I hope will excuse
me.”
This was the moment when Mrs. Hervey fitted the spectacles on her
nose, preparatory for her look of intense observation.
They reached the little shop, and stood before the gay window.
“Which shall I have?” Camilla said, inspecting the ribbons hanging
tastefully and temptingly before her. “I am not bent on any one in
particular; I wish somebody would choose for me. What colour do you
like best, Mr. De Grey?”
“Blue,” he said, without hesitation.
“You _are_ decided indeed; that comes, I suppose, from being so
obstinate. I wish I could make up my mind as quickly; but I only
know that I don’t like blue. What shall I have, Reginald?--what do
you advise?”
“Blue,” he said, smiling.
“I know you don’t like blue; I believe you only say it out of
compliment to Mr. De Grey; and as I don’t want to pay any compliments
to anybody, I shall not take your advice. I think I shall have that
pretty sober brown; will you wait for me? I will not be a moment.”
And she went into the shop.
“Will you ride with us this afternoon, Ernest?” Reginald inquired,
when they were left alone.
“I should like it.” Ernest paused, with a little hesitation; then
added, “But would your sister wish it this last day?”
“And is my sister only to be considered?” Reginald observed, with one
of his slight, grave, meaning smiles. “If it gives _me_ pleasure to
have you with us, may I not say so?”
“Thank you a thousand times, now and always,” Ernest said, warmly;
“but I think it is but natural to suppose that your sister would
prefer to have you all to herself to-day.”
“We will ask her. Camilla,” and he laid his hand on her arm as she
left the shop, “Ernest De Grey has scruples about accepting my
invitation, and on your account. He thinks,” and he smiled as he
spoke, “that you will wish to keep the enjoyment of my society all to
yourself.”
“Oh! Mr. De Grey,” she said, going towards him with her sweet cordial
manner, and raising her lovely face to his, “how very good-natured
you are to think of me! but I assure you, Reginald will break his
heart if you refuse, and _I_ like whatever _he_ likes; and if that
is not quite civil enough,” she continued, one of the faint, swift
blushes that were perpetually coming and going, flitting over her
cheek, “I like you to come myself.”
“Then I will say no more, except to thank you,” and his looks
thanked her very earnestly, “and hurry away now, that I may be
conscientiously at liberty afterwards.”
“You must just stay to see my ribbon,” she said, laughingly, as
he was turning away. “You see I have bought the blue, after all;
and, unless I tell you the reason why, you may perhaps take it as
a compliment when you see it on my bonnet. But the reason is, that
there was not enough of the brown, and that all the others looked too
ugly when I saw them near.”
He smiled, and shook his head to disclaim most sincerely the
expectation of a compliment, and thoughtfully hastened away to his
daily attendance at the village school; but, while his lips, eyes,
and ears were engaged with his little scholars, the spirit which
should have animated those outward organs was gazing on another
sight, and hanging on other words, and framing far other sounds.
And this was now his constant state of mind, and the danger that
assailed him was a danger greater than the danger of disappointed
affection, in so far as the fear of a failure in duty is greater than
the fear of a loss of happiness.
Ernest had arrived at Cranleigh with a very solemn sense of
responsibility, and a very sincere desire to do his utmost for the
temporal and eternal welfare of his parishioners. That _utmost_ which
he set before him was, no doubt, open to criticism,--his standard
of right was not sufficiently high, his idea of his duties not
sufficiently enlarged; but still, in all sincerity, that which he
_saw_ to be his duty he determined to perform. Before the idea of
sincerity duties are ever opening; and the sense of responsibility,
once thoroughly admitted, is a sense that cannot be satisfied. So,
had nothing intervened between him and his serious thoughts, it is
probable that his mind would have shortly opened to higher desires
and holier purposes. But almost before he had thoroughly considered
what his new duties were--before he could fully realise the
conviction that some hundreds of human beings were hanging on him, on
his words, and his example for warning, instruction, and comfort, he
fell into such a sweet, bright dream of bliss, as bore him away from
the present, and steeped his senses in Elysium.
It is not good that a new state of life should be begun in
excitement. When the habits are formed, the map of life well
laid out, a temporary excitement has its advantages, for it
tends to stir up the sluggishness, and disperse the clouds of
selfishness,--temptations too apt to intrude on regular habits and
a quiet life; but to enter on a new existence, to learn new duties,
to undertake new responsibilities, while the mind is diverted by
turmoil, and half-dissipated in excitement, is destructive not only
to the happiness of the life so begun, but often to the minds of
those who thus begin it. And thus it was that Ernest’s new life
began:--his first two months at Cranleigh were passed as one long
summer day.
The danger is, of course, greater when the temptation comes in the
form of good, when the excitement appears to be of a high and useful
kind; and this, too, added to Ernest’s peril. Had it been Camilla’s
society only which so powerfully attracted him, he would have been
on his guard. His mind was so true, his sense of duty so simple and
sincere, that no enchantment of her presence could possibly have
deceived him as to the waste of time and thought into which she
beguiled him; but the attraction of Reginald’s society was, in its
kind, as great as Camilla’s, and that there could be aught but good
in yielding to the influence of him whose lofty dreams made the cares
and simple duties of life look poor,--this was a danger which even a
mind more meditative and experienced than Ernest’s might have failed
to discover.
So he yielded himself, without thought or fear of evil, to a
new-born happiness,--to the sweet companionship which touched his
heart, and kindled his fancy, and awoke the loftiest feelings of
his nature. So happily the days went by,--thoughtlessly, yet too
full of thought,--joyful, yet with a joy so full, that it was almost
unfelt,--ennobled with visions of ideal virtue and heroism,--which
yet were but dreams.