Chapter X

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.