Chapter XII

In easier hours it may be I had cause,
This time or that, to wish thy boldness less:
Though trusting still that time, which tempers all,
Would bring thee soberer thoughts and tame thy heart.
What time to tardy consummation brings,
Calamity most like a frosty night,
That ripeneth the grain,--completes at once.
PHILIP VON ARTEVELDE.

Four months glided slowly and sadly by. The dreary winter passed, and gleams of spring began to appear.

On one of those fine spring-like, almost summer-like days which occasionally astonish our minds in the month of February, in spite of warnings and yearly disappointments, exciting hopes that winter is at an end, and the joys of summer at hand, Ernest De Grey, animated by the softness of the air, set off to pay a long-delayed visit to a house at a distance of several miles from Cranleigh.

The beauty of the day appeared to have drawn together a number of other visitors; for on entering the drawing-room, Ernest was bewildered by the sight of many heads, and the sound of many tongues; and finding his hostess too much engaged to need his attentions, he withdrew, nothing loth, and seated himself near a window.

On looking about him and attempting to penetrate the crowd, he perceived that Mrs. and Miss Vincent were among the visitors. Miss Vincent looked smilingly at him, but having something extremely like an antipathy to her, he contented himself with a distant bow, and remained in his original station.

Miss Vincent was not, however, to be avoided. Before long, she extricated herself from a tedious proser who was pouring tales into her ear, and moved to a sofa near the window, at which Ernest had placed himself.

“You would not come to me,” she observed, with a smile, “so I must come to you.”

Ernest said nothing, which was not very civil; but he had nothing to say.

“I am so glad to have met you this morning,” she began, speaking in another tone, “for I know nothing of what is going on at Clare Abbey. It is five months at least since I have seen Miss St. Maur. How is she?”

“She is quite well in health,” Ernest replied, “but, as you may suppose, not much inclined for amusement. She is almost always with her brother.”

“Poor thing! How changed her life is;--this time last year she was like a bird, so joyous and animated.”

Ernest’s countenance acquiesced in what she said; but he made no remark.

“And Mr. St. Maur--what do you think of him? The sadness of his existence is a thing I hardly like to think of.”

She spoke with so much, with such real interest and feeling, that Ernest was ashamed of his coldness, and almost surprised out of his antipathy.

“There is little change,” he replied, answering her as he really felt, and as one who desired to know; “and indeed since all hope of improvement has been given up, the only change that can now be looked for must be for ... I cannot say for the worse,” he said, stopping himself: “even those who love him best could not call the change that awaits him so. I sometimes think,” he added, after a moment’s thought, “that I perceive symptoms of declining--he seems to me weaker than he was; but when one is watching very anxiously, one is apt to fancy; and I do not hear that the physician who attends him is of that opinion.”

“And do you say that Miss St. Maur is always with him?”

“She is with him very constantly,--and I think, with her own will, would never be absent.”

“I wonder if she would see me, if I called upon her?”

Ernest was silent. He did not fancy that Camilla had any desire for Miss Vincent’s society.

“Don’t you think,” she continued, “that a little change, a little diversion of mind might do her good? It seems to me that such entire seclusion must be dangerous. I have sometimes heard that a fixed unhappiness at so early an age, produces serious consequences on the mind. I could not of course do much, but at any rate my visits would make a change,--and I am sure I would do my best to cheer her.”

“I believe you are right,” Ernest said, after a moment’s consideration, in which the truth of Miss Vincent’s observations struck him very forcibly. “I don’t think any persuasions would induce Miss St. Maur to go as far as to Carrington; but if you could occasionally call on her at Clare Abbey, it might be of great service to her.”

“I certainly will, and very shortly.”

There was a short silence; and when Miss Vincent resumed the conversation, it was in a different tone and on a different subject. She was rather a curious mixture; the proportions at least of sense and feeling, and artifice and folly, were more curiously blended in her mind than is at all common. Ernest was completely puzzled by her.

“I have heard a piece of news this morning,” she began, with a peculiar smile, “which I confess has surprised me, and which I believe will interest Miss St. Maur. You know Mr. Frank Hargrave, of course?”

“I have seen him,” Ernest said, coldly.

“And you know, I suppose, how very, very desperately in love he was with Miss St. Maur when she was with us last summer?”

He made a movement of acquiescence.

“Well, I have heard this morning that he is going to be married.”

Ernest was on his guard, and showed but little of the extreme astonishment he felt.

“I am surprised,” she went on; “because though I have had a good deal of experience in common flirtations, and have seen how very shortly the most violent ones are brought to an end and forgotten, I did not look on this as a common flirtation. I _never_ saw a person more deeply and sincerely attached to another than Mr. Hargrave was to Miss St. Maur.”

“His sincerity is somewhat strangely shown,” Ernest said, with sarcasm unusual to him: “I should hardly have supposed that Miss St. Maur was a person who could so quickly have been forgotten.”

“I agree with you there. She is the most taking girl I ever met with,--so fresh and unsophisticated,--we were all quite charmed with her; and the fact is, Mr. Hargrave agrees with us also. I have heard,” she continued, in a confidential tone, “from a friend, some circumstances of the case; and my belief is that he has not forgotten her in the least.”

Ernest would not inquire into these circumstances; but his silence expressed sufficient interest to encourage her to proceed.

“You know last year,--or perhaps you don’t know?--but last autumn, after ...” she hesitated ... “after Mr. Hargrave and Miss St. Maur were separated, he disappeared: no one could tell what had become of him. His mother was in great anxiety, and wrote to make inquiries of me; but I knew nothing beyond the fact that he was separated from Miss St. Maur, and that he was heartbroken in consequence; and this being his affair, I had no right to relate. It afterwards appeared that he was travelling about, alone; as he is apt to do, when he is attacked by the fits of disgust to the world’s ways, or his own ways,” she said, laughingly, “to which he is liable. He was heard of in Wales, and in Cornwall, and several out-of-the-way places,--in short, he completely retired from society for two or three months. That, I think, was tolerable proof of sincerity! Well, about six weeks ago he sprained his ankle,--was found on the road, in some strange country, by a kind-hearted gentleman, who insisted on taking him home to his house. There Mr. Frank Hargrave became domesticated; and there he met with a niece or daughter, who was also very kind to him. He was, I hear, at the time in wretched spirits; but, you know, Mr. Hargrave, charming as he is, has one fault,--he never can resist a flirtation: so being constantly thrown into the society of this young lady, he began to pay her some attentions,--meaning nothing, of course. It appears, however, that she is pretty, and well off; and being (as indeed most girls are to whom he condescends to pay attention) desperately in love with him, it is to end in a marriage. My friend tells me,--and I dare say after all it will prove to be the case,--that it promises to be a very happy one.”

Ernest made no comment; but his countenance expressed a good deal of the contempt and disgust he felt at her narrative.

“You seem to doubt the happiness of the prospects?” she said, with a smile.

“I confess,” he said, with emphasis, “I think them more than doubtful.”

“You are mistaken. How this particular case may turn out, of course nothing but time can show; but I have seen very happy marriages, under circumstances not very dissimilar. You know it is an old and often-repeated opinion, that wild young men make the best husbands.”

“It is no doubt sometimes possible,” Ernest said, gravely; “but it is an opinion which I should not have expected,--which I am sorry to hear you mention with approval.”

“I only tell you what I have been told,” she answered, lightly, provoked with him for his gravity. “But no matter now--you and I had better not enter into moral disquisitions; for I feel instinctively that our views would differ widely. I want to know something of more importance. Tell me about Miss St. Maur. I hardly know in what degree she will be affected by this marriage. That she was very much taken with Frank Hargrave I saw plainly from the first, and I afterwards thought it went beyond what that phrase implies; but still she resisted him: and since she had power to do so, I hope it may be an interest to her, and no more. What is your opinion?”

“I cannot think I have any right to speculate on Miss St. Maur’s feelings,” Ernest said, very coldly.

Miss Vincent bit her lip; and, to punish him, immediately observed, with some archness, “And yet I should have supposed the speculation would have interested you?”

He paid no attention to her words, nor appeared to understand her insinuation.

“I hope Mr. De Grey,” she began again, after a short silence, “that you will not forestall my communication. I fancy I read indiscretion in your countenance. Now tell me honestly, do you mean to be beforehand with me?”

“I certainly do,” he said, steadily, “if I have an opportunity.”

“I was more unwise than I usually am to trust you with my news. I ought to have bound you over by a promise of secrecy. Don’t you see that, to make such a piece of news palatable, it will require the consideration and enforcement of many alleviating circumstances? and these I can hardly hope _you_ will dwell upon as they should be. I am afraid,” she continued, less lightly, examining his countenance as she spoke, “that you think it will do more than _interest_ Miss St. Maur.”

“Miss Vincent,” Ernest said, raising his eyes with a look of grave reproach, “if, as you say, you have reason to suppose Miss St. Maur was sincerely attached to Mr. Hargrave, is this a fit subject for your jesting?--and if circumstances have allowed me to form an opinion, are her feelings a subject on which I have a right to speak?”

“You make so much of it,” she said, half playfully, half apologizing; “I cannot look so very seriously on a flirtation.”

“It does not, I hope, need very serious consideration,” Ernest replied, coldly; “but if it does not,--if, at least, I understand you rightly,--it is not Mr. Hargrave’s fault.”

“Oh he is a great flirt, and I don’t mean to defend him; but so are a thousand others, and not half such agreeable ones as he is. But don’t look so grave,--you quite frighten me. I ought to have been more upon my guard in what I said to you; for I could hardly suppose you would be an _unconcerned_ hearer in anything that touched Miss St. Maur’s welfare.”

“You are right,” he said, quietly, rising from his seat as he spoke, but not from any desire to escape the look of arch scrutiny that was fastened upon him. Miss Vincent’s endeavours were not rewarded by producing the faintest flush of consciousness upon his cheek.

When two characters very much opposed to each other meet on subjects where character is shown, they are most probable to go to extremes. The extreme of Ernest’s character could not but be good; for it was of that nature which, the more deeply it is penetrated, the more its intrinsic truth and worth is shown; but certainly Miss Vincent, in her irritation at his gravity and discretion, had shown herself to little advantage. He left her with a feeling of profound disgust.

He rode through the park of Clare Abbey on his way to the house, and, passing under the terrace, saw through one of the vistas that Camilla was walking pensively along the gravel walk on the upper part of the lawn. He tied his horse to a tree, patting it with well-understood command to be patient and still, and entered the lawn at a small gate on the outside.

Camilla heard his approach, and turned to meet him.

“I am so glad to see you out this fine day,” he said, looking anxiously at her pale cheeks.

“The sun shone so brightly into Reginald’s room, he forced me away from him,” she replied, with a slight smile.

Instead of proceeding with her walk, she stood still, and Ernest soon observed the direction in which her eyes were turned, and observed interest in their gaze.

“Are you looking at my horse?” he inquired, with a smile.

“Yes,” she said, and smiled also, but faintly; and the smile was followed by a sigh, and she turned away.

He walked by her side a little way in silence, then said, “I know what you were thinking: your thoughts had flown to the happy old times, and you felt how hard it was not to wish them back again.”

“Yes,” she said again, in a low voice, but said no more.

A great change had come over her in the last few months; a stillness, the token of a deeper change within, had stolen over her fitful and animated manner. Her feelings and opinions, formerly so excitedly spoken, were now dwelt on in silence, or breathed only to the ears of Reginald. Serenity and happiness might come again; but her first fresh youth was past,--and, once past, comes no more. It was with her an early day to lose it; but sorrow brings much experience, and error, more.

“I suppose,” Ernest said, with a sigh,--for he was not perfect in the lesson himself,--“I suppose it is impossible entirely and at all tunes to subdue such a wish, but I do begin to feel, what once I could not understand, how much of good comes out of evil. When I see your home now, even sorrowful as it is, I cannot but think of this. If sorrow has come, sorrow has brought with it your father’s love; and I am sure you feel that, even bought at such a cost, it is a precious gift.”

“Yes,” Camilla said, gently; and if the tones of her voice had lost their ringing clearness, they had a softness now unknown to them before. “Indeed, Mr. De Grey, I feel, or try to feel, the truth of what you say. Reginald says, that when papa sits by his bed, he feels that he has all earth can give, and would not, if he could, recall....” She did not conclude her sentence, and walked on in silence.

“Where have you been riding to?” she inquired, after a moment, as the course of their walk brought them back again to the sight of Ernest’s patient horse.

“I have been to call on old Mrs. Temple--a visit delayed longer than it should have been, for she was very kind to me when I was a child, and I ought not to forget.” He paused, for he felt that the time was come when his communication must be made; and though when distant he had felt that it should be made by none but him, he shrank from his self-imposed task now.

“I met Miss Vincent,” he began at last; “she was calling there with her mother.”

Camilla blushed, but forced herself to say, “Did you talk to her?--you don’t like her, I know.”

“She talked a good deal to _me_,” he said; and paused.

His voice had a peculiar tone--it was meant to attract her attention, and she looked up; but on meeting his anxious serious gaze, she turned hastily away again.

“She told me some news which she said would interest you.... I fear it will--I fear it may give you pain ... but I came here to tell it.”

They had reached a garden seat at one end of the terrace, and Camilla sat down, and turned away her head to conceal her trembling limbs and agitated countenance.

“It concerns one ...” he hesitated: “it concerns Mr. Hargrave;--he has proved himself unworthy indeed. Shall I tell you all I have heard?”

She bowed her head.

“Miss Vincent tells me that he is going to be married: peculiar circumstances, she says, have led to it--you shall hear them, if you please, now or at some other time.”

She listened to him in silence, but not therefore unmoved;--there was no expression of pride, or disdain, or scorn, but through her fingers large tears fell heavily on the garden wall.

Ernest looked at her intently; and feelings, long subdued within him, agitated his soul--anger, and jealousy, and unspeakable envy; such tears for _him_,--for him so unworthy of her,--he felt he would have died to purchase one of them.

He walked hastily to the further end of the terrace to control, to subdue himself; but intense anxiety permitted him but a short absence, and again he stood at her side.

“I feared I should give you pain,” he said, stooping tenderly over her; “but you must not, indeed you must not grieve--he is unworthy.”

“He never loved me,” she murmured, while he could see on her bending throat, the flush of shame and humiliation; “I might have given up all for him, and he never loved me.”

“He did love you,” Ernest said, firmly and expressively, “_that_ you must not, should not doubt--I saw him, and even then, when I could not but condemn, I felt that he loved you truly, and I pitied him. But he was selfish in his love; and such selfish love a fresh temptation may quickly overcome.”

She said nothing; but after a moment, got up from her seat, and walked towards the house.

Ernest went a few steps with her, then stopped and held out his hand. He saw that she was so bowed with humiliation that any common sympathy, even the tenderest, was oppressive and misplaced. She gave him her hand without raising her eyes.

“May I say one thing to you, before I go?” he asked, as he held it.

“Yes, _anything_,” she replied, gently.

“When you are tempted to feel sad, and desolate, and forsaken, will you promise me to think of the love and care of God, which has preserved you from a life of misery? Surely you may, surely you should feel that His especial providence watched over you and preserved you, when man could not.”

“I will, I will try,--I do feel it.”

He pressed her hand and was going, when she stopped him.

“I cannot thank you now as I should, for your kindness in coming to tell me this--but it was like you. And do not think,” she continued, a deep blush stealing over her face, “that I regret what I have heard; it is better, much better as it is--and if ... if it humbles me the more, it is only what I deserve.”

Never since the day of his broken vows had Ernest felt it so hard to compose himself--never so tempted to pour forth before her words of hopeless love, and too fond idolatry;--for the moment, so deceivable are the hearts of men, it seemed almost a duty to speak, it seemed as if _his_ words of love could alone repair the humiliation another had caused her. His heart swelled with the conflict of his feeling.

But a habit of virtue, long and diligently practised, comes at the call of the willing heart in moments of unusual temptation. The mist past from his eyes, and the veil of delusive duty dropped aside--then, with a deep sigh, mastering the easier temptation of impulse and inclination, he simply said, “It grieves me to hear you speak like that, you know it does;” and again calmly holding out his hand, he left her.