Chapter XIV

I _will_ rejoice--I do--though mortal eye
Must still have lookings backward; yet ’tis best.
The holiest verily are the sweetest thoughts.
THE VIRGIN WIDOW.

The week following her brother’s death was passed by Camilla in her room.

Total exhaustion of body and mind laid her prostrate; and lonely and dreary as were the sad and silent hours, that exhaustion perhaps was not unavailing in stilling her first and acutest sufferings. She was as yet unaccustomed to self-control,--as yet, in great measure, ignorant how to seek the highest sources of consolation; and though there were many such in store for her, they failed in those first hours in carrying comfort to her mind. The companion of her childhood, the friend of her youth,--him whom she had looked on as born to carry by storm the world’s applause,--was _dead_! On earth, he could share her thoughts, bless her eyes, draw upward her admiring gaze no more. She had pondered much on death,--she had, as she thought, prepared herself for the separation; but now death in its reality was come, and not even her dreadest, most fearful dream had realized what that separation would be. She endeavoured to follow him,--to picture a meeting in another world; but that world to her was distant, and awful, and unknown; and she fell back on the dreary present, not in faithlessness, but in ignorance and in dread.

She left her room, for the first time, on the day of her brother’s funeral: her intense desire to follow him to the grave overcoming the exhaustion that had paralyzed her powers. There she stood with her father!--and there, by that grave, she and Ernest met again.

It had been Reginald’s special request that Ernest should read the service over his head: and it was done; but at a cost of suffering,--an agony of self-command,--which it is scarcely good that man should have to exert. As he consigned “earth to earth, and dust to dust,” the remains of him whom he had loved with more than a brother’s love, and saw drooping over the grave the form of her whose life and happiness were garnered in his heart, he felt as if the strings of life itself must burst in his effort to be calm. But it was done, and the cost to him was blessing to others; for the words of hope and consolation which came so full from his heart were carried to the hearts of all who heard.

The funeral was early in the morning; on the afternoon of the same day Ernest proceeded to the Abbey, to visit Camilla. It was no pain of selfish suspense which carried him to speak of love on such a day,--it was the desire to set for ever at rest those only thoughts and hopes which could separate and agitate them. Firm, full, and clear was the determination in his mind to renounce them _for ever_, unless she loved him; and by so for ever renouncing, to make his promise of brotherly care and affection availing. He had seen her pale cheek, her trembling form, her fixed gaze on Reginald, but he had seen no eye turn on him,--felt no willing movement in her passive hand. These things had been scarcely heeded at the time, but they spoke to him now.

The feelings of his own heart led him to Reginald’s room; and there, as he hoped, he found Camilla alone. All had been re-arranged,--all by her desire had been restored, as far as was possible, to the room of the old time, before the days of sorrow came. She was seated in the bow-window, her arms leaning on the window-sill,--in her deep mourning dress, looking so fair, so youthful, so sad, so much in need of one to love and cherish her, that Ernest’s heart fluttered at the thought of renouncing his dearer right, and the calm resolution with which he had armed himself began to give way to an aching agitating fear.

He softly closed the door, and approached her: “I thought I should find you here,” he said, gently; “I hoped to find you here.”

She looked up with a faint smile of welcome, but said nothing. She seemed to have been weeping, for her eyes were heavy and sad,--heavy, not swollen with tears; but it was over,--there was no agitation now, she was perfectly calm, strangely still.

“I am come to speak to you,” Ernest said, “to say a very few words. Will it be painful to you to listen to me to-day?”

“I also wished to speak to you, Mr. De Grey,” she replied.

He gazed at her intently. Her voice was low, but calm,--and no blush, not the faintest nor the softest, flitted over her cheek. Hope sank in his heart--hope for himself; but as it sank and died, such thoughts of her and her happiness arose as made him resolute again.

“It seems a strange place and a strange day,” he began, with a tremulous voice, and tears shining in his clear eyes, “to speak of hopes and cares of earth and earthly love; but those hopes are so bound up with him of whom all around us is full, that it was here I wished to speak of them once, perhaps only once again.” He paused, then more agitatedly went on: “You know how once I dared to address you,--with what vain hopes and presumptuous words,--and you know how you answered me. They should have been--they were, set at rest, and never, never should have offended you again, but at his bidding; and though now at his bidding once again these words are said,--though once again I confess, that as I loved you then I ever have and ever shall love you, I do not speak as then I did,--the madness and selfishness that moved me at that hour is past. I have been taught--you know how we have both been taught--that our own selfish desires are not to be the rule and guide of our lives. You must not fear, therefore, to speak to me as you feel. I do not say,”--and his voice trembled as he said it,--“that you can cause me no grief; but there are, there are indeed, other and higher thoughts in my mind,--and the best and highest, is the hope to be to you in place of him who has been taken from you. Will you then,” and he took her hand with grave and earnest tenderness in his, “look on me as a brother, and a brother only, and speak to me of all that is in your mind? If, indeed, if it be possible, that you can love me, as he hoped you might love, then ... but if not, do not fear to speak,--rather fear to be silent, for even _his_ wish must not mislead us from what is right. Believe me, it will be best and happiest....” He paused, thoroughly to weigh the words he was about to say,--then seriously, even solemnly repeated them: “Yes, _happiest_ even for me to know all the truth;--there is no happiness where there is not perfect trust; and those who love as I do must also perfectly be loved.”

She had heard him till then in silence, and as if pondering intently on what he said; but at the last words she drew her hand away, and, turning from him in extreme and trembling agitation, exclaimed, “It can never be! Reginald, even Reginald did not know me as you know. I am not--you know I am not what I was. I am ...” she paused, unable to proceed.

In the far distance Ernest saw his fading hopes and vanishing dreams, and closed his eyes to hide their fading from his sight; but so pure and perfect was his love for her,--so single and intense his desire for her happiness, that for an instant only his eyes fell on himself, and it was with scarcely an effort that he replied to her.

“Think of it no more. You know how little cause I had to hope, and therefore ...”--the rest was not spoken, but with a hardly perceptible pause he hastened on. “Your brother’s only wish was for your happiness,--and that he knew, however obtained, he might fearlessly intrust to me. Will you trust me as well? Will you believe?”--and, as he bent anxiously and tenderly towards her, there was not a shadow of a doubt of his own powers in the calm affection of his gaze,--“will you believe that henceforward, and _for ever_, I renounce all such thoughts and hopes as might cause restraint between us, and that never by word or sign shall they offend you more?”

She had once or twice endeavoured to interrupt him, and now looked up with so deep a blush, that a sudden hope bounded into Ernest’s heart.

“Oh! Mr. De Grey, don’t say offend--you cannot offend; it was not that I meant--it was my unworthiness. I have not thought of it as I should. To you,” and, turning from him, she burst into tears, “to my dearest brother’s dearest friend I would have given a perfect love, and such an untainted heart as your wife should bring--but I cannot, and you know I cannot. You have seen all my sinfulness, all my wanderings, and what can you do but despise?”

“Camilla,” he said, softly and reproachfully, the first time ever his lips or even his thoughts had been so bold, as to call her by that name.

She looked up at him earnestly, anxiously. If his grave words, his calm manner, and the remembrance of his hesitation, causing her more deeply to feel her unworthiness to be his wife, had made her almost doubt his willingness to receive her as such,--she could doubt no more.

“Can you indeed trust me, as if all the past had never been?”

“As I would have trusted him whom we have lost,” he said, solemnly. “When I speak of perfect love, and perfect trust, do not think I ask an impossible thing. Why should we shrink from speaking of the past? I know that what you have felt you do not feel, and perhaps never may feel again; but there are better things--perfect confidence and true affection, no regret for what is gone, and no doubt for the future. This is all I would ask, Camilla,--dearest--dearer, far dearer than when first I dared to speak--is there a hope that ever thus you can learn to love me?”

She raised her streaming eyes, and steadily and unshrinkingly placed her hand in his; and though no word was said, and no assurance given, even Ernest’s jealous fears for her happiness were satisfied.