Chapter II

When he speaks
The air, a charter’d libertine, is still,
And the mute wonder lurketh in man’s ears
To steal his sweet and honey’d sentences.
KING HENRY THE FIFTH.

Blessings beforehand--ties of gratefulness,
The sound of glory ringing in our ears,
Without our shame, within our consciences,
Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears.
Yet all these fences and their whole array,
One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away.
GEORGE HERBERT.

What a single word can do,
Making life seem all untrue.
MARY BARTON.

The months of the winter and the spring passed away, and the beginning of June found Camilla on the eve of leaving her home for the first time. The depression which a complication of feelings had caused, had very swiftly passed away--and her thoughts, which for a time had gone forth too anxiously and vehemently into the future, had soon returned to occupy themselves with the present. During these months, Reginald was continually coming and going; and his short absences, and constant and unexpected returns, together with her continued intercourse with Miss Vincent, prevented her from sinking into weariness. Her mind and feelings, which had been in a state of progress, appeared to stand still, and all things to have returned to the calm and equable flow, and childish enjoyments of the previous year.

Reginald meanwhile, having taken leave of Oxford, was preparing himself to enter upon life. These months were devoted by him to intense study--not the study of books, but man. He was endeavouring to supply by observation,--observation ardent and intent, as were all the exercises of his intellect,--that lack of experience and practical knowledge of which he was conscious. With special ardour and interest, he was also devoting himself to the study of oratory. He felt stirring within him those breathing thoughts which _must_ communicate themselves; he was conscious of possessing the gift of those burning words which _can_ communicate them; but he knew himself to be wanting in the knowledge of those rules of art and prudence, without which the loftiest genius may fail to make itself heard. To this knowledge he applied himself. Day after day he sat in that Assembly of which ere long he hoped to be a member, neither nameless nor insignificant; day after day, not only when eloquence might be heard, but during the longest and dullest debates; watchful, observant,--gathering alike from failure and from success, the wisdom and experience for which he sought. There he learned where the flowers of rhetoric pall upon the hearers; there, where the multitude of words oppress rather than convince,--there he learned the majesty of truth, the weight of character, the might of temper, the wisdom of forbearance, and how these things bear away the palm, from the loftiest flights of thought which possess them not. Day after day his young and stately form was observed to enter and take his accustomed seat; hour after hour his beautiful countenance, so pure and glowing, that it was described as being all spirit, to bend forward in absorbed, entranced attention,--and many were the eyes that watched him, and many the prophecies that were made, of the brilliancy of the career that lay before him. Many too, in his purer and brighter image, recalling a long-forgotten name, invaded the seclusion of Lord Vere with kindly remembrance, and friendly congratulation; and the heart of the father began to beat again with something of the hope and fire of youth--and an ambition, it may be faulty still, yet of a purer kind than that which animated his early day, began to go forth upon the beaten path of the world. No word was said--little notice was taken of these invasions of his solitude; but the gloomy solitude was peopled again--the dull uninterested eye was raised again--and again with a kindling glance he began to survey the distant theatre he had forsaken.

It was during one of Reginald’s longest absences, that an invitation arrived for Camilla to spend a fortnight with Mr. and Mrs. Vincent at the seaside. Mrs. Vincent wrote kindly and pressingly. Mr. Vincent, she said, was out of health, and change of air and scene had been ordered; she had determined therefore to remove to a beautiful place, about thirty miles from Clare Abbey. She apologized for the little amusement or inducement she could offer--the time of year precluding the hope of much society--but she had so often heard Miss St. Maur express a wish to see the sea, that she could not let the opportunity pass without attempting to persuade her to take advantage of it. She concluded by assuring Lady Vere, that as much care should be taken of Camilla as if she were her own daughter.

Nothing could be kinder or more respectful than the letter--nothing, however, more certain than that the invitation ought to have been refused.

But Camilla was in rapture, and not unnaturally so; her opening mind was glowing with the desire to _see_--her vivid imagination to realize some of the scenes and sights of beauty she was unceasingly picturing; she made therefore an earnest petition, and with little difficulty it was granted by both her parents.

That Reginald’s view of the matter would be different, she did not then pause to consider; but his grave and displeased countenance when he heard of the invitation and its acceptance smote her to the heart. A year ago, and this would have been sufficient; a year before and his will and pleasure would have been hers also; but his influence was no longer her sole guide. She loved him as much as ever, she admired and reverenced him still more; but her intercourse with Miss Vincent had not been entirely without effect. While Reginald’s character was rising and perfecting itself, hers was in a slight degree deteriorating. She could no longer follow him in the lofty flights of his mind; she no longer shared in his best desires. The very advance of his character,--the change from dreaminess to practice,--the deepened seriousness of his mind, chilled her. She was thirsting, for she knew not what--vague visionary happiness--beauty, poetry, sympathy--an ideal Paradise;--and, more often than once had been, she allowed herself to say that Reginald was too severe, and more and more often the wish for freedom was in her heart, and the picture of freedom before her eyes.

His displeasure, therefore, though it pained her, did not overcome her will.

“My dear Reginald,” she said, in answer to some of his remonstrances, “I wish you liked Miss Vincent better; you would, if you knew her more. You really are unjust. She is not at all so bad as you think. She is a great deal better than I am in many ways--a great deal more religious. I could tell you a great many good things she says and thinks.” Seeing that this assurance made little impression on Reginald’s mind; she continued: “you are prejudiced, Reginald; and you ought not to be prejudiced--you of all people ought not to be prejudiced. I am sure I have read very often that a great man is never prejudiced.”

“I am not a great man, Camilla, I wish I were; but even if I were, I am not sure that you are right. There are some things one feels so instinctively, that one has not time to reason upon them; but though they look like prejudices, they are very correct judgments. I certainly know too little of Miss Vincent to be able to give you very definite reasons for my dislike. I may do her some injustice: but whatever she may be in herself, I feel that she is not improving you Camilla, and I am sorry, very sorry, to see this friendship increase. Besides,” he continued after a moment, and his manner assumed an air of haughtiness and contempt, “who are these Vincents; and why should you associate with them so familiarly?”

A “besides,” in argument, is always fatal to conviction, and especially so when a low motive follows a high one. Reginald’s opinion, even in its pride, was certainly correct. However estimable the Vincents might have been, they belonged to a different class; their tone of mind and manner was different, and Camilla, unguarded by other protectors, was too young to mix with them without danger. But what he might have said with force was spoken from haughtiness, and his cause was weakened by it.

As an opinion, Camilla would have agreed with him, but not in practice when her will and fancy were concerned.

“Ah! Reginald,” she said, shaking her head at him with a smile--“Pride, Pride and Prejudice.”

“Perhaps I am too proud, Camilla,” he said, with a sigh, conscious immediately of the questionable motive that had prompted his words; “and if proud, perhaps prejudiced also. I think I am right in this case; but if you think otherwise, I will say no more, and will not worry you with remonstrances you do not like. Only, dear Camilla, be upon your guard; you may go into new, and, therefore, dangerous society; do not let Miss Vincent tempt you to anything which your own pure taste and clear judgment condemn.”

“Oh, Reginald! I will ...” she paused. “I will give it up,” was upon her lips, but before the words could be said, there came dancing before her such fascinating images of rugged rocks and dashing waves, of moonlight on the waters and romantic adventures, that the sacrifice was too much for her, and the better impulse evaporated in vague, though very sincere, words. “I will, Reginald, I will indeed,” she exclaimed, warmly, “and you need not be afraid, for I don’t like Miss Vincent’s ways any more than you do. I wish I pleased you better,” she continued sadly, distressed at having resisted him. “I wish I never did anything you dislike. I wish I was more like you. I don’t know how it is, but I think as you get better I get worse, and I don’t know what will be the end of it. Oh, Reginald! I wish I were your brother instead of your sister, and then you would see what I should be.”

Reginald shook his head with a slight smile, and the subject dropped. He was extremely annoyed, but his mind was not a worrying mind: when a thing was to be, and he could not prevent it, he yielded to it and disturbed himself no more. Camilla, therefore, was left in peace, to the indulgence of her dreams and her will.

The day before her departure was Reginald’s twenty-first birth-day, and the day was celebrated with especial signs of honour. Such signs were foreign to Lord Vere’s character, but the birth of new feelings dictated them now.

Though not a hard landlord he was a morose one, and he and all his family were utter strangers to the peasantry thickly clustered around his abode. Ernest De Grey, on his first return, had seen with pain the banished and neglected state of those whom he in his childhood had known familiarly; and, in the hope of effecting a double good, had endeavoured to obtain Lady Vere’s permission for Camilla to interest herself among the poor. A double good--for he felt that a knowledge of some of the realities of life would be the best and most certain cure for the few faults of Camilla’s character--faults to which even his admiring eyes could not be blind. But he was met by a resolute and animated refusal. It was one of the points on which Lady Vere had an opinion. Shortly after her arrival at Cranleigh the small-pox had been prevalent in the neighbourhood; and from that day poor people and diseases were inseparably bound up in her mind.

Baffled in his first attempt, Ernest next endeavoured to draw Reginald’s attention to the subject, and with him he had been successful. Reginald had stood apart from no uncourteousness of mind--from no lack of charity. He never spoke to his inferiors, but his lightest actions always exhibited thoughtful consideration. The poor had felt this instinctively; and, while they stood in awe of Lord Vere, their feeling towards Reginald had been one of reverence as towards a superior being. A curious instance of this had been shown. Once on a breezy day, the shawl of a young girl whom he passed, as he walked alone, was blown to a distance. He picked it up and restored it to her, without a smile, without a word, but gravely and courteously raising his hat as he gave it into her hand; and as if his touch had been like the touch of an old saint, the shawl was set apart by the parents of the girl from that day forward, as a thing too bright and good for daily use. This had been before Ernest’s arrival; under his influence he had approached them more nearly; and while they reverenced him as much, they had learned to love him more. Familiar, Reginald could not be; but familiarity is not needful--none can give truly and from the heart except what they possess; and the _efforts_ of condescension are alike unpleasing to the rich and the poor. Many words and many smiles he could not give; but he gave, under Ernest’s direction, that which was possible--thought and care. Having obtained his father’s permission to interest himself in the concerns of his tenantry, he endeavoured to understand the circumstances of all classes; and he endeavoured to show that he _was_ so doing. He was understood; and the upward path of his life began to be followed by the eyes of the poor, and his way to be strewed and sanctified by their good wishes, their hopes, and their prayers.

Lord Vere saw,--and though he saw silently, saw with approval the awakening interest in his son. His own life, his own self, his own wrongs were beginning to pass from his mind, and his youth in a better and purer form to live again in his son. It was partly to strengthen this interest, partly to gratify Reginald himself, and partly to satisfy, by a public expression, the feelings of his own heart, that Lord Vere deviated from his usual conduct and decided on the celebration of his son’s majority.

The arrangement of the festivities was intrusted to Ernest’s care, and was singularly well conducted, all classes and all ages coming in for their proper share of enjoyment. He had an art for such things; for intense as was his own thirst for happiness, so great, and even more intense, was his desire to see the happiness of others.

Late in the day a dinner was given to sixty or seventy yeomen of the better class of tenantry; and at this dinner, at Ernest’s special request, Lord Vere, accompanied by all his family, consented to appear.

It was a lovely evening in June; the soft and serene close to a day of sunny beauty. The table had been spread on a plot of green lawn, immediately within the park, and overlooking the village; where large oak trees bending around formed a kind of amphitheatre. The spot was beautifully situated; the whole scene picturesque and interesting.

Dinner was nearly over when Lord Vere appeared. He paused at a distance from the table; his coming had been an effort; a nearer and more familiar approach would have been impossible. His presence, however, was an unexpected condescension, and as all rose from their seats it was acknowledged by a grateful though not enthusiastic cheer. Lord Vere bowed stiffly and coldly as was his wont, and a silence followed. It was broken by the pronouncing of Reginald’s name--and that name was hailed with such a shout as is seldom heard, except in Ireland. Reginald, disengaging himself from his mother (who, supported by the unusual excitement, had walked above half a mile without weariness), went forward to the head of the table, and taking off his hat, in a few simple words, gracefully and gratefully expressed his thanks. Again the shout arose, and while it was echoed from far and near, and echoed more loudly in Lord Vere’s heart, he suddenly left his place--laid his hand on his son’s shoulder, and in a voice heard amidst the din, for it was the voice of authority, said, “Speak to them, Reginald!”

There was a dead silence at once. Reginald glanced around him--fixed his eyes on his father, bent them for a moment to the ground: then as if a sudden inspiration mastered him, with a glowing cheek and kindling eyes, he turned to the expectant hearers and began.

It was as the pouring forth of his whole nature; in his advice, in his exhortations, he pourtrayed only himself. Loyalty the most chivalrous and devoted--the purest patriotism--a full and firm, though not perhaps a perfect, faith. The lofty aspirations, the keen and ardent thirst for reformation, and improvement, and progress, which was the natural tendency of his mind--blended with the sound and practical wisdom, and the more dutiful and reverential spirit which he had lately caught.

It is possible, nay probable, that his words and even sometimes his thoughts, were above the comprehension of the honest, but dull and ignorant men whom he addressed; but as the sound of sweet and solemn music stirs the hearts of even the uneducated and unthinking, so fell upon these hearts the music of his voice, the music of his thoughts, the music of his words; stirring, exalting, purifying them, lifting them for that moment of time from the low desires and earthborn cares which were the common element in which they dwelt. The effect of his words might be read in the light of the countenances that gazed on him, and heard in the sound, not of the cheer, but of the hush which followed them. That instant’s silence might have furnished a speaking picture for the pencil of a Wilkie. The long line of honest faces, with wide opened eyes, all resting on one youthful form--Reginald, his hat in his hand, his countenance flushed with feeling and excitement, the soft evening breeze lifting the curls from his pure and lofty brow--a few yards behind him his stern and careworn father with crossed arms, and downcast eyes--his mother with a look of startled intellect on her beautiful but inanimate face--and on the other hand, two who stood side by side with eager looks and lips apart; their eyes trembling and tearful with the excess of love and admiration that he excited in their hearts.

Reginald had paused for an instant, then in a few touching words, alluding to his past and present position among them, and expressing his own deep acknowledgments to his teaching, he gave the health of Ernest de Grey.

Shout rose upon shout, and both names--for both were loved--were blended together in the voices, and, as it seemed, in the hearts of the people. In the midst of the cheer Reginald returned to his mother, and observing that Ernest was unable to do more than simply and gratefully, by action rather than by words, to express his thanks, he gave her his arm, and, obeying his father’s silent signal, drew her away.

Ernest and Camilla stood for a moment longer, then slowly followed them.

* * * * *

Moments of strong excitement are dangerous moments: they disturb, they agitate; and under the influence of their agitation, reason, judgment, even principle itself, is often shaken on its throne. That the excitement proceeds from good feeling in no way detracts from--rather, perhaps, as being more delusive, adds to the dangers of the hour.

This day,--this celebration of Reginald’s birth-day,--had been in many ways calculated to excite Ernest’s mind, and arouse his feelings, ever too quick to arise. Dreams of a long-past, of a once-pictured future, were thronging upon his fancy; and envy--no base ungenerous feeling, but still an unspeakable, agitating envy--was stirring the very depths of his heart. And this excitement came upon a spirit in other ways strongly agitated.

During the flowing months of the past half-year, Ernest’s feelings for Camilla had been lulled into quietness and repose. He saw her continually, but rarely saw her alone; again, in Reginald’s ever recurring returns, he was the companion of their rides and their rambles; but it was the frank and fearless intercourse of their early acquaintance, not the dangerous intimacy of those few winter months. Happy in their presence, happy in the present hour, he yielded himself to its influence, and suffered no forward fears of fancy to obscure its brightness. The gladness of his heart shone on all around him; Reginald’s interest in his duties ennobled them in his eyes; he performed them with a more steadfast and willing heart: he thought he had left warfare and reluctance behind;--he was, in short, happy, and so much of the sunshine of youth was still about him, that he _could_ live in the passing hour,--_could_ “feed on pleasant thoughts, spite of conviction.” The announcement of Camilla’s departure had been the knell to these hours of inconsiderate enjoyment. Once again struggle and warfare came,--once again passion stirred in his heart,--once again the clouds of fear gathered about the future, and reluctance and distaste over his life. It was not because during one fortnight his eyes would wander in search of her in vain. Ernest was as much in love as man can be, but he was a man even in love, too much a man to indulge in idle sentiment: it was not her departure that agitated him,--it was the thought of her return. Vague, dark presentiments flitted over his soul, and a voice was ever whispering in his ear, that _his_ day of happiness was over. Could others’ eyes see her, and fail to worship?--could other hearts approach, and fail to be won?--must not all feel as he did, that one smile of affection from her lips would make life Paradise? And then--was _he_ anything to her?--was there one feeling towards him which would bring her back in freedom should such other love assail her? These were the racking fears and tossing doubts which, never ending, still beginning, once more shook the innermost recesses of his soul.

And now the last day was come, and the day was passed in excitement. Around and about him there were scenes and sights of happiness,--boyish amusements, boyish sports,--which made his old boyish nature bound within him. Then came the evening--the picturesque scene--the sight of Reginald--Reginald’s stirring words--the touching mention of himself--the shout--the thrilling music of human voices--that shout for him--and then....

The noise and the excitement were over, and in the still soft evening,--in the much-loved scenes of his youthful joys,--he wandered in silence and alone by Camilla’s side. It was a dangerous moment--a moment of temptation,--and Ernest, agitated with conflicting feelings,--thoughts that stirred him and drew him up to Reginald’s height, and thoughts that weighed him down and laid him at Camilla’s feet, was scarcely himself to bear it.

They walked for a time slowly and in silence,--for Camilla also was in deep thought; and further and further Ernest’s higher thoughts vanished, as every feeling began to gather around her, as every faculty of his intellect appeared to be centred on the question, “What feeling bowed her head and slackened her footsteps?”

The question was answered at length.

“Oh, Mr. De Grey!” she exclaimed, raising her lovely face, tearful still, and full of unwonted emotion, to his; “What does Reginald make you feel? Don’t you wish with all your heart that you were like him?”

“I do,” he replied; and all his heart was in the reply.

“No, I did not mean to say that to _you_,” she said, with a manner that asked his forgiveness. “I only meant to say that I wished it myself. You _are_ like Reginald--you are good, like him. I ought not to have said that to you.”

“No more like your brother,” he replied, passionately, his voice and words alike betraying the excitement of his mind, “than a glorious angel is like a poor creeping worm.”

“Oh, Mr. De Grey, you should not say that, for it is not true; but still I think you are so far right; there _is_ something in Reginald unlike common human beings--something that makes one feel--at least, that makes me feel, sad, and ashamed, and longing to be, I hardly know what, but very different to what I am; not so low, so poor, so selfish....” She paused, and sighed.

Ernest made no remark: he _could_ not speak calmly; and they walked on in silence.

“I wish I was not going away to-morrow,” she began again, after a pause, in a kind of musing tone. “I did wish so much to go, I could not give it up, not even for Reginald; but now I am sorry, very sorry....” She paused again, perhaps in hopes of consolation from those ever-sympathizing lips, but it came not. “One feels so differently,” she went on, “at different times. It did not seem wrong to wish for amusement, or to see beautiful sights, and other places besides this; but now....” Again she paused, and still no comment or consolation came.

“Why don’t you speak, Mr. De Grey?” she exclaimed at last, a little impatiently, and impatience banishing her sadder mood. “If you think me very wrong to go, I would much rather you told me so.”

“Wrong!” he cried, startled. “Oh no; I had no such thought.”

“What, then!--what makes you so silent and so thoughtful?”

“I was thinking of myself--of what your going is to me.” He spoke calmly; but self-control was giving way--he was entering into temptation.

“To you?” and she looked up with a smile? “Why, I think you will be able to bear it; I am to be back again in a fortnight.”

“But _how_?” He still spoke calmly; but irrepressible agitation was beating beneath.

“_How?_” she said, smiling still. “What do you mean? Do you think a fortnight can make any very wonderful change?”

If there had been one tone of feeling in her voice, he would have been still; but to let her go forth thus--thus careless, thus indifferent, thus unconscious of the love he bore her--he could not do it.

The inward struggle was prolonged upon his lips; he hesitated. Once and again his mouth was opened and closed again; but he spoke at length.

“Do you indeed ask me what I mean? And if I were to dare to tell, would you hear me speak?”

As if in calmness there were strength and resistance, he still spoke calmly, and his calmness failed to enlighten Camilla. Something--some expression of regret--something which might have been called a pretty speech she did expect, but no more.

She blushed deeply, and turned away her head; but there was nothing forbidding in the movement. He might have been pardoned if it was misunderstood. Ernest paused no longer: he had led himself to the brink of temptation, and now, dizzy with excitement, he plunged in.

As he began to speak, scales fell from Camilla’s eyes, and she attempted faintly to stop him; but passionately saying, “No, it is done, and you must hear me now,” he poured forth his love, and--for it was nothing less--idolatry.

Shrinking into herself, terrified and affrighted, Camilla heard him. Not one thought of what he felt towards her--not one idea of what it was to be loved as he loved her, had ever entered into her imagination to conceive. A mere child in mind, Miss Vincent had filled her fancy with tales of sentiment; and, without a dream of accompanying feeling, she had fancied it a toy to play with, amusing herself with the thought of Ernest’s love as with one of the idle tales she read.

There came a pause--hopeless, and yet his heart beating with hope--fearful, and yet his heart agitated with the joy of having “told his love,” Ernest hung upon her lips. And how was he awakened from his bewildering trance of feeling? Too much terrified to be penitent or to feel, too shy and shrinking to enter on the question of his love or her indifference, it was the petulant voice of a child that answered him.

“Don’t, Mr. De Grey,--pray, don’t say such things. I don’t like them.”

“You don’t like them,” he repeated, as if the words conveyed nor sound nor sense to his ears.

“I don’t, I don’t indeed,” she said, shrinking from him. “I hope you never will say them again.”

“Forgive me,” after a long pause, murmured a voice beside her,--a voice changed and altered, of unutterable sadness,--“forgive my madness, and forget my--despair. It is all over now, for ever!”

He seemed hardly conscious that still he walked beside her: he was bowed alike with shame and misery--his broken vows--his shattered dream.

Camilla’s heart swelled. His voice, his words had touched a place hitherto sealed and hidden within her. Childhood was passing away; she was beginning to think and to feel; the past was assuming its true colours, her own thoughtless conduct to awaken her to pity and remorse. She would have spoken if she could,--she would have unsaid her petulant words,--she would have asked him to pardon her, but she dared not.

A few moments brought them to the enclosed lawn and the broad gravel walk, and then Ernest came to himself. The others had far outstripped them, and had already entered the house. He stopped, and held out his hand in silence.

Touched and subdued, Camilla forced herself to speak.

“Won’t you come in, Mr. De Grey?” she said softly, even tenderly. “Reginald expects you, and I am sure he will wish it.”

“No,” he replied, mournfully; “none can wish for the sight of one like me.” He paused, as if to gain the strength to speak calmly; then, holding the hand she had given him, continued, “You must forgive me if you can,--you must forget, if you can, that I have spoken words which duty, truth, and honour forbade me to speak. I have grieved and pained you, whom I would die to save from one hour’s uneasiness. I do not deserve your pity, but you may pity me; for I am lost for ever in your and my own esteem. And now, God bless you!”

He wrung her hand; and, without waiting for word or answer, disappeared.

With an aching heart, with tearful eyes, with a deep-drawn sigh, Camilla looked after him; but these signs of regret and repentance were unseen and unknown by him. He hurried on in bitterness of spirit through the tranquil wood, through the scenes of festivity, the sounds of mirth and gaiety falling maddening upon his ear, till he reached his lonely home. There, burying his head in his arms, he gave himself up to despair;--despair, because the stings of conscience wounded more sharply and bitterly than the pangs of despised love. How had he fallen! Where were his solemn vows?--where was his truth, his duty?--where was a ray of trust in himself, or confidence for the future. Despair; because even then, when humbled in the dust, no vows of amendment, no prayers for strength were in his heart or on his lips! It was the old tempting, repining voice, that was murmuring, “Why was he singled out for disappointment?--why was every cherished hope of his heart to be doomed to destruction?--was it to be ever thus--ever and ever must he love in vain?”