Chapter IV

She, full of inward questions, walks alone,
To take her heart aside in secret shade;
But knocking at her breast it seem’d, or gone,
Or by confederacy useless made.

Or else some stranger did usurp its room,
One so remote and new in every thought,
As his behaviour shows him not at home,
Nor the guide sober that him thither brought.

Yet with this foreign heart she does begin
To treat of love, her most unstudied theme.
GONDIBERT.

Camilla’s sense of something uncongenial in the Vincents did not evaporate; on the contrary, when their number was increased by a few friends different in name, but the same in manner, the uncongeniality increased in a like degree.

On the third evening, the evening of the day of the meeting on the sea-shore, Mrs. Vincent managed to collect half a dozen acquaintances at their hotel. There were two old gentlemen, and two young ones, and two ladies; all rather pleasing in appearance than otherwise, and yet Camilla sat apart, and felt as she had never felt before, isolated and desolate;--and what was still more unusual, unwilling to be noticed. There was nothing very remarkable in this, for manners are a greater bond of union than minds--at least, on a first acquaintance they are so--and the manners of the Vincents and their friends were not the manners to which Camilla was accustomed. The atmosphere around Clare Abbey was one of extreme and even fastidious refinement. Nothing like noise or bustle was ever heard. The children, as children, had been taught to pitch their voices in a certain key--the very servants spoke and moved noiselessly. Something of the same characteristic distinguished Camilla’s few acquaintances--even Mr. and Mrs. Hervey being quietly common-place, or quietly prolix. The very fact, therefore, that the voices of these new acquaintances were pitched in a louder key than the one to which she was accustomed, and that their laugh was more frequent and more ringing, was in itself sufficient to make her feel in a new element; but in addition to this, the conversation displeased her; it might be more in the manner than in the words--but certainly the freedom with which Miss Vincent allowed herself to be addressed by the young men, and rallied about her “conquests,” was new to her. She felt she did not like it, and retiring to a sofa, at a distance from all but Mr. Vincent, who was dozing, she sat apart, amusing herself by observation.

“My dear Miss St. Maur,” Mrs. Vincent exclaimed, when she observed her position, approaching her with an apology upon her lips and in her manner; “why do you hide yourself in this way? I hope Sophia has not forgotten to introduce you to our friends?”

“Oh! no, indeed, she did everything right; but you know I know nobody, and I had rather sit here if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, my dear, I like best whatever you like best, but I am sorry to see you so dull. What shall we do to amuse you? We will have a round game by and by, if you like. Do you like cards?”

“I like to listen better than anything, if I have something to do with my fingers. Would it be wrong to work? I did not feel sure whether you would like it.”

“Wrong to work!” exclaimed Miss Vincent, laughing. “No, my dear Miss St. Maur; pray do whatever you like best while you are with us. Mr. Langley, be so good as to bring Miss St. Maur her workbasket from the piano-forte. Now, pray sit still, my dear; what are men made for but to be employed? Well, if you like to sit here, like a little hermit, you shall, for a time; but we will have a round game by-and-by;” and leaving Camilla, she returned to her guests.

Camilla worked and listened, and was amused; but her listening did not increase her desire for further acquaintance; and after a time she fell into a meditation on the disappointments of novelty again, and thought, with much tenderness and longing, of Reginald and her home. She was roused by a movement in the room,--Mrs. Vincent going across to speak to her daughter. As she raised her eyes she met the eyes of Mr. Hargrave, who stood in the doorway, and was looking at her fixedly. She blushed, and proceeded with her work; and he withdrew his gaze; but it was strange how, in a moment, the face of things was changed: the Vincents became less vulgar, the strangers less strange, her home and Reginald disappeared, or melted into the distance.

Mrs. Vincent, after speaking to her daughter for a few moments, passed on, and approached Mr. Hargrave.

“You are very late,” she said, “I was afraid you were going to disappoint us.”

“I was detained,” was all he said.

“Now that you are come, I hope you will take charge of Miss St. Maur’s amusement. Poor little thing! either she is shy, or else our friends do not suit her; or else she is not suited to them; but there she has been sitting alone, till I felt quite ashamed of ourselves. I promised her a round game, and was just speaking to Sophia about it, but she is going to sing with Mr. Langley, and does not fancy giving it up. If _you_ will undertake her, she will be well amused, which is no compliment I assure you, and I and Mr. Vincent may go comfortably to our whist.”

Frank Hargrave bowed in answer to Mrs. Vincent’s arrangements, but stood still till they had been carried into effect. He then joined Miss Vincent at the piano-forte, looked over her music, and asked for two or three particular songs; finally, slowly and thoughtfully he approached Camilla.

He took a chair, and placed it nearly opposite to her; a long narrow-shaped table between them.

“Did you see Mrs. Vincent speak to me?” he inquired, as he sat down.

“Yes!” she said, a little surprised and curious.

“Do you know what she said?”

Camilla shook her head without looking up.

“She feared you might be dull, and desired me to undertake your amusement. Do you consent to my endeavouring at least to obey her wishes?” He leant his arm upon the table, and looked at her.

She smiled, but blushed more deeply. The same uneasy feeling was stealing over her.

But if he had power to make her uneasy, he had power also to dispel her uneasiness. Looking carelessly round the room, he asked her quietly if she had made the acquaintance of all who were present.

“I have been introduced to them,” she said, recovering herself; “but I don’t know them, do you?”

“I know them all but one. The lady in the garland is a total stranger to me, and I should be sacrificing truth to politeness if I did not add, that I hope she will remain so.”

“I should think so,” Camilla said, laughing; “I really think people who dress in such a way ought to be banished from society.”

“Dressing well is a great art, very few understand it. Most people suppose that to dress means to over-dress. The lady with the garland, for instance, supposes that she is equipped most becomingly, and if those sun-flowers or star-fishes--for really I can’t distinguish their exact features--were removed, she would hide her diminished head with shame and confusion.”

“Miss Vincent dresses well; don’t you think so?”

“Yes, certainly well. Her plain silk gown is, as the old saying says, ‘Neat, but not gaudy.’ Yesterday I should have admired Miss Vincent’s dress very much--to-day, if I cannot do so, _you_ must forgive me.” And he turned upon Camilla again one of those earnest admiring gazes beneath which her whole being seemed to tremble.

His admiration might at the moment have been forgiven, for she looked surpassingly lovely. Her dress was simplicity itself, but its simplicity served but to heighten the contrast of her high-born air with her handsome but differently-moulded companions. Her curls, disordered by the sea breezes, were gathered up behind; her beautiful profile was more distinctly visible, and as her head slightly bent forward, her colour rising and fading, and her long lashes resting shyly and tremblingly on her cheek--a more graceful or interesting object could scarcely have been conceived.

A silence followed, and this time it was Camilla, impatient and angry with herself, who broke it.

“Do you know Reginald well, Mr. Hargrave?”

“What does your brother say?” he inquired, in answer. “I must not claim more acquaintance than he chooses to allow.”

“I don’t know. He did not tell me.”

“No,” he replied, after a little thought; “I don’t know your brother well. We move in different spheres--we have different pursuits, different friends, and different objects in life.”

“But then, how do you know him at all? and you seemed to know him pretty well too.”

“We have a mediator between us,” he said, with a smile; “a link which joins us together. There is a person at Oxford whose character is yet undecided. There is no saying what he will be. He is not like your brother--very, very different; but in him the organ of veneration is strong. He looks up to your brother--I might say he worships him; and yet he condescends to notice so unworthy an individual as myself. At his rooms I and your brother often meet.”

“And don’t _you_ admire Reginald?” Camilla inquired eagerly, for she had fancied there was something of sarcasm in his tone.

“Yes, I admire him--but I am not and never could be like him, and--if you will not be offended at my saying so--I do not wish it.”

“I think all the world might well wish to be like Reginald,” she said with vehemence; “it would be a different world if it was so.”

“It would,” he said, smiling, “and perhaps not so pleasant a one.” He paused; then, fixing his piercing eyes upon her, he continued: “Would you, yourself, wish it to be so? I may be asking too plain a question. But, if I may ask, can you truly and honestly say, that you would desire (not thinking of him with the feeling of a sister, but simply as an abstract person) that all the world should indeed be as much exalted above common feelings, common infirmities, common errors, as your brother is? For myself, I will confess at once that I should prefer some mixture of lower ingredients.”

“I don’t know what you mean by lower ingredients,” Camilla said, thoroughly roused; “I know I am not very good myself, and there are some kinds of goodness which I don’t like--I wish I did. But if you mean anything of badness and wickedness, I scorn and hate them.”

He looked at her glowing colour and sparkling eyes with an admiration which was not unmingled with surprise; and after looking at her for a moment, he fell into meditation.

“You are right,” he said at last, after a thoughtful silence, “and I only wish I might speak as you do.”

“And why may you not?”

“Because I have no right.”

She blushed and trembled; a strange fear crept over her. Was it possible that he was a bad man--such as she had sometimes read of? Her countenance showed uneasiness and curiosity, but she asked no question.

“You do not like hypocrisy, do you?” he inquired, reading every thought in her expressive countenance, as if it was a book before him.

“No; I hate it,” she said, vehemently.

“So do I, and therefore I dare not speak as you do; for by so doing I should either act the hypocrite, and seem to claim a character which I do not deserve--or else I should too vehemently condemn myself.”

She looked at him with the same curious, uneasy look, but was silent.

“All men are not formed alike,” he continued; “some are weaker and more liable to temptation than others. Your brother is one in a thousand. He is, I truly believe, above temptation, for I have seen him tried. But for myself, I must confess that no language comes more home to my lips and my feelings than the confession of our Church: ‘I have done that which I ought not to do, and I have left undone that which I ought to have done, and there is no health in me.’”

He repeated the words slowly, reverently, and feelingly; and Camilla’s ideas began to change, but still she said nothing.

“And now you despise me?” he asked, watching her countenance.

“No,” she said, at first hesitatingly, then more earnestly; “Oh, no. I don’t mind faults--I never could. Some of the greatest men have had faults. But what I mind is a low, mean, dishonourable character.”

“You are right,” he repeated again. “Faults are but on the surface, and they pass away. The natures of some men are so formed as to be exposed to greater and stronger temptations than others; and as I think we cannot but hope that the merciful Creator of man will judge such natures with compassion rather than severity, so, too, we should judge our fellow-creatures with a merciful, and not a severe judgment. What were you going to say?” he inquired, after a moment, still watching, still reading her countenance.

“I only thought,” she replied, hesitatingly, as if she was forced, however unwillingly, to answer his questions, and confess to him all that passed through her mind,--“I was surprised--I thought that you spoke like a clergyman.”

“I might do so,” he replied, smiling, “for such was once my appointed and accepted destiny. My father, my mother, all my friends, in short, were anxious that a clergyman’s life should be my choice. I felt no strong objection, and I consented.”

“And now have you changed your mind?” Camilla asked, with interest.

“Yes, I have. My consent was lightly given, when I was young and thoughtless, and careless about the responsibility of such a life. Since I have begun to think, and to know myself better, I feel that it is too good a life for me. In some ways it is very suitable to my taste; at some periods I could preach as zealously, if not as eloquently, as St. Paul; but it would be by fits and starts, and when I was weary of it, I fear.... No, it would not do. I told my mother that my conscience would not permit my gratifying her wishes, and she has not pressed me.”

“Then what are you, or what do you mean to be?”

“I am nothing; and what I mean to be is a question which I ask myself every night and every morning, and still it remains unanswered. Will _you_ advise me?”

“I cannot conceive a doubt,” Camilla said, smiling. “A soldier, or a sailor--I could be nothing else.”

Frank Hargrave shook his head.

“I wish I could say that such would be the life I should choose; but it would be false, and I must confess my insignificance, even at the risk....” He stopped. “No, I could not be a soldier. It is not, I hope, from any want of valour--I have never yet known the sensation of fear; but I am wilful and changeable--what some call _inconsistent_.” And he smiled. “I could not live in obedience and dependence; I could not be at the command of another; I could not even breathe freely the air of heaven, if I breathed it in a spot to which the will of others condemned me. And now,” he said, looking at her, “again you despise me.”

“No, I don’t indeed. I like to think of a brave soldier; but I know nothing of a soldier’s life. I might dislike it too, if it _could_ happen that I was tried; and, at any rate, there are other ways of being great.”

“But not for me. I have never thought or dreamed of greatness: the same independence which makes me shrink from subjection to authority, would make me shrink from greatness too. I like quiet and peaceful ways, and I fear I like my own will. Greatness is subject to rules, because its nature is to live in the sight of man. It is bound with an iron yoke; for it would scarcely dare to descend and breathe freely, lest it should be called inconsistent.”

“I dare say,” Camilla said, thoughtfully. “Yes, of course, a great man is watched; but still, to be great, one might bear a little restraint; it would be worth it.”

“How much you think of greatness!” he said, looking earnestly at her.

“Do I?--yes, I think I do. I like very fine characters. Don’t you care about it in the least?”

“I don’t say that. I only say that, for myself, I have never dreamed of greatness. I have always looked on the atmosphere of greatness as too cold and calculating for me.” He paused, then taking up a book, and resting his eyes upon it while he spoke, he went on. “I say that I never have dreamed of greatness, but I mean that I have never done so _hitherto_. Hitherto, I have only thought of pleasing myself; and what I might be, if a better object was set before me, I do not know. I was a spoiled child, and perhaps I am so still; others have thought of me, but hitherto I have never thought of others. I can conceive a feeling which might change a nature even less likely to be changed than mine.” And musingly, and in a low voice, and not, or barely, as if they were addressed to Camilla, he repeated the following lines:--

“Lovest thou greatness?--I will love it too;
For thee, my life shall change its peaceful hue;
I’ll climb, with eagle wings, the vaulted sky,
And if for me capricious Fortune’s star
Shall dimly shine, or sternly frown afar,
What matter? in the glory of thine eye
I’ll read approval, and, contented, die.”

A silence followed. Camilla’s head stooped lower over her work; new and strange sensations were stealing over her, and, unable to interpret them, she longed only for solitude. She knew not what to say; she dreaded lest he should speak again; and, as a means of escape, she turned her head, and looked anxiously towards Miss Vincent and her companions.

“Do you like music? Shall we go to the piano-forte?” Frank Hargrave asked, in a manner so totally different, that even while it relieved it puzzled her.

She acquiesced willingly, and sat down in silence on the chair he placed for her by the side of the piano-forte.

A good deal of lively conversation followed; but in it Frank Hargrave bore but little, and Camilla no share. She was deep in thought, and deep in thought she remained when the party broke up.

Miss Vincent accompanied her to her room, to ring her bell, and light her candles, and see that all was comfortable; for Camilla, she had soon perceived, was a child indeed in all the common occurrences of life.

Camilla sat down, and allowed her to place the candles and move the chairs at her pleasure.

“What sort of a person is Mr. Hargrave?” she inquired at last. “Is he a good sort of person?”

“A good sort of person!” Miss Vincent said, laughing. “I don’t know what to say,--my idea of a good sort of person is something so very sedate and hum-drum,--something so very different, in short, to Mr. Hargrave. But he _is_ very good, I have no doubt. I never heard any harm of him, except that young ladies are rather too apt to fall in love with him; and that, as his mother says, is their fault, not his.”

“Is he so very much inclined to fall in love?” Camilla asked, and asked uneasily.

“No, far from it. I did not say _he_ was. _He_ is very fastidious; and his mother says it would give her real pleasure to see him truly in love. I only said that young ladies were rather too apt to fall in love with him.” Unconsciously Camilla raised her head, with a flushed cheek and a proud glance. “You see,” Miss Vincent continued, playing with the extinguisher of her candlestick, “he is very agreeable, which is scarcely his fault, and very good-looking, which certainly is not his fault; and young ladies--_some_ young ladies--are flattered by his notice; and the end is, they lose their hearts. But it is their fault, not his. I am sure--and I know him pretty well--that he never would give any one _real_ cause to think he liked them,--was in love with them, I mean,--unless he was so. But good-night: it is late.” And as Camilla’s maid entered the room, she left it.

“How pale you look, ma’am! You must be very tired,” was the remark of her attendant.

“Yes, I am rather tired. Don’t be long brushing my hair. I think the sea air tires me.” And she sat again in profound abstraction.