Chapter VI

... How joy fulfilled
Makes the heart tremble!
EDWIN THE FAIR.

How fading are the joys we dote upon!
Like apparitions seen and gone;
But those which soonest take their flight
Are the most exquisite and strong;
Like angel’s visits, short and bright,
Mortality’s too weak to bear them long.
JOHN MORRIS.

Camilla returned home, though wearied in body by unusual dissipation, in a trance and wild delusion of happiness; and in a delusion of happiness she woke the following morning. It was delusion; for a little, a very little thought must have disturbed, if not banished it; but, though a delusion, it was very real for the time. It was like the unclouded ecstatic happiness of a child, no thought of past, present, or future agitating its existence,--no reflection laying a hand upon it to give it consciousness of being.

It was late when she awoke from a sweet and dreamless sleep; and, fearful of being late for the destined expedition, she hurried through her dressing. No time was allowed for meditation or self-reflection,--no thoughts admitted but such as were excited by the bright sunshiny day, and the soft breeze playing from the sea,--thoughts as bright and sunny,--hopes that like the breeze perhaps were to die away.

Breakfast was nearly over when she entered the room, and Frank Hargrave, ready to accompany them, was standing in the window. Conscious, blushing, and trembling, Camilla scarcely dared to raise her eyes, and sat down suddenly silent, in the midst of an apology for her lateness.

“You had a right to sleep after your first ball,” Mrs. Vincent said, good-naturedly. “You are not accustomed to late hours, as Sophia is.”

“I hope Miss St. Maur enjoyed herself?” inquired Mr. Vincent.

“Very much, thank you,” she replied, with a deepening colour.

“You must have enjoyed yourself, my dear Miss St. Maur, if giving pleasure to others and receiving admiration yourself can cause enjoyment. I don’t know how many conquests you made; but I am sure that we shall not be the only people who will think with regret of your return home to-morrow.”

Her return home!--Her colour first rose, then faded away at the words, and she grew suddenly grave. It was the first thought of her home since Frank Hargrave’s confession, since his words of love had fallen upon and blessed her ear; and with the thought came shadows over the hitherto shadowless bliss.

“You are eating nothing, my dear Miss St. Maur,” Mrs. Vincent observed, remarking Camilla’s untasted breakfast. “Pray, don’t think we are in any hurry. If we are off by half-past eleven, it will be time enough and plenty.”

“Oh, I have quite done, thank you,” she said, jumping up, as if happy to be released. “I suppose I had better get ready as fast as I can.” And she left the room.

“You must take care of Miss St. Maur, Sophia,” remarked Mr. Vincent, anxiously; “she does not look very strong. That rapid change of colouring is a symptom of weakness, and should be attended to.”

“There may be other causes for it, papa,” Miss Vincent said, laughing, with a glance at Frank Hargrave; but he paid no attention to the remark.

“I hope not,” Mr. Vincent said, gravely; and he too glanced, but with as little success, towards the window where Frank Hargrave stood.

A shadow was still on Camilla’s brow when she returned to the drawing-room. The word “home” had awakened reflection, and between her and her previous happiness Reginald seemed to stand, with reproach in his countenance. Never came the thought of his displeasure without a pang; and in proportion to the greatness of her happiness was the sense of that displeasure now. Vague it was and shadowy, even like the trance of thoughtless joy in which she had been reposing; but a mist was falling round her, light clouds gathering,--she was no longer in paradise.

Frank Hargrave approached her: he saw the shade, and with earnest words and magic power endeavoured to chase it away. And he was successful; the clouds dispersed, the frown of Reginald melted into air.

They descended the stairs together, and stood together within the door of the hotel, while Mrs. Vincent, who had preceded them, arranged some parcels in the barouche which was to convey them to their destination.

“Now, Miss St. Maur,” she called at last; and Camilla retreated a few steps to summon Miss Vincent. When she returned again to the door of the hotel, she paused with sudden surprise; for within three yards of the house stood Ernest De Grey.

He looked so strange, so unlike himself, that for one moment she even doubted the evidence of her senses; but the next instant there flashed before her the remembrance of when and where that gaze of sadness had met her before, and swift as thought, with more than her usual courteousness and grace, she hastened down the steps, and held out her hand. The new feelings springing within her had taught her repentance, had taught her to feel for him; and, with anxious kindness, she desired only to atone for the heedlessness of her former conduct, and the petulance of their last farewell.

“Are you here, Mr. De Grey?” she said, in her sweet frank voice, and with her sweet smile. “I did not know you had any thoughts of coming.”

He murmured a reply; but he received her advances, she thought, coldly, and with something of hauteur she drew back.

The gravity of his countenance increased, and for a moment he stood irresolute; then following her, he said hurriedly--and the very sound of his voice was altered; “Are you going out?--could you let me speak to you for a moment?”

A sudden and strange vision floated before her eyes. Reginald had returned to Clare Abbey; Ernest had told him of what had passed between them. Reginald had been displeased,--had been desirous to forward Ernest’s wishes; and now armed with his--perhaps with her father’s--authority, he came to press his suit.

The idea made her draw herself up with all her brother’s stateliness;--“I am just going out with Mrs. Vincent,” she said haughtily, “and I really cannot detain her.”

“Mamma is in no hurry,” Miss Vincent remarked, contemplating the scene with a look of much amusement; for to her fertile fancy it was perfectly comprehensible.

“I would rather not detain her,” Camilla repeated determinedly.

Ernest seemed scarcely to hear her words, or to heed her haughtiness. He seemed at a loss how to act. Suddenly, however, he turned and shook hands with Miss Vincent, then going down the steps approached the carriage where Mrs. Vincent was already seated.

His back was turned towards them, and his words were unheard; but Mrs. Vincent’s countenance was visible. She became extremely grave; and, after a moment’s thought, got out of the carriage and approached Camilla.

“Don’t talk of detaining me, my dear Miss St. Maur; for it really is of no consequence whatever. Mr. De Grey has got a message for you, and I think you had better go back into the house and talk to him. Come, my dear!” and kindly laying her hand on Camilla’s arm, she led her back to the drawing-room, and left her there.

Camilla submitted, because she did not know how to refuse; but she seated herself with a reluctant and haughty air. One idea only was in her mind.

When the door was closed, and he found himself alone with her, Ernest’s look of gravity vanished: it had been assumed only to cover other feelings; but his distress was so evident, that there was compassion as well as petulance in Camilla’s voice and manner when she addressed him.

“What have you got to say, Mr. De Grey? I am quite ready to hear it now.”

“Nothing for myself,” he replied, a sudden idea crossing his mind,--a sudden flush overspreading his face; “do not fear; such rash presumptuous words as once you heard shall never pass my lips again.” He paused; “I wish it was so; I wish that what I have to tell was such as would cause grief only to me. I am sent from Clare Abbey to fetch you--to beg you, at least, to return without delay.”

“And why?” Camilla said, haughtily; but she turned away her head with a crimson blush as she spoke. She paused not to consider the improbability of Ernest’s being sent to separate her from Frank Hargrave. Conscience only, wakeful and reproachful, pointed to her separation from him as the one ill to be dreaded,--her acquaintance with him as the one evil to be condemned.

Ernest made no answer, but coming nearer to her, bent over her with a look of intense and tearful compassion. “I am trying not to frighten you,” he said, in a faltering voice, “and yet I shall but frighten you the more; I had better tell you all at once;” yet still he paused, as if to watch for a sign of fear, as if to soften,--that first shock of evil tidings beneath which some young hearts have trembled all their days. Seeing at length her eyes opening and her cheeks beginning to grow pale, he went on hurriedly, “Your brother has had a fall,--a bad fall, and he is ill,--very ill.”

The cry of agony that rang through the house pierced more hearts than one.

“_Dead!_” she cried, convulsively clasping her hands. “Reginald is dead!” for if the evil forebodings of the young and thoughtless are slow to be aroused; once aroused, there is no limit to their terror.

“No! no!” Ernest said, tenderly and hurriedly; “he is not dead: he lives; he himself sent me to you,--he is longing to see you.”

“Then _dying_!” exclaimed the same piercing voice.

“No, no, indeed! you may trust me, I _have_ told you all,--I _will_ tell you all. Can you now listen to me calmly?” and without waiting for an answer, he sat down beside her, and gently and soothingly began his sorrowful tale.

But when told with every alleviation which his conscience would permit, with all the tenderness of which his tender nature was capable, it was a tale to harrow up her soul, and freeze her young blood within her.

With tearless eyes, with a blanched cheek, with strong composure, she listened to him. The words he spoke conveyed no meaning to her ears; but when, hurrying from the sad incidents of his tale, he began to speak of _hope_, the unnatural calmness gave way, and throwing her arms over the head of the sofa near which she sat she wept bitterly. There are some hopes which convey a sense of reality of woe no crushing narrative of ill can give. Hope--what hope!--that he from whom she had parted in the vigour of life, the pride of health, the bloom of beauty, might linger on a few short years a pale, mangled, helpless, hopeless form.

Her stony calmness had terrified Ernest; with joy he had seen her tears, and he had moved away and left her to herself that she might weep in peace; but, wrung to the heart at witnessing such tears from her, whose bitterest had hitherto been but as the dewdrop on the flower, a few minutes only passed before he was again at her side.

“Will you not try and command yourself?” he said, stooping tenderly over her, and taking her hand with a brother’s affection; “will you not for his sake exert all your strength?--he is longing to see you; think what a comfort you may be to him!” But she drew her hand away, and his words seemed but to increase the agony of her grief.

“Your brother,” he began in a more serious tone, for unaccustomed to grief, he was terrified at the excess of her sorrow, “submits himself without a murmur to the will of God. I know that it must be harder still for you; we may bear for ourselves what we cannot for others; but your grief will add to, not soften his misery,--will you not, at least for his sake, be patient?”

“I would,” she said, raising her head and fixing her sad dark eyes on his face, “I think I could, if I had been there; but you do not know how I have displeased him: I was wilful,--I _would_ leave him and grieve him, and now I shall never, never see him again;” and she laid down her head in despairing penitence.

“You _will_ see him again,” Ernest said, endeavouring to speak calmly and steadily, endeavouring to give such assurance as he could. “Everything is ready, even now; why should you delay?--a very few hours, and you may be there to comfort him.”

She started hastily from her seat, but when she stood up she paused: there, without, was the dazzling sunshine shining heedlessly on her sorrow; there, within, were the signs and tokens of a past dream of happiness--in an hour life was changed, and there were few seeds of faith and trust and heavenly hope to make the change endurable. She paused, looked around her; then, shuddering, hurried away.

Every preparation for her departure had been made by Ernest, with thought and care, before he attempted to see her; and as he entered the house he had implored Miss Vincent to overlook the packing, and to make sure that there was no delay. The Vincents were naturally kind; and now shocked and grieved for Camilla, showed their kindness with all the tact that true feeling prompts. Everything that _could_ comfort or assist her was done; and when they took leave of her with tears in their eyes, their kind and affectionate farewell overcame the little strength she had to resist the violence of her grief.

Ernest forced her to take his arm, and led her down the stairs which she had passed so lightly and happily a short half hour before.

When they reached the door, another parting was awaiting her. With folded arms and downcast eyes Frank Hargrave stood, leaning against the railings which formed the enclosure round the hotel. His attitude, his whole appearance betokened feeling,--feeling for Camilla and for himself. Far away as were his thoughts from his own hopes, or jealous fears, Ernest felt instinctively that a rival was near, and needed not the tremulous movement of the hand that rested on his arm, to assure him--so swiftly came the knowledge--that that rival had won what he had sought in vain. But Ernest’s nature--weak and earth-bound as it was--was not a selfish one. He gave one look of intense scrutiny (a guardian’s rather than a rival’s gaze), and though that glance might not bring entire satisfaction, felt that it was not a moment for him to exercise a guardian’s care. He led her to the door of the carriage that awaited her; then, without stopping to place her in it, re-entered the house, averting even his eyes from her movements, lest he should be a restraint upon her freedom, or add one drop of bitterness to the sorrow of the hour.

Camilla made, however, little use of her freedom. She gave no glance around her, and entered the carriage alone. But thus she was not suffered to depart. Frank Hargrave had _waited_ for a summons, he had waited to be called to comfort her,--he had waited at least, for a wandering glance of her eye; but now, lull of fear and forgetful of all but the parting of the moment, he sprang to her side. She was seated, and at his approach she drew back--but leaning forward and seizing her hand, he passionately exclaimed, “Camilla, my own Camilla! only say that we shall meet again.”

The soft melodious accents, the passionate pressure of her hand, made her whole frame tremble with emotion--but she answered him neither by word or look; one moment she sat powerless, stupified--the next, releasing herself even with violence, she drew to the further side of the carriage and buried her face in her hands.

The maid, loaded with parcels, approached and entered the carriage; Ernest sprang up upon the box, Mrs. Vincent and her daughter, with tearful eyes, kissed their hands to the unheeding Camilla, and they drove away.

Frank Hargrave stood for a moment looking after them, then walked rapidly from the house.

* * * * *

The afternoon sun was still shining brilliantly on the windows and towers of Clare Abbey, when Camilla returned after her first absence, to the home she had left so buoyant in spirit a fortnight before. But even the external appearance of the house bore witness to the change. It looked dreary and deserted; profound silence reigned around, and the grave countenance of the single old servant, who anxiously waited her approach, struck terror and dismay into the mind.

“Mr. St. Maur is no worse,” he said, as the carriage stopped; but look and words both were full of woe. He was fondly attached to Camilla, and had approached to offer such consolation as he could; but her appearance betokened a grief beyond _his_ consolation, and he respectfully drew back that Ernest might appear.

The first acquaintance with anxiety, sorrow and death, is a fearful thing to all; it is doubly so to a young thoughtless being, on whose guarded life no reality of sickness has ever intruded,--in whose tranquil sheltered existence pain has been but a name. Such was Camilla; even common sights of poverty and distress had been hidden from her eyes, and terror, a simple terror of what she might see, and what she might hear, had added its bitterness to the sorrows that were bowing her down. Ernest found her so exhausted with fear and misery, that he was forced almost to lift her to the ground.

He held out his arm, and she clung to him; and so, rather supporting than leading her he guided her through the deserted passages to her brother’s room. One meeting she had by the way, and though in that meeting comfort for a future day might have dimly dawned upon her mind, it brought no comfort then; it spoke too much of fear and a troubled spirit to do aught but increase her dread. As she passed down the first corridor a door softly opened, and her father for an instant appeared; seized her with violence in his arms,--pressed a convulsive kiss on her brow, and disappeared again. Surely, surely there must be a change, if her father could meet her thus.

She stood like one stupified at her brother’s door, and yielded a mechanical obedience to all that Ernest proposed.

He entered the darkened room alone, to prepare Reginald for her appearance,--and silent, tearless, she sat without awaiting his return.

“He is longing to see you,” Ernest said, stooping tenderly over her; “and do not fear, he is quite himself.”

He held the door open for her to pass; but she looked up fearfully in his face and clung to his arm. And so he led her to the bedside; but there the sight of Reginald,--no change to terrify or appal, changed only so as to touch the hardest heart,--restored her to sense, to feeling, to forgetfulness of dread in the consciousness of present sorrow; and falling on her knees beside his pillow, she burst into an agony of tears.

Ernest made a sign to the old housekeeper who had approached in alarm; and both together they left the room, while Reginald faintly but calmly soothed the grief, and quieted the mind of his young and sorrowing sister.