Chapter I

He had (if ’twere not nature’s boon), an art
Of fixing memory in another’s heart.
LARA.

How each at home o’errates his misery,
And thinks that all are musical abroad,
Unfetter’d as the winds, while only he
Of all the glad and licenced world is awed.
GONDIBERT.

The new year dawned, and in Camilla’s opinion began well, for it brought a little novelty with it.

One morning Reginald entered the drawing-room earlier than was usual to him, and asked Camilla to walk with him.

“I want to go as high as the white stone on that hill,” he said, pointing through one of the vistas to a sloping hill that sloped almost into the park, “Do you think you can walk as far?”

“Can I! my dear Reginald,” she exclaimed, laughing, but a little offended; “I am not quite a cripple yet.”

“Miss Vincent said yesterday,” he observed, with a smile and a slight tone of sarcasm in his voice, “that she was so very easily knocked up; I thought, perhaps, she had taught you to be the same.”

“I don’t ask Miss Vincent to teach me anything,” she replied, petulantly. Then as if for some reason afraid of the subject, she hurried on; “I should like to walk with you very much, but what do you wish to see on the hill?”

“It is rather strange that we should have lived here all our lives, without ever having the curiosity to ask the meaning of that white stone. I was told by a traveller the other day, that it is not _a_ stone, but a circle of stones, and that they are generally supposed to be Druids’ stones.”

“That is what I always say,” Camilla said, laughing; “it is impossible to feel any great curiosity about a thing one sees every day. But now you have stirred me up; I should like extremely to see some Druids’ stones. I shall be ready in half a second--” and as, with her many faults, she was not a dawdle, it was but a few seconds before she appeared.

They set off in silence. Camilla was expecting an attack on Miss Vincent, and was preparing herself to defend her. She had felt much anxiety respecting Reginald’s opinion of her new friend, for, though her feeling for her did not amount to affection, her society had become indispensable. Miss Vincent had spent some hours with her on the previous day, and Reginald had met her at luncheon; but as yet he had made no comment. She had not appeared to advantage; seeing with quickness the peculiarities of Reginald’s character, and anxious to please, she had endeavoured to adapt herself to his taste; but she had overdone it; and though perfectly able to talk to a sensible man, had she allowed herself to talk naturally, she had, by affecting sentiments not her own, and propounding questions she did not understand, in plain words, made a fool of herself. Camilla had been aware of it, and had felt uneasy; but, from Reginald’s silence, had supposed and hoped that the weaknesses of her friend had escaped his observation. His remark this morning had proved it to be otherwise, and she set off expecting to be attacked, and prepared for resistance.

“You do not ask me, Camilla, what I think of your Arabella,” Reginald said, laying his hand smilingly on her arm, after they had proceeded some distance in silence.

“Miss Vincent’s name is not Arabella,” she replied, shortly.

“I thought all young ladies’ confidants were called Arabella or Aramintha. What is her name?”

“A very simple name and rather a pretty one,--Sophia.”

“It should not be Sophia,” Reginald said, shaking his head.

“Why? I rather like Sophia.”

“Sophia means wisdom; and it is not appropriate to Miss Vincent.”

“If Sophia does mean wisdom, it is _very_ appropriate, Reginald. Miss Vincent is extremely clever, and ... I hate the word accomplished; but she knows almost everything in the world. I mean, she knows something about everything; it is impossible to puzzle her.”

“She may be clever and accomplished; I don’t know about that: but she is not wise.”

“She is quite wise enough for me,” Camilla said, petulantly; “I don’t like too much wisdom. Really, Reginald, if you had the ordering of the world, we should all be moped to death. We are pretty nearly moped to death as it is.”

“What does Ernest De Grey think of Miss Vincent?” he inquired, after a moment’s pause.

“I don’t the least mind what Mr. De Grey thinks,” she cried with increasing irritation. “I am sure I do not call him so very clever.”

“I don’t know whether he is clever or not,” Reginald said, musingly; “but he has one of those clear judgments which see more plainly than talent sees. I would take his opinion of persons and things far before the opinion of many cleverer people.”

“Then poor Miss Vincent is doubly condemned,” Camilla said, laughing; for her ill-humour was never of long duration. “I asked him one day how he liked her; and he said, pretty shortly and pretty uncivilly, I thought, considering that she is my friend, ‘Not at all!’ But, Reginald,” she continued resolutely, “I don’t mean Mr. De Grey’s opinion to influence me in the least; nor even yours, though I wish you liked her. I like Miss Vincent, and I like her to come and see me; and I can’t give her up.”

“I am sorry you like her, Camilla; I wish you had never made such a friend. I don’t think she is a good one.”

“Why, what harm has she done me?--can you say that she has done me any harm?”

“A little, perhaps. I don’t want to find fault; I dare say she has not done much. But, Camilla, you have disappointed me. Don’t think me unkind,” he continued affectionately, “but I _had_ thought that your taste was too true and too pure to be taken by anything so worldly and so frivolous as Miss Vincent is. I don’t wish you to neglect her, as an _acquaintance_; living, as she does, within your reach, it is perhaps right that you should receive and visit her; but, Camilla, you make a friend of her; you let her guide you and direct you; and yesterday--I did not wish to listen, but the words fell upon my ear--I heard her jest with you about Ernest De Grey; and I don’t know that you encouraged her, but you allowed it.”

“My dear Reginald!” she cried, blushing scarlet, and her eyes filling with tears, “I think you are rather severe with me. Miss Vincent says many things I don’t like, and does many things I don’t like, and if I could choose she is not the friend I would choose to have; but _can_ I choose? My dear Reginald! I am not like you: I can’t go about the world and find friends as I please; I must take what comes, or have none at all. Indeed, indeed, you don’t know what a dull dreary life I lead when you are away, or you would pity me, and be glad that I should have even Miss Vincent to interest me.”

“I am perhaps severe,” he said penitently, touched by the very unwonted sight of her tears. “Forgive me, Camilla, I did not mean to be so. My only wish is to see you bright, clear, and true, as you have always been in spite of your faults. If you feel that Miss Vincent does you no harm,--if she does not taint your mind and fill you with foolish fancies, I will say no more.... But do not let her spoil you, Camilla.”

“If Miss Vincent can spoil me,” she replied smiling, “I am afraid I must be so worthless that there is no use in saving me. I don’t care enough about her to be spoiled by anything she can say or do. I just like her,--that is all,--and she amuses me when I am dull. But, if it pleases you to hear it, I don’t really like her half-a-quarter as much as _your_ friend, Mr. De Grey.”

Reginald looked at her with interest and curiosity, as he often did when she spoke of Ernest De Grey; and “I wish,” just passed his lips, and was withdrawn again.

“What do you wish?” Camilla said, looking up with a slight blush: but at the moment they were beginning to ascend the steep part of the hill, and Camilla stumbled and was raised again by Reginald, and stumbled again and tore her gown, and the question was forgotten.

“There are the stones, Reginald,” she exclaimed, as they reached the top of a steep, stony bank; “and I think they really must be famous, for there is a stranger looking at them,--contemplating them I ought to say, for he looks very thoughtful.”

It was a young man seated on one of the stones, with his aims crossed and his eyes bent downward.

A few steps brought them closer to the stones and to him, and the sound of their footsteps, not of their voices, for they were silent, caused him to raise his eyes.

There was an immediate exclamation of “St Maur!” and the young man came forward to Reginald and held out his hand.

Camilla watched the meeting with curiosity, and was both surprised and sorry to see the hauteur and coldness which Reginald’s manner immediately assumed. She knew that she was more easily pleased than her brother, but it appeared to her that in this case he too might have been gracious. The young man was certainly both striking and pleasing-looking--very tall, and very dark, and very handsome so far as figure and feature went--and possessing one of those intelligently-serious countenances which even when serious disclose liveliness and animation beneath. An _experienced_ observer might have discovered on his brow, and in his eye, a certain restlessness of expression, which troubled and clouded them; but this would scarcely have attracted the first glance even of the experienced, and Camilla would not have been singular in her hastily-formed opinion, that he looked much too clever and remarkable to be a common person.

Her favourable opinion was so strong that when after a few constrained questions and answers Reginald, still with hauteur in his manner, named her as his sister, she blushed and cast down her eyes beneath the quick scrutinizing gaze, that seemed to search her through and through.

A strong desire to please is rarely felt where there is consciousness of superiority; and Camilla, in her small intercourse with the world, had hitherto felt too conscious of giving pleasure to be troubled with any uneasy doubts on the subject. Some doubts, however, now she felt, and, therefore, some desire to please; and it was with a feeling of gratification that she marked the change from the constrained voice in which Reginald was addressed, to the anxious, animated, though respectful tone which greeted her. She felt that she pleased, and was at her ease again.

“Are you staying in this neighbourhood?” Reginald asked, after a few moments of silence.

“Not staying--only travelling. I slept at Alverstoke last night, which I suppose is five or six miles from here; and as I make a point of seeing everything within reach, I came this morning to examine these stones; and this afternoon,” he stopped and smiled, “I hope to catch a view of Clare Abbey.”

Camilla looked at Reginald; and after a slight hesitation, he said, “We are going home immediately; if you have time to spare, I am sure my mother will be happy to see you at luncheon.”

“I will not refuse your invitation,” the young man replied, “because I have heard much of the beauties of the place; but I hope you do not suppose I was hinting for an invitation.”

As Reginald made no reply, Camilla said, “Oh no; we shall be very happy if you will come.”

He bowed and smiled, but quietly, and not as if he felt any peculiar degree of gratitude.

“Shall we go, Camilla?” asked her brother; and turning away, he held out his arm to her, as it seemed unconsciously, and as if from a desire to protect her.

She took it, but with a smile and a slight shake of her head, and her soliloquy was, “Poor Reginald! he takes too great care of me. I really believe he would like to shut me up in a cage.”

“After all,” she cried, suddenly stopping as they moved away, “we have hardly looked at these stones, and they are very curious. Do wait a moment, Reginald. I wish I could fancy an old Druid standing by that large broken bit of rock.”

Mr. Hargrave (for such was his name) smiled, and shook his head.

“Why do you shake your head?” she asked.

“Because I think it requires a very great stretch of imagination to believe that these really are Druid’s stones. I came to see them, because I was told the tradition. But my belief is, that they are merely....”

“Oh! don’t say anything disagreeable,” Camilla said, interrupting him. “I like to think they are Druid’s stones; and it is so wild about here, I am sure they are quite in character.”

“But do you like them to be called so, if the chances are ten to one that they are not so?”

“Yes, I do indeed. I don’t like people to be so clever that they can believe nothing; and that is what we are coming to, I think. One can hardly open a book without having some of one’s favourite stories proved to be false. But I won’t be convinced. I can’t bear these new discoveries.”

“Then, I am sure,” said Mr. Hargrave, bending upon her his piercing eyes, with a smile and an admiring gaze, “if anything I can say can add to the fame of these stones as old Druid’s stones, it shall be said.”

“But you do not believe that they are so yourself?”

“Oh yes,” he said, smiling again. “Upon second thoughts, I think my explanation of their appearance was a foolish one. They _must_ be Druid’s stones.”

“Shall we go, Camilla?” Reginald asked again: “it is getting late.”

It was with a feeling almost of annoyance that he remarked how very lovely his sister was looking, her cheeks glowing, and her eyes sparkling with exercise and animation.

The descent was steep, stony, and slippery, and little conversation took place; but when they entered the gates of Clare Abbey, which stood at the very foot of the hill, Reginald’s natural courteousness returned to him; and though, perhaps unconsciously, retaining his hold of Camilla, he began to converse with less of stiffness, and more of friendliness.

“You are making a tour, then, of these counties?” he said, after some remark of Mr. Hargrave’s.

“Yes--on foot. It is a mode of travelling that I particularly like.”

“And alone?” Reginald inquired.

“Quite alone. I have not spoken to a friend or foe for a fortnight. You seem to be surprised.”

“I was surprised, I own.”

“And why?”

“I can hardly tell. It was my impression, I suppose, that you disliked solitude.”

“It was an unjust impression. I am fond of society, I know; but those who suppose I cannot be alone are as unjust as those who, because I am sometimes idle, suppose I cannot be industrious.” He spoke with a slight degree of pique or resentment.

“I beg your pardon,” Reginald said, with his grave courtesy. “I know I am not famous for judging correctly of the characters of others.”

“Pray, don’t beg my pardon,” his companion said, recovering himself. “If people will be inconsistent, they must, I suppose, expect to be misjudged. But I confess I am sometimes provoked by the judgments of the world--I don’t mean in my own case only: it is the same with everybody. A particular point in a man’s character is chosen, and from that a theory is formed, a plan laid out, cut and dried; and if any venture to transgress the limits of this plan, the victim is supposed to be taking leave of his senses. Whereas, in fact, every man is made up of a variety of characters; and those who are accused of inconsistency are only following one strong tendency for a time, to the neglect of another, which perhaps has had its turn. We could all make twenty theoretic men.”

“I think you are partly right,” Reginald said, thoughtfully. “I believe I am apt to look for too great consistency.”

“_You_ have a right to do it,” his companion said, looking at him with a slight smile; “but few have the right. I am sure I have not.”

“Are you so _very_ inconsistent?” Camilla inquired, bending forward, from the opposite side of her brother.

“_I_ don’t call it inconsistent,” he replied, smiling; “I don’t like to be called so. Sometimes one thing pleases me, and sometimes another, each in their turn; but that is my nature--there is no inconsistency in it.”

“And solitude pleases you at this moment?”

“Yes; it has pleased me for a fortnight, and I think it will please me for a fortnight longer. I began my travels in a very misanthropical mood, disgusted with the world and everybody in the world. I am better now, and by the end of the month I expect to be quite well. But then,” he added, laughing, “it will be only to begin over again--first the disgust, and then the cure.”

“You do not go back to Oxford, I believe?” Reginald inquired.

“No, I am glad and sorry to say so. I have had enough of it, and yet I regret it too.”

“Are you only just leaving Oxford and already disgusted with the world?” Camilla said, leaning forward again; “I am sure I need not wish so much to see the world, if it pleases for such a very short time.”

“What do you wish to see in the world?” he asked, and asked with another of those keen glances.

“I don’t know the least,” she replied, laughing, “a great deal new, and a great deal beautiful, and all exciting; but I think of it so vaguely, that I believe my fancies are more like fairy tales than reality. I _don’t_ expect to see the Queen sitting all day with her crown on her head, but a year or two ago I think I did.”

“Then pray let nothing I have said destroy your hopes of happiness in the world. It does weary some people, but I don’t think it will weary you;--it all depends on the feelings we take with us. Besides, even for me, though it occasionally may disgust, does not solitude do the same?”

“That it certainly does,” Camilla said warmly, “that is, I think it does when it is forced upon one, and when one feels shut up in a cage; but I don’t think I should dislike it; I think I should rather like it if I were a man.”

“Ah! Camilla,” Reginald said with a slight smile, “you always lay your feelings to the charge of your position, not to yourself.”

“Because, my dear Reginald, it is so. If I could go where I pleased, and see the beautiful scenery, and wonderful things, and great people I wish to see, I should be quite satisfied. I never should wish, I don’t even wish as I now am, to live in a crowd. I don’t like common tiresome people, and there must be a great many tiresome people in a crowd.”

“There you are quite right,” remarked Mr. Hargrave, “a crowd is the bane of existence. One sees nothing, and one is nothing in a crowd. But then a crowd is not society. Do you remember what Byron calls it?”

“No, I am only _rather_, not _very_, fond of Lord Byron.”

“Solitude;” and he repeated carelessly, yet with a peculiar beauty of recitation, some of the well-known lines.

“I think he spoke correctly,” Reginald said, musingly; “I have often felt the same.”

As they entered the garden, Reginald left his sister and hastened on to the house. He knew that his request for leave to bring Mr. Hargrave to luncheon would be granted without hesitation, but he would not ask him even to set foot in the house, till that permission was given. In some slight contrast to his opinions, his tone of mind was old-fashioned, and any degree of freedom or familiarity with his parents was revolting to him. Such deference may perhaps, like other virtues, have an excess, but it may be practised long before that excess is found.

Camilla guessed his object in leaving her, and stood on the broad gravel walk at a little distance from the house, awaiting his return.

She had been talking easily till now--but on finding herself alone with Mr. Hargrave, the sensation of diffidence stole again over her mind. They stood in silence. She felt rather than saw that he was looking at her, and she was uneasy beneath his scrutiny. She wished he would speak, she wished to speak herself, but no subject would come at her call.

At length growing impatient, she glanced around her, and said, “Do you think it pretty?”

Few things could have been more simple or common-place; but she looked up blushing and shyly as she broke the silence.

“Very pretty, indeed--and I never saw anything like it before, which in my opinion is great praise.”

He said no more; and Camilla, easy as it might have seemed, finding herself unable to raise a fresh subject, was silent also. Another pause followed, and to her it was a very awkward one.

Her companion broke it at last: “What do you say to those stiff pine-trees?” he asked, pointing to the tall firs which stood on the verge of the terrace. “In my misanthropical moods they would suit me well; for they would hide the world from my view: but in my other moods,--better or worse, I don’t know which to call them,--I am afraid I should look upon them as enemies. Do you ever feel a wish to cut them down?”

“Yes,” Camilla said, laughing, “very often, but for no good reason; only because I always wish to make a change.”

“I think,” he continued, “I should look upon them as stiff stern sentinels, placed by stiff stern guardians, to guard, like the cherubims with flaming swords, the world from my view; and the sense of restraint would make me rebel and wish to escape from their control.”

“You have made an allegory of them,” Camilla replied; “but I don’t much like it. It will make me melancholy to look at them now.”

“Shall I make another allegory, then?” he said, smiling. “They are not stiff, stern sentinels guarding the world from your view, but they are watchful friends, pointing to the world beyond; and in the glimpses they give in the present, foretelling how bright the future will be. See,” he added, after a moment, suddenly, “see how the bright sunshine is creeping over that distant mountain!”

“But it is very distant,” Camilla said laughing, and blushing she hardly knew why.

“Not so very distant; at some time or other the great world comes near to us all, and as we are, so our world will be. Yours, I should think, will be as bright as that sunny mountain.”

“I hope it will; but I really don’t know what I am talking of. It is very unlikely that the great world, as you call it, should ever come near me.”

“Not utterly impossible, I hope,” he said, bending his gaze with an earnest expression upon her as he spoke. “On that great world I should very much like to meet you again.”

She cast down her eyes, blushed deeply, even trembled, and made no further attempt to carry on the conversation. They stood for a few minutes more in silence, then slowly walked on till Reginald appeared from the house. His father had simply nodded his head in acquiescence to his request, but his mother had detained him with some questions as to the propriety of improving her dress for her guest, and he had been absent more than ten minutes. To his anxious mind they seemed more like hours than minutes; and he glanced uneasily at his sister and her companion as they silently approached, but, apparently, his scrutiny satisfied him, for his manner increased in courtesy as he invited Mr. Hargrave to enter the house.

* * * * *

Mr. and Mrs. Hervey and Ernest De Grey dined at Clare Abbey on the same evening. There were no other guests. Mr. Hargrave had remained for one hour only. Neither Lord nor Lady Vere would have dreamed of inviting him to stay at the Abbey, and Reginald, satisfied with the civility he had been enabled to show, made no further request, nor in fact desired to do so. If Camilla’s feelings were different, she said nothing. If with something of anxiety and hope she watched her brother when the time of departure came, she made no request or comment. The new acquaintances parted like chance acquaintances, and his name was scarcely mentioned again.

“Who was your friend, Reginald?” Lady Vere did exert herself to say, as she sat in the drawing-room before dinner, awaiting her guests; and Reginald’s answer was,

“Frank Hargrave his name is, mother. I knew him at Oxford; but he is no _friend_ of mine.”

“I thought he was your friend, as you brought him home. Do you like my new silk, Camilla?” And Camilla’s opened eager eyes, closed with disappointment at this conclusion to the conversation.

The dinner was more than commonly stiff and silent; for Lord Vere, in addition to his usual mental ailments, had for the first time a slight attack of gout, and his annoyance under the infliction was seen and felt, though not expressed.

At the conclusion of dinner he declared his intention of returning to his own room. Unaccustomed to assistance, and disdaining it, he rose from his seat without support; but, unaccustomed also to pain, he winced as he stood upright. Reginald, ever watchful, was by his side in an instant, and held out his arm. Lord Vere looked doubtful, and drew himself stiffly up; but apparently Reginald’s countenance, raised to his own, conquered him; for, turning with a cold and silent bow to Ernest and Mr. Hervey, he accepted his son’s proffered assistance, and they left the room together.

Ernest and Mr. Hervey proceeded to the drawing-room. Lady Vere, seated on the sofa, was smiling placidly as usual beneath Mrs. Hervey’s tales. Camilla also was in her usual place, at a little distance from the sofa, before a table littered with books; but not as usual was her countenance or her smile. If occasionally, in her long and lonely days, gloom and ill-humour stole over her brow, it was but rarely so--never when Reginald was at home--never on occasions such as the present--never for many minutes in duration; but this night she was unlike herself: it was evidently no common disturbance that clouded her eyes, and hung round her sweet smiling lips.

Ernest had watched her during dinner with intense interest, and it was with intense interest that he approached her now.

“Is anything the matter this evening?” he said, standing by the table, and bending towards her. “I am sure there is. I am afraid you are not well.”

“Not well?” she said, laughing. “What _can_ make you so fanciful? I don’t know what it is to be ill.”

“I can’t help being fanciful: you don’t look the least like yourself this evening. I am sure something is the matter. If you are not ill, I am afraid you have been worried or annoyed, and I am very sorry to think so.”

He spoke very kindly and very anxiously, but with an endeavour to restrain the extreme curiosity and anxiety he really felt.

The disturbance of Camilla’s mind was still more evident in her manner than in her countenance; for to his anxious inquiries she replied petulantly, and even contemptuously,

“I believe, Mr. De Grey, you are one of those who wish people to be always alike, always pleased and cheerful; but I don’t wish it myself. I like variety. How is it possible for any one to be always the same?”

It was a faint echo from the morning’s conversation; for her mind was at this time in that soft and malleable state, that everything as it passed over her left its impression behind.

“I am afraid you will think me very tame and insipid if I say so,” Ernest replied, a little gravely,--for he was both puzzled by and hurt at her manner; “but I do like people to be always the same. I don’t mean stupidly and unmeaningly so; but I don’t like clouds, and storms, and disturbances in the air. If they are sent, we must submit to them; but when they are of our own causing, I don’t like them. If I could, I would always see sunshine.”

“So would I,” she said, looking up suddenly; “if I could, I would always have sunshine; but when the sunshine is absent,” and she smiled and shook her head, “what can there be but clouds?”

“Did you find the sun hot to-day?” inquired Mr. Hervey. “Your brother was telling me that you walked for a considerable distance.”

Camilla looked at Ernest with an amused smile before she replied, and reassured by the confidence of her expression, and feeling that whatever might be the cause of her disturbance, she was not offended with _him_, he drew a chair to the table, and sat down beside her.

Mr. Hervey placed himself between the two detachments, in the position most calculated to obtain the greatest quantity of information, but a little nearer to Camilla than to Lady Vere; since it might be imagined that in her conversation there would probably be more of novelty than could be collected from the narrations of his mother.

“What a beautiful book!” Ernest exclaimed, taking one from the table. “It is a new one, is it not?”

“Reginald gave it to me on New Year’s Day.”

“Do you approve of the practice of New Year’s gifts, Miss St. Maur?” inquired Mr. Hervey.

“Oh yes, of course I do, and of Christmas-boxes, and birth-day presents besides.”

“And wedding gifts, I conclude?”

“Oh yes,” she replied, smiling, “wedding gifts too, when they are necessary.”

“Here are some verses,” Ernest said, looking up from the book he had been examining (a collection of poems from various authors, illustrated with designs of unusual beauty). “Here are some verses rather strangely appropriate to what we were talking of just now. They are called ‘The Gladness of Life.’ Have you read them?”

“No,” Camilla said, glancing at the book; “at least I don’t remember them. Will you read them to me?--not that I shall agree with them, I am sure.”

“Shall I read them?” and Ernest glanced at Lady Vere.

“Oh, yes! mamma will like it. Mamma, you would like Mr. De Grey to read some verses, shouldn’t you?”

“It will give me great pleasure,” she replied, with a polite bow to Ernest.

He read, and read well, the following verses. Every verse was illustrated by a quaint and appropriate design, placed side by side with the verse on the page:

THE GLADNESS OF LIFE.

So variously are all things wrought,
I marvell’d how the mind was brought
To anchor by one gloomy thought.
TENNYSON.

* * * * *

Happy the young who haste away
Ere life her page unfold,
Ere they have bow’d with Passion’s sway,
Or shrank from Sorrow’s cold.

And happy those who linger yet
The steep ascent to climb;
For treasures lie like jewels set
Upon the breast of Time.

Happy the glad, for theirs is Love,
And theirs are light-wing’d hours;
And pure the heart that springs above
From earth’s unfolding flowers.

And happy those to whom forlorn
A drearier lot is given:
For Crowns of Thorns in patience worn,
Are Crowns of Light in heaven.

Happy the pure, whose footsteps tread,
Unharm’d, temptation’s strife;
The dews of heaven rest on their head,
And bless their angel life.

And happy those who turn again,
Their long, long wanderings past;
For though the way be full of pain,
Pardon is won at last.

Happy the rich--for to their hands
A gracious power is lent,
To fall, as rain bedews the lands,
Where’er their steps are bent.

And happy even those who need,--
The toiling and the poor;--
For such a path as now they tread,
Their Master trod before.

Where’er we turn, may joy be found,
Will we but seek it deep;
Though frost lies cold upon the ground,
Beneath the flower roots sleep.

“What a quantity of verses all about the same thing,” exclaimed Lady Vere, when Ernest’s melodious voice ceased to read.

“But they mean different things,” said Mrs. Hervey, sagely.

“Who is the author of the poem?” inquired Mr. Hervey; “I think I have heard something like it before.”

“The author,” Ernest said, glancing at the index with a smile, “is that person whom I used to suppose was known by the name of Mr. Anon.”

“Anonymous, I conclude?” inquiringly.

“Of course, Mr. Hervey,” Camilla cried; “what else could Mr. De Grey mean?”

“Oh! I supposed him to mean anonymous.”

“But do you like the verses, Mr. De Grey?” Camilla said, the cloud stealing over her brow again. “I don’t like them at all.”

“Yes I like them,” he said, thoughtfully, and watching her with interest, “because I think it is what we ought to feel. It is an idea that has haunted me all my life long; and I am sure the better we become, the more we should feel it and like it.”

“Then I must be very bad,” she said, petulantly, “for I don’t like it at all. I don’t understand even what it means,” she continued, sadly. “How can it ever be equally happy to us to have our wishes or to be miserable?”

“It _is_ difficult to understand. Pray don’t think that _I_ understand it, for I don’t. I only say I like the idea, and I think we _should_ understand and feel it, and.... I wish I could.”

“I wonder what Reginald would say,” she said, as her brother entered the room; “it is just the kind of sad idea he likes. Reginald,” she called, “we want you to read some verses out of that pretty book you gave me; and we want you to explain them to us, for we can none of us understand what they mean.”

“I beg your pardon, Miss St. Maur,” Mr. Hervey said, a little offended, “I thought the verses were perfectly clear. They meant to express, as Shakspere says, that there is good in everything.”

“Oh yes! Mr. Hervey, we know that,” she said, impatiently; “we did not mean that kind of understanding. But we want to know whether you like them, Reginald, and whether you ever could feel that they speak the truth?”

He read them attentively, then shook his head. “No, Camilla,” he said, “I feel like you, I don’t understand them; and, more than this, I don’t think I wish to understand them. The idea does not please me. I like that verse,” pointing to the second, “but not the others. Listen to these lines,” he said, turning over two or three pages; “I like these better; they express more my feeling of life.” And, with a rising colour, he read the following lines from a poem on “Duty:”

Oft where she leads thy blood must mark thy footsteps;
Oft where she leads, thy head must bear the storm,
And thy shrunk form endure heat, cold, and hunger;
But she will guide thee up to noble heights,
Which he who gains, seems native of the sky,
While earthly things lie stretch’d beneath his feet,
Diminish’d, shrunk, and valueless.

“No, Reginald, no,” Camilla said, shaking her head sadly; “that does not please me either. I like it better than Mr. De Grey’s poem, because it gives pain its proper name, but still it speaks as if pain were pleasing. Give me the book, and let me see if I can find something I like. Will you read this, Mr. De Grey,--‘The Sadness of Life?’ Perhaps that will express what I feel.” She placed the book before Ernest, and he read again:

THE SADNESS OF LIFE.

For violets pluck’d, the sweetest showers
Can ne’er make grow again.
OLD BALLAD.

The new-born day is fresh and fair,
The balmy breezes fan the air,
The flowers look up, the sun to greet;
The sky smiles down, their love to meet.
All, all is bright--yet still we say,
Where is the bloom of yesterday?

The rose that decks thy garden bower,
Although it be a lovely flower,
Is not the same that blest thine eyes
When June last spread her laughing skies.
And ere another sun be set,
Another parting must be met.

The latter days of Job were blest,
Joys fell in showers upon his breast,
His home to deck, his cares to wile,
Young daughters came with beauty’s smile;
But where were they whose early grace,
First made his home a pleasant place?

Oh! life, this is the saddening thought
With which thy dearest joys are fraught;
Though day by day, new hopes arise,
The eyes they bless are tearful eyes.
We own to-morrow may be bright,
But still ‘twill be _To-morrow’s_ light.

He looked at her with an inquiring smile, as he ceased, but she drew the book from before him, and closed it with some impatience.

“You read as if you liked the verses, Mr. De Grey. I don’t. They might do for a very old man. I dare say a hundred years to come I shall think of them with pleasure; but if youth is to be as melancholy as that, I think we had better not live. I like to think of the past, but I don’t regret it at all. The sadness of life is in the future--to look on and on, and see _nothing_ that can give one pleasure.” A faint colour passed over her cheek as she spoke, and she rose suddenly from her seat and went to the pianoforte.

Ernest looked after her wonderingly and anxiously, and, rapt in his intense curiosity, Reginald addressed him twice in vain. On observing this distraction, a slight smile passed over the lips of the latter, and immediately turning away, and bestowing his attention on Mr. Hervey, he left Ernest to himself.

The next moment Ernest had followed Camilla. He placed himself in the window near which the pianoforte stood, and intently watched her countenance as, languidly and uninterestedly, she played a long and difficult piece of music, for which her mother had asked. The moment it was over, he said,

“Is it possible that life wears such sad colours to your eyes? You never used to speak as you do to-night.”

“Because I never used to think,” she replied.

“And what has made you think now?” he asked, with extreme interest.

His question seemed to make her thoughtful: her hand wandered idly over the keys, and she did not reply to him.

He did not dare to repeat his question, and they remained silent.

After a few moments she recovered herself, and continued the conversation.

“Don’t you think life is full of disappointment? It seems to me that very few people have what they wish. Do _you_ have what you wish?”

“Perhaps not,” he replied, gravely. Consciousness of sympathy with her present expression of feeling kept him for an instant silent; but after a short pause, he continued: “But still, though I own it may be so, I cannot look on life in such a very sad light. If it is full of trial and struggle, is it not chiefly our own fault, because we set our minds on things beyond our reach and beyond our merit? And if disappointment comes, is it not almost necessary? If we had all our wishes, should we not be selfish, earth-bound...?”

He thought he was answering and consoling her; but he was in fact preaching to himself, and to feelings at the moment too powerful within him.

She interrupted him with tears in her eyes, a sight he never had seen before.

“Oh, Mr. De Grey, don’t--pray, don’t! When I am happy, I dare say it is right to say such hard things--but not to-night. You ought to have told me that some day my wishes will be fulfilled--that some day I shall be as happy as I wish to be.”

“You will, you surely will,” he said, earnestly; the teacher forgotten, his whole being ready to go forth to give or promise her happiness.

“It seems as if it must be so,” she answered, musingly. “It seems as if such great desires, such a thirst for happiness, could not have been planted in us if it were not to be fulfilled. It seems as if we should not have been allowed to dream such bright dreams, unless at some time they were to be realized.”

“What are your dreams?--what is it you wish?” There was an agony of interest in his countenance and his tone.

“I wish....” She paused,--“I hardly know--I cannot say what I do wish; but I know I feel there must be much more in life than I have ever felt, a happiness greater than I have ever dreamed of. And yet it seems beyond my reach--it makes me melancholy to think of it--it makes me sad and wretched, instead of happy, as it should do.” She paused again, then raised her face to his: “And, what are _your_ dreams?” she inquired; and this night there was simple curiosity in her questions--not a shade of that childish and coquettish spirit which occasionally had marked them.

“My dreams would be more easily told than yours,” he replied, in a low voice, averting his eyes from her lifted face, which looked very lovely in its imaginative sadness.

A moment afterwards, as if to resist a strong temptation, he moved to the other side of the pianoforte, and having examined her music, gave her a song with a smile, and seated himself at a distance. She looked after him as if pondering,--then with more than usual feeling, began “The Song of the Olden Time.” But the song was a safe one, its tone of pensive memory acting as an antidote to the more vivid thoughts and hopes that were agitating Ernest’s mind, and when it was over he had recovered himself.