Chapter V

... He says he loves my daughter,
I think so too; for never gazed the moon
Upon the water, as he’ll stand and read
As ’twere my daughter’s eyes.
THE WINTER’S TALE.

The drawing lessons began the next day, and as the master was extremely attentive, and the lessons were prolonged for three or four hours, it was natural that the pupils should make great progress. And they did so. Camilla had a good deal of genius; not for drawing in particular, but she had that turn of mind which seizes on ideas, and by quickness and originality of perception makes them its own. If she had hitherto profited but little in her studies, it was for want of patience and perseverance, not capacity; and perseverance was not wanting now. Miss Vincent drew tolerably well--she did most things well up to a certain point--and she had sufficient taste to appreciate Frank Hargrave’s superior talent, and to profit by it.

Few pupils have had so entertaining a teacher. At first he watched over them incessantly, but varied his instructions by a fund of conversation of the most interesting and amusing kind--then he read to them, at short intervals, little pieces of his own selection, well chosen and well read. On the morning of the fourth lesson, he said such constant watchfulness was no longer necessary, and placing before the two a rough bold sketch prepared for their special instruction, he sat down opposite to them, and commenced a reading of a more continuous kind.

For the morning’s entertainment he had chosen Miss Baillie’s beautiful play of Count Basil, and Camilla’s most intimate acquaintance; the most watchful student of her character could not have chosen better, so far as her tastes were concerned. There is a chivalrous spirit in the play, in the Love, as well as in the Love of glory, which peculiarly adapted it to the strongest features of her disposition; and if in former times the latter passion would have touched her most, a change was coming over her, which made the former no less interesting now.

Frank Hargrave read well, and more than well. It was scarcely reading; it was nearer acting; and as the play proceeded, and as raising his eyes again and again, he ever met Camilla’s glance, now sparkling with excitement, now tearful with emotion, he gathered increase of power, increase of passion, till he and his hearers alike were carried away.

At the conclusion of the play, he sat for a few moments silent; then, closing the book, he said, “Such is the power of Love.”

“And yet it is a power Miss St. Maur doubts,” Miss Vincent said, laughing; “she has told me so again and again. It is possible her opinion may be changed, for I have certainly caught her weeping over these sorrows of love; but it is not very long ago since she doubted whether.... What have you not said, Miss St. Maur? for I may mistake your opinions.”

“Do you doubt the power of love?” Frank Hargrave inquired, fixing his eyes earnestly on Camilla as he spoke.

“I don’t know,” she replied, bending her head over her drawing. A moment afterwards, however, raising her eyes and speaking with some vehemence, she added, “Yes, I think I do doubt the existence of any power which could, in real life, make a brave man forget glory and duty, as Count Basil did.”

“I was right, you see,” Miss Vincent said, mockingly; “Miss St. Maur not only doubts, but actually does not understand what the power of love may be. I wish I could teach her better things--I confess I have tried, and in vain.”

“You wrong her, I think,” Frank Hargrave said, watching Camilla as he spoke; “Miss St. Maur may agree with the sentiment expressed in Landor’s emphatic words ‘_Love is a secondary passion in those who love most; a primary in those who love least. He who is inspired by it in a great degree, is inspired by honour in a greater._’ That, I think, was all she meant to express. Have I explained your meaning truly?” he inquired, and he waited for an answer.

“Yes, very well, exactly;” she replied, hastily raising her eyes and looking down again.

“_I_ don’t understand your meaning,” Miss Vincent said; “at least, if I do, I think I could disprove it by a thousand examples; witness the noble, chivalrous, ambitious Count Basil himself. But I won’t stay to argue with you, for I promised mamma to write to the housekeeper at Carrington, when I had done my drawing, and it is done;” and throwing it on the table, and without noticing Camilla’s look of uneasiness, she left the room.

That Frank Hargrave’s society was pleasant to her,--that his power over her was a strange one, none could doubt; but she never found herself alone with him without a feeling of uneasiness, which changed her into a different being. The feeling was on this occasion increased by the remembrance of the subject under discussion.

But her uneasiness was needless, for observing her embarrassment, his only desire was to dispel it. Pushing the book from before him, and taking Miss Vincent’s drawing in his hand, he began to comment upon it in playful and rather sarcastic terms.

“Don’t you admire it?” Camilla asked, recovering herself, and looking up with surprise. “It seems to me so very pretty; I only wish I could ever hope to draw half as well.”

“You already draw a thousand times better,” he said quietly and sincerely, not complimentarily.

She laughed and shook her head.

“I mean what I say,” he continued, and he came towards her to examine her drawing. “Miss Vincent puts on her colours smoothly, and gives a very finished look to her sketches; but there could not be a question that there is more genius in that one drawing of yours than in all Miss Vincent’s put together.”

“But what is the use of genius, then,” Camilla said, laughing, “if it is only to make a mess and look very ugly? It would be better to be without it.”

“Now do you see what I mean?” he cried, taking the two drawings, and placing them together at a distance; “do you understand what I mean by genius, now?”

Perhaps Camilla internally confessed that in the distance her rough bold colouring did put Miss Vincent’s more minute workmanship to shame; for she said no more: but as she held out her hand for her drawing, inquired, “Don’t you like Miss Vincent?”

“Why should you think I did not?” he said, looking at her smilingly.

“I don’t exactly know; I thought you did till to-day, but I fancied just now that you did not like her.”

“Do _you_ like her?”

“Oh! yes, very much.”

“But do you love her?”

“No,” Camilla said hesitatingly, “I don’t think I do.”

“No more do I!” he continued laughingly, “and never could nor can conceive any one’s loving her. She is handsome, I think, and agreeable in a certain way, and very kind and good-natured; but that is all. I may not do her justice; I don’t know her well enough to pretend that I fully understand her character, but she seems to me, judging from the surface, to be both frivolous and worldly, and I should fancy she might be a dangerous companion.”

“You speak exactly like Reginald,” Camilla said thoughtfully. She was thinking not of _him_, but of Miss Vincent and of Reginald’s strong prejudice against her; but to _him_ her thoughts were drawn when she saw the flash of pleasure that lighted his eyes and flushed his cheek.

“Do you know,” he said, stooping down a little, “that you have paid me the highest compliment that I ever have received, or could wish to receive?”

She blushed, but attempted to laugh. “That was not your opinion a few days ago; you did not wish to be like Reginald then.”

He made no immediate answer, but placed himself behind her, and commented on her drawing before he said, in a lower voice, “I confess I have changed, in a degree. May I tell you why?”

“Oh, no!” she said hurriedly; “of course, people may change;” and she nervously dashed her brush into the glass of water (no longer harmless) that stood beside her, splashing it over her drawing in her tremor.

He quickly took the brush from her hand, and remedied the evil, and then calmly returned to his instructions, till Mrs. and Miss Vincent re-entered the room.

* * * * *

Mrs. Vincent was called by all her acquaintance a kind motherly woman; and she was so, but a most injudicious one. Most mothers--even injudicious mothers--would have seen the danger of such an intercourse as that now established between Frank Hargrave and her daughter and Camilla, but Mrs. Vincent did not think of it. Governed in all such points by her daughter, she had acquiesced at once when permission was asked for the proposed plan, and having acquiesced, allowed things to take their course. She was accustomed to singing lessons with her daughter; there was nothing very new therefore in the present arrangement. Mr. Vincent, more observant, made an effort at remonstrance.

“Miss St. Maur is very young, my dear, and she and Mr. Hargrave are a great deal together. I hope nothing will come of it that Lord and Lady Vere may disapprove.”

“What should come of it,” Mrs. Vincent replied, laughing, “but a little flirtation, at the very worst? you are so fond of interference for nothing. Do you remember how uneasy you were when Mr. Langley came to practise with Sophia last year? but what harm did it do? You confessed you were mistaken then.”

“I confessed I was mistaken then!” he repeated solemnly. “Nevertheless....”

“Oh, pray don’t make a fuss about it! Consider what a dull life the poor little thing leads at home. I am sure no word of mine shall spoil her pleasure here.”

“She leads a dull life at home, and therefore the more....” but a speech of considerable wisdom and observation from Mr. Vincent was lost to posterity from the indifference of his wife, who did not pause to hear its conclusion. She opened the door into the adjoining room, where a drawing lesson was taking place, and was immediately appealed to by her daughter for her decision, on a point which put her wisdom and judiciousness to the test.

Among Frank Hargrave’s drawings some little crayon portraits, cleverly and prettily done, had been found by Miss Vincent. Extremely delighted with them, she had first called upon him to attempt her likeness; then, on second thoughts, had suggested that Camilla should sit to him. Frank Hargrave caught eagerly at the proposal, but on observing Camilla’s very evident distaste, had refrained from pressing it. Miss Vincent, however, conscious of his wish, and supposing that Camilla’s shyness was only common shyness (perhaps a little put on, as she had sometimes observed among her acquaintance), held to her point, and with many arguments was endeavouring to overcome her reluctance. It was not overcome at the time of Mrs. Vincent’s entrance, for shrinking and embarrassment might plainly be read on her countenance. But Mrs. Vincent could not resist her daughter’s appeal; or, if she had resisted, being unable to conceive reluctance to have a portrait painted gratis (a point, rich as she was, far from indifferent to her), gave her decided opinion in favour of the proposal, and so it was settled. Wilful and wayward as Camilla was at home, her wilfulness was that of habit, not of nature. She was at the command of those who chose to command her, as her submission to Miss Vincent had from the first plainly proved; and now, like a puppet in their hands, she acquiesced in their will.

And so, the live-long day, she and Frank Hargrave were together. In the morning there were the drawing lessons; in the afternoon the portrait painting; in the cool evening there were wanderings along the beautiful sea-shore, or excursions on the water, prolonged till the moon was high in the heavens; and (though seldom entirely alone,) Frank Hargrave was ever at her side;--so much uncertainty only in his attention as prevented comments he did not desire to excite; and as recalled now and then, when she had time for thought, the warning received (a warning not intended, yet accepted as such) from Miss Vincent’s lips.

But there was truly little time for thought: the days passed as in a dream,--the excitement never died away, and so they came to the conclusion of the fortnight and to the last day but one of Camilla’s stay.

On the afternoon of that day the portrait was to be concluded; the whole of the next was to be devoted to an excursion to some beautiful ruins, which Camilla had much wished to see.

The drawing had been attempted in a more ambitious style than was common to him, and so had been prolonged from day to day; but Frank Hargrave was clever, and failure was a word scarcely allowed in his vocabulary. The sittings had passed pleasantly, for he had himself taken pains that nothing should occur to cause embarrassment to Camilla. Mrs. and Miss Vincent had remained in the room, and Miss Vincent had generally read aloud at his request, when the more minute parts of the picture occupied his own attention.

On this last day, however, Miss Vincent was out, and Mrs. Vincent was suddenly called by visitors into the adjoining room.

Frank Hargrave stopped her as she was hurrying away. “I know you have thought me whimsical and ridiculous, if not arrogant and presumptuous, for refusing to hear comments or criticisms upon my performance. But the fact is, that criticisms, to me at least, are utterly useless, till the idea is thoroughly worked out;--they only ruffle my temper, and make me appear like an arrogant bear. Now, however, the picture will be finished in half an hour, and I shall be most grateful for any criticisms you can make, and the more the better.”

Mrs. Vincent stood behind him, and was sincere as well as warm in her praise.

“I wish I could find a fault, Mr. Hargrave, for the sake of showing a little discernment, but I am sorry to say I cannot. You have made a pretty picture and a perfect likeness, and what can one say more? One thing more, however, I will say, not to you, but to Miss St. Maur,” and she turned with a smile to Camilla; “Mr. Hargrave has made a very pretty picture, my dear Miss St. Maur; but notwithstanding, he has not flattered you,” and nodding her head with kind admiration at Camilla, she left the room.

A silence followed the closing of the door. The close intercourse of the past days had not been without effect on Camilla’s mind. They had deepened and strengthened the attraction with which Frank Hargrave had from the first attracted her--and in the same degree had dispelled the fear with which she had originally resisted the attraction. If now she sat silent and uneasy--if she desired to break the silence, yet found in every subject a meaning which made it dangerous--it was simply from shyness, and proceeded rather from confidence than doubt.

While she sat thus timid and shrinking, wishing yet dreading her companion would speak, he continued his work, and as if to relieve her, without raising his eyes; at length he spoke.

“I have almost finished my work, and for the first time in my life, for I am not naturally persevering, I think of its conclusion only with regret.”

He gave a single glance, then withdrew it again.

If Camilla had once had a childish propensity to flirt, that time was past. It _must_ be past when true feeling is excited; for what are flirtations and sentimental conversations but an acting of that on the surface, which, in its intensity, “has that within which passeth show?” Far, therefore, from desiring to enter on such a conversation now, her only thought was to escape from it; yet she paused; fearful even in escaping to understand too much.

“I should like to take likenesses,” she said at last, not answering his speech, yet not entirely changing the subject; “it must be very interesting, but I suppose _very_ difficult.”

“Not very difficult, I think,” he replied; “it is of course more or less difficult to do anything _well_; but the mere act of taking a likeness is not difficult. It is a peculiar talent which all, even all artists, do not possess; but it is not a talent of a high order in itself, as village sign-posts may tell us. It is not difficult,” he added, after a moment’s thought; “but in some cases, I think it is dangerous.”

“More than any other kind of painting?” Camilla said, innocently, supposing him to allude to some physical dangers to which artists are exposed.

“Yes,” he replied, a scarcely perceptible smile playing over his mouth; “much more. Can you not fancy what danger might in some cases spring from it?” He paused and glanced at her for a moment; then, uncertain whether or not she understood him, returned to his occupation.

“Do you know the story of the Monk of Camaldoli?” he inquired.

“No,” she replied, shaking her head and playing with some flowers she held in her hand; for though she was not sure what he meant, she felt nervously afraid that something was coming.

“It is a pretty story, but as it is much prettier in poetry than in simple quickly told prose, I must try and remember some lines I once heard. I am not sure that I can repeat them, but I will try;” and after a little reflection, with his usual expressive manner and deep feeling, he began the following lines:

The world shut out--the vows eternal spoken,
By which the latest links to earth are broken;
The live-long day passed in the lonely cell,
Or where the hymns of praise to Heaven swell,
With drooping eye that humbly seeks the ground
With closed lip, from whence proceeds no sound;
Thus severed from thy kind, from thine own will,
Hast thou with mortal man communion still?

Yes, doubt it not; though parted from the strife
Of earthly tumult, feeling yields not life;
Yes, doubt it not; this lonely, silent heart,
Thus from all human solace drawn apart,
The power of earth’s affections still can prove
And even here we own the might of Love.

Follow him to his cell--there bending down,
Ask what the work his wasted fingers own?
With eye that wanders not, with earnest gaze,
Ask what the ceaseless labour of his days?
He will not speak! then watch his pencil trace
Those features soft and fair,--that young, sweet face,--
The brow so clear; so deep, so blue the eye,
Madonna-like in its still purity,
All fresh, serene, and calm, and yet the while
Entrancing with a lightly dawning smile.
Whence is she? is’t a dream, that day by day
He strives to rescue from mere fancy’s sway;
Is it a glimpse of heaven before the time,
To which his earthly pencil strives to climb?
Nay, not a dream--too speaking and too bright;
That waking smile--it _must_ have blest his sight,
He _must_ have met those eyes so full, so clear,
’Tis more than beauty that is breathing there;
A chord aroused from memory’s long-hushed strain,
The past, the living past, called back again.
’Tis love--man’s love, and, oh! how deep, how true,
In the far convent’s calm, blooming anew,
How must he once have gazed--how drank that spell,
How worshipped once--ah! e’en perchance, too well!

And who was she, the spirit of the past?
Still o’er the world her beauty does she cast,
Walks she in glory with that angel face,
Loved, cherished, blest, and blessing with its grace;
Or all that heavenly dawn, that faultless bloom,
Lies it unseen and mouldering in the tomb?
Vainly we ask. He spoke not of the love
Which time had not removed, nor could remove;
His hand first traced, then gazed his blissful eye--
His tale is told!--There he remained to die!

Camilla listened breathlessly. She had a very youthful appetite for tales, and the double interest which Frank Hargrave gave to all he spoke, made her listen to this present one with an eagerness which carried her thoughts from herself and from the peculiar circumstances under which it was told.

“How very strange,” she said, as he concluded. “It is such a pretty story that I hope it is a true one. Do you think it is?”

“I believe it is true, and I see no reason to doubt it. If he was a painter, there was nothing strange. Many have painted from memory--many do so still; and if he was not a painter, yet there is nothing beyond belief. It would be,” he added, with a slight smile, “only another instance of the power of love. Love has made many more curious transformations than changing a poor monk into a painter.”

“I think it curious still,” Camilla said, but she was growing uneasy again.

“Do you now see what I meant by the danger of which I spoke?” he began again, after a silence of a few moments. “Do you think the poor monk’s employment in his cell would have made it more easy for him to banish the remembrance of the past? If he had wished to do so, do you think, after those days of earnest contemplation, it would have been possible?”

She made no answer, nor did he wait for one. Suddenly rising, he turned towards her the portrait of herself, and placed himself at her side.

It was the first time she had been allowed to see it; and while startled at its likeness, she was pleased and flattered by its beauty. With a deep blush, she contemplated it, and though fearful and agitated, could not but say, “It is a great deal too pretty for me.”

But Frank Hargrave was not in the mood for mere compliments. He scarcely heard what she said, but bending towards her, murmured, “Do you think it will assist _me_ in forgetting these last few bright days of happiness, if indeed you tell me to forget?”

She turned away her head and trembled; but her trembling was but with confusion--there was no shrinking in it, and in another moment her eyes might have been raised with full confidence to his;--but Miss Vincent suddenly appeared and interrupted them.

Quick to discover at any time the slightest symptoms of a flirtation, Camilla’s countenance was not likely to escape her now. She immediately retreated, and with a peculiar movement which seemed to say jestingly, “I go because I see that I am not wanted,” hurriedly closed the door.

Frank Hargrave’s eyes were fixed on Camilla. He was intently studying her countenance, and gathering from it the signs that might plainly be read. But he had no wish to incur Miss Vincent’s witticisms, or to be forced by her faster and further than he chose to go, and immediately following her, and throwing open the door, he recalled her.

“I was afraid I was in the way,” she said, with an arch smile.

“By no means,” he replied quietly; “Miss St. Maur’s picture is just finished, and I am anxious to have your opinion upon it.”

After Miss Vincent’s unqualified admiration had been given, and very justly given to the picture, she turned to Camilla. “My object in coming home, Miss St. Maur, was to tell you that Mrs. Wetherall has decided on giving a dance to-night. You heard her talking about it yesterday; or perhaps you did not hear, for I believe you were better employed--but she _was_ discussing the possibility yesterday, and gave it up in despair. It appears, however, that in the course of the afternoon she found that there were a great number of new arrivals, and, as is always the case with her, that the new arrivals were all, or almost all, acquaintances. She immediately set to work, and her list of guests is very respectable, I assure you. Twenty couple of dancers, at least. She desired me to give her compliments to you, and to tell you, with numberless pretty messages, how happy she should be if you would grace her ball.”

“I should like it very much,” Camilla said, “for I have never even seen a dance.”

“Never!” Frank Hargrave said, looking at her with a smile.

“That is not to be wondered at,” remarked Miss Vincent. “Miss St. Maur is only just seventeen; she has only just attained a right to be out.”

“Still never even to have _seen_ a ball must be a very peculiar feeling,” Frank Hargrave said, musingly; “the idea carries me back to days, that I sigh to think I have forgotten.”

“It carries me far beyond my own memory,” laughingly remarked Miss Vincent; “for I came out when I was two years old. I was very dissipated in my youth.”

“So I should have fancied.”

“Why?” Miss Vincent inquired shortly, and a little offended.

“I only meant to say,” Frank Hargrave observed, “that I should have supposed your knowledge of the world to have begun early.”

“I believe you don’t mean anything very civil: but your observation is just. I have lived in the world since I was two years old, and I very early began to make it my study. I have heard many girls talk of their first ball as an era in their life; but it is an era I do not remember at all. You have a great advantage over me, Miss St. Maur; and I beg, if there is anything remarkable in your feelings, that you will write a history of them for my benefit, and for Mr. Hargrave’s also, for I am sure, if I made an early acquaintance with the world, he made an earlier.”

“Perhaps not,” was all he replied, but he approached the window where Camilla was leaning as he spoke; and while Miss Vincent hurried from them, he said, “If there is nothing remarkable in your first ball, will you intrust it to my hands to make it at least a happy one?”

Camilla blushed and turned away, but as she followed Miss Vincent, the thoughts of the evening, and hope and happiness, were making her heart bound with excitement.

While she was dressing for the evening’s party, Miss Vincent entered her room, and laid on her table in silence, but with a peculiar smile on her lips, a bouquet of the choicest flowers. When she entered Mrs. Wetherall’s room, her eyes downcast but sparkling, her cheeks glowing with mingled hope and fear, Frank Hargrave stood ready to watch her entrance with looks of earnest admiration, and to be the first to approach her side.

She excited a great degree of attention; for the style of her beauty, its singular degree of simple grace, blended with a high-born and stately air, was uncommon in the society to which Mrs. Wetherall belonged. Wherever her eyes turned she might have read admiration; she might have heard the language of admiration, had she so pleased it, from many lips; but she heard it not, heeded it not. Her thoughts were centred on one alone,--her ears filled with sounds which made all other language poor; for then and there her last doubts died away, as Frank Hargrave, in somewhat vague, perhaps, yet not the less earnest and passionate terms, confessed that he loved her.