Chapter IX

Untouch’d by love, the maiden’s breast
Is like the snow on Rona’s crest,
So pure, so free from earthly dye,
It seems whilst leaning on the sky
Part of the heaven to which ’tis nigh.
But Passion, like the wild March rain,
May soil the wreath with many a stain.
We gaze,--the lovely vision ’s gone;
A torrent fills the bed of stone,
That hurrying to destruction’s shock,
Leaps headlong from the lofty rock.
SIR W. SCOTT.

Temptations in their force and power at least are from within, not from without. The same temptation may pass before two persons precisely similarly circumstanced, and while one enters into the battle, to conquer or to be conquered, the other passes on, unconscious even that a temptation has been near. The mind must usually be weakened and prepared, before a temptation foreign to its nature assails it, and there is no preparation so effectual as the previous indulgence of wandering thoughts. It seems a small thing to beguile a dull and lonely hour by the indulgence of idle dreams, by picturing hopes, and scenes, and joys which never can be realized, which perhaps we scarcely desire should be realized,--yet if the consequence of unguarded thoughts be considered, it gives to each one, even to the most trifling, an awful responsibility. Camilla little thought of consequences, when she yielded her mind to the idle soothing, the delusive pleasure of picturing a lost happiness--yet a consequence it had.

Nearly three months had passed since the blight had fallen on Clare Abbey,--since the sight of continual pain and suffering had saddened and depressed the lives of its inhabitants. It was early in September, when Camilla one morning received the following letter from Miss Vincent:

“Carrington, Sept. 6.

“MY DEAREST MISS ST. MAUR,--Though I have been afraid to
trouble you with inquiries, you must not suppose that I have
forgotten you, or ceased to hope for the pleasure of seeing
you again. That last morning when you were so sadly hurried
from us is continually in my mind, and even when I have been
gayest I have been unable to banish the remembrance. We have
been on a round of visits, and only returned to Carrington
last week. I have enjoyed some of them; and if you are not
too sad to be amused, I have many amusing things to tell; but
I am glad to be at home again for many reasons: chiefly for
the hope it gives me of seeing you. Having ascertained that
your poor brother is no worse, I venture to write and ask you
when that hope may be realized. I do not like to intrude upon
you without leave, at Clare Abbey, for I know that strangers
are not welcome in a house of sorrow, but if you can be
spared by your mother and your poor brother for an hour or
two--(“_Spared!_” Camilla sighed, with some bitterness, as she
read) need I say, how very happy it would make mamma and me
to see you here? Perhaps you will write and tell me what you
like best? I would not ask you to come to the midst of gaiety
and amusement, knowing that you could not enjoy yourself while
your brother is suffering; but we _are quite alone_, and
unless it is pleasing to you, you shall not even see mamma.
I hope my dearest Miss St. Maur, that you will consent to my
wish. I am sure you must want cheering, and I will do my best
to cheer you. If you can come to-morrow or next day, you will
be sure of finding me at home, and alone, for I have had a bad
cold, and mamma will not allow me to drive. If you put it off
till next week, I must ask you to appoint a day, as I cannot
always be sure of myself. Pray do not refuse my request; and
hoping that this will find you well,--I fear I must not say
happy,

“Believe me, dear Miss St. Maur,
“Your affectionate friend,
“SOPHIA VINCENT.”

Though with no sense of pleasure, Camilla decided on accepting the invitation. The apathy into which she had fallen,--the natural consequence of an idle and unoccupied indulgence in sadness,--had of late begun to give place to fits of restless irritation, more in keeping with her general character; and though with no hope of amusement, and no desire to be amused, she caught at it as at some new thing, some new thought, to divert the dreariness of her mind.

The carriage was now almost always at her disposal, for Lady Vere rarely, very rarely, could be persuaded to indulge in what once had been her favourite occupation. On the second of the days, therefore, mentioned by Miss Vincent, she ordered it and drove to Carrington.

Miss Vincent received her in her own sitting-room, and with more than her usual kindness and affection. The sight of Camilla, so changed,--so much more changed than she had expected,--so pale, so joyless, so subdued, affected her very sincerely, and she exerted herself to the utmost to cheer her. She was not very successful; yet having at last caused a few smiles by some vivid descriptions of ridiculous scenes she had lately witnessed, and having elicited a few questions, though evidently more from civility than interest, regarding her late amusements, she ventured to introduce a subject of more importance.

“Well, Miss St. Maur, I have been telling you a great deal, but nothing, I am afraid, that can interest you very deeply. Have you nothing to ask me that would be more interesting to you?”

“No, thank you,” Camilla said, sadly. “I like to hear you tell about all these funny people,--that is, I should like it if I could like anything.”

“But you don’t understand me. Is there no particular person you would like to hear about? Don’t you mean to inquire after Mr. Hargrave?”

Camilla blushed, and shook her head. Very truly and sincerely had she determined, and determined anew this very day, to have nothing farther to do with him. To dream of the past, to remember that he had loved her, to recall those few last hours when she had been so lost in happiness,--this was a very different thing to thinking of him for the future. Reginald could not blame her for what was past; or if he blamed, it _was_ past, and could not be recalled; but any future dream was an offence to his love and her duty: it would be wrong, and nothing should tempt her to what was wrong. So she had resolved, and so in her heart of hearts she felt.

“Not even to inquire after him?” Miss Vincent said, smiling. “Oh, Miss St. Maur, how strange you are!”

“What should I ask?” Camilla replied, a little impatiently, but sadly too. “All these things belong to the old time when I was happy, and there is no use in thinking of them now.”

“No use, perhaps; but I think you are very ungrateful. He has not forgotten you so quickly.”

“When people are unhappy, they had much better forget: it only makes things worse. You don’t know, Miss Vincent, what it is to be wretched.”

“I know how much you have suffered,” she replied, kindly and consolingly; “but I don’t think I agree in what you have just said. I don’t think you mean it yourself--forgive me, Miss St. Maur; but I think it would be very heartless if you did. I think, too,” she added, after a moment’s thought, “that being wretched one’s self should make one feel the more for others. There are different ways of being unhappy. I don’t say that Mr. Hargrave has had such a very sad cause to be wretched as you have had; but still he is very unhappy, and you ought to feel for him.”

“I am very sorry for everybody that is wretched,” she exclaimed, with tears in her eyes.

“Then you must be sorry for him. Do you know that he never came back to us after you went away? All that long dreary day that we had hoped would be so happy, we sat at home thinking of you, and we hoped that he would come, and that he would talk about you; but he never appeared again. We could not think what had become of him, till after two or three days I received a letter from him from London, begging me to have your picture carefully packed and sent to him, which I did. He said nothing about himself in his letter, and we heard no more, till about a fortnight afterwards his mother wrote to ask me if I could tell her what was the matter with him; for that he was so low and so unlike himself, she was quite frightened. Of course it was no business of mine, and I said so.”

Miss Vincent paused, and Camilla got up uneasily, and walked to the window. She stood looking out, and made no remark on the narration she had just heard.

“Do you like to walk?” Miss Vincent said, approaching her. “It is very fine, and our garden is looking in great beauty.”

“I should like it very much,” Camilla said, restlessly; “but I thought you had got a cold.”

“Only a driving cold, not a walking one. I have been out already; and as I knew you liked to go out, I kept my things down here.”

She put on her bonnet and cloak, and they went out together.

Camilla sat down on a garden-seat, and leant her arm on a wall near which it stood. She seemed as little disposed for conversation as she had been in-doors. Miss Vincent wandered about gathering flowers. She approached Camilla at last with a nosegay in her hand.

“I have been making you a bouquet,” she said, laughing. “I know it is rather like sending coals to Newcastle; but still, if one is fond of flowers, they never come amiss.”

“I am very much obliged to you,” Camilla said, with her usual kind and courteous manner, as she took them. “And these geraniums are much prettier than ours. I don’t think we have any like them; or at least, if we have,” she added, with a smile, “you know I like everybody’s things better than my own.”

“I know you do. You are an exact contrast to some people we have just been visiting, who seem absolutely incapable of discovering merit in anything which has not a match among the possessions of their uncles, aunts, or grandfathers. Their propensity may be a happier one than yours, but it is not so agreeable for their friends.”

“I can’t understand not wishing,” Camilla said, with a sigh. “I wish I could.”

Miss Vincent came and sat down by her, and, after stooping to smell the bunch of geraniums and heliotrope which Camilla held, observed, “That is very sweet; but it is not quite such a bouquet as you held on the night of Mrs. Wetherall’s dance.”

“Oh, Miss Vincent, don’t,” Camilla said, turning from her. “Why will you go back to those old things?”

“Because I want to talk to you about them; I want to tell you about Mr. Hargrave. Surely, Miss St. Maur, when you know how he admired--may I say loved you then, you could not expect, surely you could not wish, that he should have forgotten you now. I wish to tell you--he wishes me to tell you how wretched he is. It can do you no harm to hear that,--to hear that he is not so heartless as to have already forgotten you.”

“It might,” Camilla said, and large tears fell from her eyes.

“No, indeed, it cannot. I must speak, or else....” She laid her hand on her arm and looked at her. “I know you never liked me to talk to you about such things; you never trusted me as I would have trusted you. If you like it better, may _he_ speak?”

Camilla blushed, and started. “No, Miss Vincent. What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, “that he is here to-day, and that you would make him very happy....”

But Camilla had sprung furiously from her seat, and, while her cheeks were crimson, stamped with her tiny foot upon the ground. “You shouldn’t have done it, Miss Vincent,” she cried, passionately; “you shouldn’t, indeed: it is very, very wrong of you.”

“My dear Miss St. Maur,” Miss Vincent cried, startled at Camilla’s excess of displeasure, “I am very sorry to have done anything you dislike. I had no idea you would be angry. You know I never do quite understand you. I thought I acted for the best.”

“You shouldn’t have done it,” Camilla said, still passionately, and, turning from Miss Vincent, she burst into tears.

But passion is but an expression of conscious weakness. The strong, the resolved, the firm-principled, need no passionate efforts to withstand temptation. Miss Vincent understood enough of human nature to know this, and, after her first surprise, was prepared to deal with the displeasure she had excited.

“Will you listen to me for a moment?” she said, catching hold of Camilla’s hand, as she was slowly returning to the house. “I really cannot let you go till I have justified myself. I cannot bear that you should think ill of me.”

“You said you were quite alone,” Camilla murmured reproachfully, in broken tones. “I never would have come for this.”

“We were quite alone. Now do, dear Miss St. Maur, sit down for a moment, and let me explain how it happened. You need not be afraid. Mr. Hargrave will not come near you unless you send for him. He said, not for the world would he attempt to see you without your own consent. Pray listen to me, it is unkind to refuse.”

Camilla sat down, but withdrawing her hand from Miss Vincent, leant both her arms upon the wall, and hid her face.

“I said we were alone,” Miss Vincent began, “with perfect truth, for we were alone, and we are alone now; Mr. Hargrave is not staying here. At the same time, I must confess that I knew he would wish to be here if you came; in fact, for I had better tell you the whole truth: although I had wished and wished to see you again, I don’t know that I should have dared to press you so much to come here, if it had not been for him. When I came home last week, I found a letter from him, saying ... I really don’t know what to tell you about his wretchedness--he seemed _so_ unhappy, that I, who am not very hardhearted, was completely overcome, and I believe I would have done anything to comfort him. He said his only hope and wish was to see you once more,--that was all he asked; he said, he could not bear his life if he did not, and he appealed to my kindness to manage an interview for him. It may not be quite right to do as I have done; I really don’t know; I only know that when people are miserable, I cannot refuse to do what little may be in my power to comfort them. I therefore consented, and he is here. He waited here all yesterday afternoon, and then went back to B----, where he is staying. He came again about two hours ago. If you see him, I think you will excuse me. I have seen many people very miserable, but I never saw any one so miserable as he is. He does not say much; I don’t mean that: he never was a person to talk much of his feelings, but he is quite changed, so low and so restless,--one can see in a moment that he has but one thought in his head, and that not a happy one. And now, dear Miss St. Maur, tell me, am I forgiven; or at least, am I _excused_?”

“It would be so wrong, so very wrong,” Camilla said, weeping bitterly.

“It would be very wrong to meet him constantly, of course it would; but I do not think there would be any harm in seeing him once. I asked mamma what she thought, before I wrote to you, and she said she could not wonder at him, considering that you had been hurried away without giving him time even to wish you good bye. Indeed, my dear Miss St. Maur, for his own sake I think you should consent to see him once; not to-day, if you do not feel equal to it--but some day; for just consider, he will go on building his happiness upon you, dreaming of you, hoping at some time to meet you again, for this very reason, that all is so uncertain. I don’t know what he said to you, or what you said to him, but if you did give him any hope, or if you gave him the least idea that you cared about him, how could he ever, how could he be right in endeavouring to forget you, till you yourself release him? This is only my judgment; he said nothing about it; he only asked once, just once, to see you again.”

Camilla sighed deeply.

“My dear Miss St. Maur,” Miss Vincent said, taking hold of her hand affectionately, “I am so grieved that your coming here should have added to your unhappiness, but it will not do so afterwards. Shall I tell you what I think? I think it would be perfect happiness to be loved as Mr. Hargrave loves you. Even though I see you so miserable, I envy you.”

“You need not, you need not,” she cried passionately, “but if it must be so, let him come;” and weeping as if her heart would break, she buried her face in her hands.

Miss Vincent did not wait a second bidding; and a moment afterwards _she_ had disappeared, and Frank Hargrave stood by Camilla’s side.

* * * * *

Half an hour afterwards, he approached the window of Miss Vincent’s sitting-room, where she was awaiting the conclusion of the interview. His face was grave, troubled, not triumphant; and when he spoke, his voice was low.

“Miss St. Maur is in the garden,” he said; “she is anxious to go home. I too must leave you, and I do so with deep gratitude for what you have done for me.” He shook hands with warm and earnest feeling, and hurried away.

Miss Vincent hastened to meet Camilla. She was slowly returning towards the house. Her veil was pulled down, but her cheek, flushed with agitation, and her eyes, swollen with crying, were apparent through its folds.

She made no remark on what had passed, but said hurriedly that it was late, and that she must go home.

Miss Vincent stood a little in awe of Camilla on some points, and though she thought it hard, that after all she had done, she was to remain completely in the dark, she felt afraid of making any inquiry. They walked in silence to the carriage. There Miss Vincent kissed her so affectionately, and said so earnestly that she hoped to see her happier, that Camilla suddenly turned to her, and said, with tears trembling in her eyes,

“Don’t think me very unkind and ungracious, Miss Vincent; or at least, if you do, forgive me, for I am _very_ unhappy.”

She waited for no answer, but hurried from her, and jumped into the carriage.

“It is all over then, I suppose,” Miss Vincent thought, musingly, as she watched her driving from the yard. “Miss St. Maur is a strange girl; she is the only one I know who would have resisted Frank Hargrave,--resisted him while she loves him, too; for that she does love him is clear. Well, mamma will say it is a good thing over. I wonder who will be his next love;” and she returned thoughtfully to the house.