In looking at one of the finest and most sunshiny pictures of Claude
Lorrain, and in marking the calm and gentle brightness which his
pictures generally display, it has often struck me that they afforded
a fine image of happiness--of that pure dreamy happiness which is
sometimes the portion of youth. The calm, refreshing shades in the
foreground--shades produced not by clouds or by storms, or by the
proximity of night, but by some sweet object softening the light, and
mitigating the heat--the immense boundless distances, blending into
the blue sky, Earth losing itself in Heaven--the prospect embracing
every sort of object that can enchant the eye, fields, and plains, and
hills, and woods, and villages, bridges, and streams, and lakes, in
gay confusion, and ruined temples waking sweet associations of the
past, and man's living habitations giving the idea of dear domestic
peace, each catching the bright sunshine, and each beautiful, though
vague--the poet-painter surely intended all this as the symbol of a
happy dream, where present enjoyment is calm though full, and every
object of desire and hope is stretched out before the future, and
lighted by the sun of youth and fancy, till the remote end mingles
with heaven itself.
The three days that Morley Ernstein and Juliet Carr had passed at
Sandgate, had been, like one of those pictures of Claude Lorrain, all
brightness, all hope. There seemed not to be a cloud in the whole sky;
but those sweet days of happiness are often like the glowing mornings
of tropical climes, where, in the midst of a heaven previously without
spot, a small, dark cloud appears, no bigger than a man's hand, and
ere many hours are over, the hurricane sweeps past, and all is
destruction, desolation, and sorrow.
The fourth day broke as brightly as any of the former, and Morley
Ernstein, who, for propriety's sake--or for the sake of that which a
corrupted state of society believes to be propriety--had been driven
by Lady Malcolm to sleep at another house, came in to breakfast as
usual, and to arrange with her he loved some pleasant scheme for the
passing of the coming hours. They had sat up late on the preceding
night, enjoying the balmy summer air, as it swept over the sea, and
Juliet had not yet quitted her room. At the place where she usually
sat, however, had been laid down a letter, and Lady Malcolm, who
entered the room first, wondered from whom it could come. Juliet
herself soon appeared, and, without noticing the epistle, talked to
Morley for some time, upon all those things which first interest
lovers when they meet, and might have gone on still longer, had not
Lady Malcolm--who was at an age when small matters are great, and who,
moreover, had always been gifted with that peculiar sort of
irritability which never suffers one to rest till the inside of a
letter has been seen--insisted upon Juliet opening hers, though Juliet
had said before that it was from her father, and was only that which
he wrote her every week.
To please her cousin, however, she broke the seal; but poor Juliet's
countenance underwent a sad change as she read the few lines that it
contained, and her voice faltered sadly, as she said--
"My father is in London; he has come up in great haste about various
matters, and requires my presence immediately, without a moment's
delay. He refers me to a letter from Helen, which I have never
received, and speaks of Yelverly having been broken into by robbers. I
am afraid I must go directly, Harriet."
As one may suppose every thing was soon in confusion. Lady Malcolm
read the letter, and saw that it was imperative. Juliet wished to go
alone, but her cousin would not hear of such a thing, and said she was
quite ready to return to London: Morley Ernstein professed himself
rejoiced that Mr. Carr had come to town, and spoke a few words for
Juliet's ear alone, which made the blood mount into her cheek. Lady
Malcolm did not seem so well contented, however, and after breakfast
she and Juliet consulted together, sending Morley to see that
everything was ready for their immediate departure. In five minutes
after, however, Lady Malcolm despatched her maid to call him back
again, and when he entered the little sitting-room of the inn, he
found that good lady standing ready to speak with him, and bearing
very much the air of one who has something unpleasant to communicate,
and does not well know how to do it.
"My dear Morley," she said, "I have just been talking to Juliet about
you and her father; for on hearing that he had come suddenly to town,
I began to be in a fright lest something unpleasant might take place,
if he saw you at once as the acknowledged lover of his daughter,
before he is a little prepared----"
"But, why--why?" demanded Morley, with some surprise. "If he had not
come, I should have gone down, as soon as Juliet herself left town, to
ask her hand at once. She is well aware that such was my intention.
Why should anything unpleasant happen, my dear lady?"
"That is what I was explaining to Juliet," said Lady Malcolm. "A long
time ago, there was a sad quarrel between your father and Mr.
Carr--all about me, too, unfortunately--and though the thing is passed
by and gone, my dear Morley, yet I think it would be very much better
if you would let us go up first, and follow to-morrow, when I have
seen Mr. Carr, and explained the whole matter to him. Now do not look
sad and discomposed; it is only a precaution, but, depend upon it, it
is a wise one. He is an irritable, and a passionate man, Mr. Carr,
and, in the haste of the moment, he might say something which he would
never retract. But as I will manage it, all will go right, depend upon
it."
"But what says Juliet?" demanded Morley, while that small dark cloud
which we have spoken of as announcing the tempests of tropical skies;
now first appeared upon the horizon of his own happiness. "What says
Juliet, Lady Malcolm? I would fain speak with her. You alarm and
surprise me."
Lady Malcolm immediately called Juliet from her room; but she came in
with so cheerful a countenance, that the fears which had suddenly
taken possession of Morley's heart, disappeared before its sunshine.
"What is this, Juliet," he asked, "that Lady Malcolm tells me? It
seems," he continued, "that she and you have determined to cut me off
from a day's happiness, dear Juliet; and wish me to stay here till you
have seen your father?"
"You are not angry with me for wishing it?" said Juliet, giving him
her hand, for he had spoken in a tone of vexation. "If you are, you
shall come, Morley. But I thought what dear Lady Malcolm proposed was
much better. She has explained to me the cause of my father's
crossness on that day when first we met you, which I never knew
before. But I am sure that if we have an opportunity of speaking with
him calmly and quietly, he will not oppose us in any degree. He never
does thwart me, and the only danger lies in taking him by surprise,
and provoking him to utter something harsh. When he has said a thing,
he adheres to it inflexibly, and, therefore, I thought it much better
not to risk anything.--I tell you the whole truth, Morley, as I ever
will, and now, having done so, you shall act as you like."
"Then I will stay here, Juliet," replied Morley; "for as my whole
happiness depends upon obtaining you, it shall never be said that any
rashness of mine whatsoever cast away the cup of happiness when it was
so near my lips. I will not set off for London, then, until to-morrow
morning, for I fear, Juliet, I could not keep myself away, if I were
in the same town with you, and then I should never cease to reproach
myself, if anything went wrong."
"Nothing will--nothing can!" said Juliet, with a smile.
Lady Malcolm, finding that their plan was settled, quitted the room
for a moment; and Juliet Carr, seeing that a slight shade of
apprehension still hung upon her lover's countenance, added--"Nothing
will go wrong, Morley, depend upon it; and though I dare not make any
other promises, this, at least, I may venture to say; the hand you
have sought, Morley, shall never be given to any one else--believe me,
on my honour."
"I do believe you, dear Juliet," cried Morley, enthusiastically--"I do
believe you, from what I feel myself; for I cannot think that those
who have loved as we have, could ever forget that love so far as,
under any circumstances or for any consideration, to enter into an
union with another than the person who first possessed their heart.--I
do not know why I am apprehensive, Juliet, or of what; but certainly
it is not lest you should give your hand to another."
The half-hour that was to intervene before the departure of Lady
Malcolm and Juliet Carr passed as rapidly as the half-hours of
happiness usually do; and Morley Ernstein was soon left alone to while
away the time, amidst scenes which had seemed full of joy and beauty.
There is a fine paper in the _Spectator_, from the hand of Addison
himself, upon the effect which would be produced in the physical world
by the absence of the coloured rays of light, showing the dull,
greyness that would spread over the whole universe; and certainly in
the moral world, the absence of those we love produces the same
effect. How instantly does all around us become changed!--how rapidly
does everything lose its brightness and its glow!--how grey, how
leaden, how heavy, falls upon the eye every object in which we took
pleasure while the beloved were with us when the light of love is
gone! Morley had fancied the scenery around him beautiful--he had
thought everything full of loveliness and brightness; but it was in
truth Juliet Carr that he saw reflected from all on which his eye
rested; it was her beauty, her beaming countenance that he beheld on
the sunshiny sea, in the bright landscape, in every ride or drive
around; and now that she was gone, all things seemed, indeed, "flat,
stale, and unprofitable."
In vain he sought for occupation or for amusement; his spirit was
impatient, his heart was apprehensive. Twenty times in the course of
the day, he felt angry with himself for not accompanying Juliet to
London--twenty times he felt tempted to send for horses, and follow
her as fast as possible.
The day ended at length, notwithstanding all its tediousness, and
gladly did he see the following morning break, and the horses brought
to the door. The coach went wondrous slow for his impatience, and
every stoppage seemed to him an unpardonable crime on the part of the
coachman. But the journey, as the tedious waiting of the preceding day
had done, and as everything else, whether pleasant or unpleasant, must
do, passed away in the end; and towards seven o'clock, he found
himself at the door of the hotel.
On his table was a note from Lady Malcolm, very brief, and evidently
written in haste. The few words which it contained were as
follows:--"My dear Morley, pray come here directly. I have a great
deal to talk to you about; Helen Barham too is here, and has promised
to stay with and console me."
Morley Ernstein let the note drop out of his hand. "To stay with and
console her!--Console her, for what?" he exclaimed. "In the name of
Heaven what has happened?" and snatching up his hat, he darted away to
Lady Malcolm's, with the speed of lightning, making no answer to the
waiter's demand of, "Dine at home to-day, sir?"
At Lady Malcolm's the quiet appearance of everything provoked him. The
footman who opened the door presented as calm a face, answered with as
easy a tone, and moved with as slow a step, as if everything had gone
on in peace and happiness since Noah and his train issued forth from
the ark. Morley Ernstein could not affect a tranquillity he did not
feel, and while the man was walking up the stairs before him, as if
his joints were becoming ossified, the young gentleman suddenly pushed
past him, and entered the drawing-room unannounced.
Lady Malcolm was seated quietly at work, and Helen Barham was reading;
but, though Morley looked round for the bright angelic face of Juliet,
and the less prepossessing one of Mr. Carr, no such objects presented
themselves; and the grieved, anxious expression of Helen's
countenance, as she raised her eyes and beheld him, told at once that
something painful had happened, something which she knew would
distress him much.
"Oh, dear, I am so glad you are come!" exclaimed Lady Malcolm, "though
I am sure I do not know what is to be done--but you must judge
yourself."
"Where is Juliet?" demanded Morley, eagerly interrupting Lady
Malcolm--"where is Juliet, dear Lady Malcolm?"
"She is gone," replied Lady Malcolm; "Mr. Carr would take her home
with him, in spite of all I could say. I explained the whole to him;
and Juliet herself, I am sure, told him all; but he said nothing but
'hum,' and 'ha!' and in reply, when I told him you would be here
to-night, he only grumbled that he was sorry, but could not stay."
Morley was agitated far more than lady Malcolm had expected. Love is
blind in some respects, and in moments of joy is very dull of sight
indeed; but at the first touch of sorrow, comes upon it a prophetic
spirit which teaches it to see the evil afar off, and shrink at the
anguish that too often besets its path. Morley stood still in the
middle of the room, without attempting to take a seat, and looked
steadfastly down upon the ground, asking himself what he should do
next.
"My dear Lady Malcolm," he said, at length, "you must forgive me for
making my visit a very hurried one. I can bear anything but
uncertainty, and I must set off immediately for Yelverly."
"Not to-night!" exclaimed Lady Malcolm.
"Yes, this very night, dear lady!" replied Morley; "I should not sleep
five minutes if my head were on the softest pillow in England; so I
may as well pass the hours of darkness in my carriage as anywhere
else. I shall be at Morley Court about mid-day to-morrow, and can see
Juliet and her father, and know my fate before another night pass over
my head."
"Oh! it will all go very well," said Lady Malcolm; "do not be afraid,
my dear Morley. If you but consider, you will see that Mr. Carr will
never be so foolish as to make any difficulty. He thinks of nothing on
earth but money, you know, and in that point he certainly cannot
object to you."
Morley smiled sadly, but still with some renewal of hopes, and he
answered: "Well, we shall see; but at all events I cannot bear
uncertainty, and will go away at once."
"Nay, nay," rejoined. Lady Malcolm--"stay a little; here is your young
friend Helen Barham, to whom you have not said a word."
Morley felt that he had been unkind, and going round, he took Helen's
hand. It was as cold as marble; and, as she looked up in his face, it
was with an expression that struck him much, and carried him away for
a moment from the selfishness of his own sorrow. The look was not a
grave one; on the contrary, it was intended to be cheerful; but the
forced smile, the eyes that were full of sadness, the quivering of the
lip and nostril, betraying a struggle against tears, all spoke of
grief at heart; and Morley, after conversing with her for some little
time, went away from Lady Malcolm's house, saying to himself--as I
have had occasion to say more than once--although he saw nothing
of the feelings that he commiserated, except that they were
sorrowful--"Alas, poor Helen Barham!"