It was at Yelverly on a summer's evening, but not upon one of those
bright evenings which I have described in another place. The weather
had sadly changed, with all the mutability of temperature which
manifests itself so strangely in England, as if for the purpose of
affording a contrast to the firm and constant character of the people.
The sky was covered with grey clouds, the wind was from the cold
north-east, sweeping sorrowfully over the fields and through the
hedge-rows round Yelverly; and that which had seemed sunshiny, rich,
and beautiful, was now to the eye all cold, sad, and desolate. The
cattle gathered themselves under the shelter of the hedges, the sheep
drew close together, the birds sat motionless upon the boughs, and
some wheeling flights of crows, high up in the sky, added to the
autumnal-look which had so suddenly come over the world.
Notwithstanding the inauspicious aspect of the afternoon, Juliet Carr
had wandered forth with a shawl wrapped close over her fair bosom to
keep out the rude touch of the blast, and her veil thrown over her
head and face. Her heart was somewhat sad, as may well be supposed,
for she had been suddenly separated, without the slightest expectation
of being so, from him that she loved best on earth. But still, though
her mind was not of a very sanguine or hopeful nature, and her
feelings were as deep and keen as ever dwelt in woman's heart, yet she
was no more than sad, for not one word had passed her father's lips to
make her think he would absolutely disapprove of her union with Morley
Ernstein. He had remained perfectly silent upon the subject: somewhat
gloomy, indeed, but nothing more; and that gloominess Juliet thought
might, perhaps, proceed from a feeling of indisposition, for the
fatigues of the journey had brought on an attack of illness, which,
though not alarming, was severe.
To see him suffer, of course, had not lightened the load upon his
daughter's heart; more especially as, at such moments, he repelled
every effort to soothe and comfort him. Indeed, it was clear that, in
sickness, he preferred being attended by any one else than Juliet; and
the sight of her, whose appearance was hailed in the cottage of the
poor as the visit of a consoling angel, seemed rather to affect Mr.
Carr, in his hours of illness, with painful and unpleasant feelings.
It was not that he was cross or morose with her, for it was scarcely
possible for any human being to be so; and, on the contrary, he was
usually much more gentle with her than with any other person, seeming
to pay a sort of deferential respect to her opinion, which sometimes
surprised even Juliet herself. But when he was ill, he had always some
excuse ready for sending her away, and this was so marked that she
perceived it, and perceived it with sorrow.
Such had been the case on the present occasion. Juliet and her father
had arrived the day before, at Yelverly, Mr. Carr feeling himself at
the time extremely unwell. His illness had increased considerably
during the night; and Juliet, though evidently not much to his
satisfaction, had remained attending upon him during the whole day.
Towards evening, however, he became more impatient; and upon pretence
that it was better for her health to take exercise, he insisted upon
her going out--reminding her, that the cottagers on different parts of
the estate had not seen her for some weeks.
Juliet, at the time I have brought her before the reader's eyes again,
had strolled out to one of the distant hamlets which belonged to her
father, had called at two or three of the houses, where no slight joy
and satisfaction had greeted her arrival, had seen that all which
could be done to promote the happiness and comfort of the poor had
been executed during her absence, and was walking home again, with a
heart somewhat sorrowful, when she heard the sound of a horse's feet
proceeding at a rapid pace along the highway hard by. She was at this
time in one of the small green fields that I have mentioned, about a
mile and a half from Yelverly house, and was crossing the meadow by a
foot-path running from one corner to another, which was terminated by
a gate and stile leading to the main road.
Juliet's heart beat at the sound of that horse's feet, she knew not
well why, for manifold were the horsemen who rode along that road, and
not a few of them went at the same rapid and impatient pace which
those footfalls indicated; but yet her heart beat with the thought
that it might be Morley Ernstein; and, though it was very natural that
she should so think, for love is as full of hopes as fears--rapid,
causeless, wild--yet she scolded herself for entertaining idle
expectations, when she had no right whatever to suppose that Morley
could have followed her so soon.
Juliet looked eagerly forward as she approached the stile, before
which the horseman must pass, and in a moment after, the figure of
Morley Ernstein himself flitted across like lightning, mounted on the
same splendid horse which he was riding when they met under the walls
of his own park. He turned not his head to the right or to the left,
little dreaming that Juliet was so near; and though she would have
given a world to call to him, knowing right well that Yelverly was the
object of his ride, and that he would be sadly disappointed at not
finding her there, yet a feeling of modest shame withheld her till it
was too late.
Quickening her pace to look after him, however, Juliet approached the
stile rapidly; but just as she reached it the clatter of the horse's
feet for a moment increased, then ceased altogether--it seemed to her
very strangely; and when, throwing open the gate, with a beating
heart, she looked down the road in the direction which Morley had
taken, she saw the horse just struggling up from the ground, and her
lover lying motionless beside it.
Juliet screamed not, she paused not, she uttered not a word, but
darted on like lightning. The horse was all cut and bleeding, shewing
with what a shock he had fallen; but the poor animal, as if with
generous forgetfulness of his own suffering, after the first trembling
gaze around him, bent down his head to the prostrate body of his
master, seeming to enquire why he lay there so still and silent.
Oh, how cold was the heart of Juliet Carr, when coming up she looked
upon the motionless form of him she loved best on earth, and asked
herself--"Is he dead!" She knelt down, she raised his head, she gazed
upon his face. It was covered with dust from the road, but there was
no blood. The fine expressive eyes were closed, the teeth were hard
set; but as she looked upon him he drew a deep breath. There was still
life! and her first words were--"Praise be to God!"
Just at that moment, clear and gay, came the merry note of some
peasant boy, as he whistled across the lea. Sad, sad were those merry
sounds to the ear of Juliet Carr, and yet they brought the hope of
relief, for the place was at the distance of half a mile to any
dwelling-house, and she feared to leave Morley lying there while she
ran to procure help. Advancing to a gate a little further on, she
looked into the field, and saw the boy whose wild music she had heard,
coming slowly and heavily along, with some instrument of husbandry
upon his shoulder, and beckoning him eagerly to her, she sent him away
to the nearest cottages to procure all the assistance that he could.
In the meanwhile she remained by the side of him she loved, gazing
down upon him with eyes from which the tears now began to drop fast,
and watching with faint hope for some sign of returning consciousness.
She made some efforts, too, to call him to life herself: she untied
the handkerchief that was round his neck, she opened the collar of his
shirt, she brought some water in her fair hands from a neighbouring
stream; and, kneeling down beside him, sprinkled his brow; and, as she
did so, Juliet looked timidly around to see if any one was near, and
then pressed her lips upon his forehead and dewed it with her tears.
Morley moved not, however, even at the touch of love, though he still
breathed; and in about a quarter of an hour four men came down,
bringing a hurdle from one of the neighbouring fields. Upon it Morley
Ernstein was laid, and the men, lifting him up, under Juliet's
direction, carried him to Yelverly, the boy leading the horse, which
had never attempted to stir from the spot.
Arrived at the house, Morley Ernstein was carried up stairs and laid
in the room which had been inhabited by Lieberg, Juliet accompanying
the people who bore him thither, and casting aside the consideration
of everything else but the one great object of doing all in her power
to restore him to life. A man was instantly despatched on horseback
for a surgeon, and Juliet hastened to tell her father what had
happened, and to seek his approval of her conduct.
She found, however, that the news had been already communicated, but
what surprised her more was to find a stranger seated by her father's
bedside. He was a sickly-looking young man--but to spare further
description, I may add, that though a stranger to Juliet, he is not so
to the reader, being no other than the brother of Helen Barham. The
young man started up somewhat awkwardly, for he had been little used
to the society of ladies, and had not those qualities in his own
character which enable men of fine minds to assimilate themselves
rapidly to what is higher, nobler, and more graceful in the mind and
demeanour of others.
Juliet's pale face and haggard look, while she told her father of the
accident which had occurred, did not escape the old man's eyes, and he
fixed a keen and searching look upon his daughter's countenance which
pained Juliet, and added other apprehensions to those which she
already entertained.
"I think, Juliet," he said, as she concluded, "that you might have
taken him to some cottage nearer than this house, and not have put me
to all the expense and trouble of having him here."
"Oh, my dear father!" exclaimed Juliet, turning away with a sad and
reproachful look; but Mr. Carr, who displayed in general a deference
for her opinion, which he did not evince for that of any one else,
cried out quickly, "Well, well, Juliet, the thing is done now and
cannot be helped; we must make the best of it."
At that moment one of the maids entered the room with a quick step,
saying, "Miss Carr--Miss Carr! there's Mr. Langley, the surgeon, up at
the rectory, with Mrs. Lee the rector's wife."
"Send for him directly," cried Juliet, following the maid out of the
room--"lose not a minute, Jane."
The girl hastened away herself, and in about ten minutes more the
surgeon was in the house. Juliet accompanied him to the room where
Morley Ernstein lay, and watched with anxiety--which may have been
deeply felt by those who love, but can never be described even by
those who have felt it--the long, the terribly long examination on
which hung the hopes of life and death. She uttered not a word; she
breathed not a sigh; she was so still in that intense anxiety, that
she not only felt but could hear her heart beating.
The surgeon turned round, at length, and looked at her, seeing then,
for the first time, that some deep feeling was busy in her bosom. He
spoke not to her, but bowed his head gently, with a look of
encouragement; and then the tears burst forth in floods from her eyes,
and she turned away towards the window. At the same moment the surgeon
drew from his pocket that little case of instruments, the sight of
which has so often produced the shudder of mortal antipathy on the
manly frame--the operation of which has with equal frequency plunged
hearts full of affection and tenderness into the bitterest agony of
earthly sorrow, or restored smiles and sunshine to the bright domestic
hearth.
The lancet and the bandage were soon produced, and the red blood
spouted freely from the arm of the injured man. A minute or two after,
while Juliet was still looking forth from the window, she heard a
voice which made her whole frame thrill. It was the rich melodious
tone of the lips of him she loved, but low and softened; and darting
to the bedside, she cast herself upon her knees, exclaiming, "Thank
God!--thank God!"
Great indeed was the change which the flowing of that blood produced.
The dull heavy aspect of life without intelligence was gone. The clear
bright soul had resumed its sway in the mortal tenement, and looked
out from the window of the eye.
"Juliet, Juliet!" said Morley Ernstein, "where am I? Something has
happened!"
But the surgeon held up his hand, saying, "Do not speak. You must be
kept perfectly quiet, especially till the blood has flowed freely.
This will all pass away, but we must guard against any fever.--Do not
be agitated, my dear Miss Carr, all will go well, I assure you. The
only thing that is necessary is quiet: and therefore I must now have
the room cleared. Two or three days of perfect tranquillity and
confinement will remove all evil, except aches and bruises. So you may
rest satisfied, and leave this gentleman to my care without any
apprehension."
"I will leave him for the present," replied Juliet; "but I must be his
nurse, Mr. Langley. I have known this gentleman from childhood, and I
am sure that sir Morley Ernstein will like my tending as well as that
of any other."
"Better--far better--than any on the earth," replied Morley, holding
out his hand to her, while the surgeon was busy binding the bandage
round his other arm. "To see you near me, Juliet, is enough of itself
to make me well.--I remember now that my horse fell, but how I came
hither I do not recollect."
"We will tell you all that afterwards," replied the surgeon; "and if,
in order to make you well, Miss Carr must come back again," he added,
with a meaning smile, "I can have nothing to say; only she must leave
you for the present--for two or three hours at least. During that time
I must stay and watch you; but when I am sure that all is going on
right, she shall take her turn."
On leaving the room of Morley Ernstein, Juliet proceeded at once to
the chamber of her father, to report the state of their young guest;
for although she was almost sure to find, in any communication with
Mr. Carr, something to shock and pain her, yet she struggled against
the repugnance naturally engendered by his words and demeanour, and
overcame, from a sense of duty, every inclination to conceal from the
eyes of her parent the feelings of her own heart.
Had she found her father alone on the present occasion, all that she
felt towards Morley Ernstein would undoubtedly have been poured forth;
but William Barham was still with him, and Juliet saw with some
apprehension that Mr. Carr's face was flushed and feverish. He was
irritable too, and spoke angrily of her having been so long away. She
listened with patience, and made no reply, but informed him of the
state of Sir Morley Ernstein, and told him the surgeon's opinion, that
the young Baronet would soon be well.
"I wish, my dear father," she added, in the end, "that you would see
Mr. Langley yourself. You do not seem at all better, and as he is now
in the house, it would be wiser to consult him."
"If he will not charge it as a visit to me," said Mr. Carr, "I shall
have no objection. But I am not going to pay him for doctoring me when
he is getting paid for his time by this young Baronet."
"Then I will send him, sir," said Juliet, and much reason had she to
be glad that she had persuaded her father to see the surgeon; for it
proved that Mr. Carr was more seriously ill than he imagined, and the
recovery of Morley Ernstein was much more rapid than his own.
Nevertheless, more than one week passed before the young Baronet was
suffered to quit his room; and the situation of Juliet Carr, it must
be owned, was somewhat strange, not only in relation to Morley, but
also in relation to William Barham, who, at Mr. Carr's request,
continued to reside in the house.
All the cold proprieties of society--the icy fetters with which the
evil acts of the bad have contrived to chain the warmest affections of
the generous and the good--did certainly from time to time present
themselves to the mind of Juliet Carr, and acted, in some degree, as a
check upon her. But that degree was a very small one. Her heart was
too pure, her mind too candid, all her intentions and all her thoughts
too high and holy for evil in any shape to present itself to her
imagination; and that which she herself knew not to be wrong, she
could with difficulty believe would be represented as wrong even by a
harsh world.
Many hours of the day, then, did she spend with Morley Ernstein,
cheering him, soothing him; and the only restraint that she did put
upon herself was to ensure that those hours were not passed with him
alone--so long, at least, as he was confined to his own chamber. There
was always some servant in the room with her--not a little to Morley's
annoyance, if we may say the truth--but two or three gentle words from
Juliet, explaining to him her reasons, convinced him that she was
right. He loved her too well to wish that, for his sake, she should do
anything which might bring one reproach upon his future wife.
Still those hours were most sweet to both of them--perhaps not the
less sweet for the slight restraint under which they laboured; for
there are times, as every one must have felt, when the partial
indulgence of our feelings gives greater delight than even the full
enjoyment, as the slight airy haze which sometimes covers a landscape
makes it seem more beautiful than it would appear, unveiled and
distinct. The time soon came, however, when he could come down to the
drawing-room, and sit with her there alone, but it was only during one
day that he enjoyed that privilege, for William Barham, who had
previously remained almost entirely in Mr. Carr's room, except in
those hours when he was rambling over the country round, now contrived
to intrude his society continually upon Morley Ernstein and Juliet,
although it must have been very evident to him that his company was
anything but pleasant to them, and although he himself always seemed
ill at ease in the presence of the young Baronet.
On their first interview, as may be well supposed, Morley was not a
little surprised to find him in England, and at Yelverly; but the
account of his shipwreck was soon given, and his appearance there was
explained by the old friendship of Mr. Carr for several members of his
family. After some questions on these subjects, Morley paid little or
no attention to him, except as an annoying restraint upon Juliet and
himself. In order to free himself from such a check, Morley urged the
surgeon vehemently to let him go out sooner than the man of healing
was inclined to permit. At length, however, the prohibition was taken
off; and that very day the lover accompanied Juliet Carr upon her
morning walk. But of the walk itself, and of all that followed, we
must speak in another chapter.