Love is certainly a strange and wonderful power, affecting all things,
within us and without us, by its own magical influence, brightening
all things, calling forth beauty from all things, bringing out
infinite variety from objects that would otherwise be tame and full of
sameness, and impressing with the stamp of immortal memory, feelings,
thoughts, and words that seem the most evanescent, light, and
transitory.
Morley and Juliet walked on with love for their sole companion; but,
oh! how that sweet comrade of the way enriched with marvellous
splendour the calm fields of Yelverly! But not only for them did he
produce changes, but in them also were wonderful alterations effected.
The lovely countenance of Juliet Carr, always full of deep and high
expression, now became the mirror of all the thousand emotions that
trembled in her bosom. It was like a beautiful lake, rippled by the
gentle wind of an April day, which wafted over it innumerable bright
gleams and soft shadows, rendering it not only lovely in itself, but
lovely in its varieties. The sunshine was predominant, though there
were still some clouds, as I have said, for where can there be vast
hopes without light fears? and though Juliet knew not what it was she
apprehended, yet, from time to time, there was a doubt came over her
to soften the feeling of joy, like the flattened third, which will
often throw into a gay piece of music a tone of melancholy, which
renders the whole far more touching.
She knew not, as I have said, what she doubted or what she feared; and
perhaps such fears as she did entertain might arise only from that
uncertainty of the stability of any human enjoyment which is implanted
in the deepest depths of man's heart--a voice, as it were, from the
tomb, telling him that all in this unstable world must perish and pass
away--the brightest hopes, the warmest feelings, the fondest
affections, purposes, desires, enjoyments, must know decay as well as
every other earthly thing, as well as every leaf, and flower, and
bright form, and beautiful conception, and give place to things of
other unknown worlds, which, we may fondly trust, are more stable than
any of the joys of this. It might be that impression of the mortality
of all this earth's beings that made Juliet Carr, even in the midst of
love and joy, feel the faint shadow of some undefined apprehensions
cross the sunshine of her mind from time to time. Nevertheless, the
summer of love was not less bright, the harvest of joy not less
abundant.
With Morley Ernstein that bright dream of youth was warmer and more
glowing still, and he would have called himself completely happy, had
it not been that fate still left that _something to be wished for_
which accompanies us from the cradle to the grave--which is an
absolute ingredient in all the happiness of this earth where fruition
is but a point, and which leads us on to that grand state of being
where everything is eternal, whether it be joy, and hope, and love, or
pain, remorse, and despair,--that something to be wished for, the
great main-spring of human action and endeavour, without which the
senses, and the heart, and the brain would all stand still, like a
clock run down,--that something to be wished for, which leads us
sweetly on from the soft days of infancy, when we clutch with feeble
efforts the daisy in the grass, through the flowery paths of love,
through the noble but more laborious ways of a high ambition, unto the
bed of death itself, where, still beyond the tomb, the higher, holier
object stands, and the something to be wished for is seen, at length,
in the infinite promises of Heaven!
That there was something to be wished for, that the hand of Juliet
Carr was not yet his, that it was still the object of hope and
expectation, could scarcely be said to diminish the enjoyment of
Morley Ernstein; but yet his eager nature, the fiery and impetuous
spirit, of which I have so often spoken, was at that time in full
ascendancy, and did not suffer the calmer, the more placid spirit of
the soul, to rest satisfied with that tranquil happiness which he
possessed, and which might have lasted for many a day longer, had he
not grasped at more. He was anxious to know his fate, he was anxious
to call Juliet his own, and he pressed her vehemently to communicate
at once to her father the love that existed between them, and to beg
his sanction of their immediate union.
There were contending emotions in Juliet's breast, there was a timid
shrinking from the task of avowing her love to any one but him who
possessed it, and yet a reluctance to withhold any part of her
confidence from her father, even for an hour. Had it not been for this
latter feeling she would have urged Morley to wait patiently for some
time to stay till Mr. Carr was no longer oppressed and irritated by
sickness, to enjoy the bright present, and not to rush too rashly into
the dim future; but the thought of duty intervened, though she did
hesitate in some degree, saying--
"My father is still very unwell, Morley, and I really do not know
whether I shall have any opportunity to-day; for that youth is now
continually with him, and not only that, Morley, but when he is sick
he seems so impatient of my society, and, in spite of all that I can
do to soothe and please him, sends me so soon away, that whatever I
have to say to him I am generally compelled to say abruptly. Now, dear
Morley, I could not enter upon this subject abruptly--at least, it
would be with very great pain that I did so."
Nevertheless, Morley Ernstein still pressed his request, and Juliet,
not grieved but agitated, consented to do what he wished, and returned
with him to the house, thoughtful, silent, and with steps somewhat
wavering and uncertain.
"It must be done, some time, dear Juliet," said Morley, after they had
entered the mansion, "and it were better done at once, my beloved. I
will wait for you here; and, oh! come back to me, Juliet, with bright
looks and happy tidings."
Morley Ernstein remained alone in the drawing-room, and he had not
been there five minutes before he began to think that Juliet was long
in returning. He then walked up and down the room, and looked out of
the window; and then there was the sound of a closing door, and Morley
Ernstein listened for Juliet's step. A step, indeed, was heard, but it
was not that of her he loved; and, in a minute or two after, he saw
William Barham issue forth from the porch, walk slowly up between the
yew trees, and, passing through the iron gate, stop to speak, for a
moment, with one of his (Morley's) grooms, who had brought a horse
over for him from his own house. After that the young man walked on,
and Morley Ernstein sat down and tried to look at a book. He neither
saw one letter of the printed page, nor one line of the engraving that
illustrated it, and he soon closed the volume again, and resumed his
impatient pacing up and down the room.
A quarter of an hour went by--half-an-hour came to an end, and,
muttering, "Surely something must be the matter," Morley opened the
drawing-room door. There came a low murmuring sound from the chamber
of Mr. Carr, as if two persons were conversing eagerly, and in the
tone of one of them Morley recognised, at once, the voice of Juliet.
Although the door between Mr. Carr's room and the passage prevented
what was said from being heard, Morley instantly drew back, lest even
a word should catch his ear; but he was not destined to remain long in
suspense. A moment after, the door of Mr. Carr's room opened and
closed, and the step of Juliet Carr was heard in the passage. But
where was its elastic lightness? Where the quick and bounding tread
with which she used to seek the room where Morley Ernstein waited her?
She came slowly, seemingly sadly. He could bear the doubt no more, and
once more going forth, he looked up the passage in the direction of
Mr. Carr's chamber. Juliet was there, but she was pale, trembling,
supporting her half-fainting steps by laying her hand upon the cornice
of the old wainscot, and with her bright eyes deluged in tears.
As soon as she saw him, she made an effort and came forward more
quickly, and Morley, throwing his arm around her, drew her into the
drawing-room and closed the door. He pressed her to his bosom, he
asked her again and again, in a tone of wild anxiety, what it was that
grieved her; but Juliet continued to hide her face upon his breast,
and weep in silence for several minutes, speech, and almost thought,
seeming for the time denied to her.
At length, however, she sobbed forth a few inarticulate words. They
were merely--"It is all in vain, Morley--it is all in vain! I can
never be yours. I have promised not to stay with you either--I must
leave you, to see you no more;" and again her face, which she had
raised for a moment to speak, fell upon his bosom, and her eyes
deluged it with tears.
"God of Heaven!" cried Morley Ernstein, "what is the meaning of this,
Juliet? I must not--I cannot--I will not, lose you so! To what can
your father object? With what can he find fault, in myself, my
fortune, and my station?"
"It is not that--it is not that!" cried Juliet. "It is ancient hatred,
Morley--it is other plans, other designs. Oh, Heaven! that my father
should ever have a share in causing you such grief!"
"Grief, indeed?" cried Morley Ernstein. "But will you, Juliet--will
you suffer yourself to be the means of inflicting such grief upon me?
Juliet, you must not, you cannot act so. You are pledged and plighted
to me. You are mine, my beloved, and I will never forego my claim upon
your hand. Oh, Juliet! if you love me, if you have ever loved me, you
will not fail me now in this hour of terrible trial. Juliet, you must
consent to be mine at all risks, and without the consent of any one,
if that consent is withheld upon such unworthy grounds. If one word
can be brought against my character and reputation, if it can be shewn
that I have done anything in life base, dishonourable, or wrong, I
will submit, not without agony, but without a murmur. But, Juliet, if
such is not the case, and if you have no reason to believe that I am
unworthy of you, you have a duty to perform to me as well as to
others, and, dear Juliet, I call upon you; by every tie of love and
affection, to perform it at once. You have no right, Juliet, to be the
means of trampling upon my heart; to doom all my future years to
misery and solitary despair, to take away all the brightness of my
youth, and but to bless me for a moment in order to make me miserable
for ever. Fly with me, Juliet--fly with me! Once united, your father
will readily forgive a step to which he himself drove us. Fly with me,
and be mine at once--."
As he spoke he pressed her closer to his bosom, but Juliet drew back
and disengaged herself from his arms, still leaving her hand in his,
however. "Morley, it must not, and it cannot be," she said. "What!
would you have Juliet Carr fly from the house of her sick father, for
the purpose of violating his express commands? Oh, no, Morley!--no,
that can never be. You would despise me if I did it. But that is not
the only obstacle, Morley; there are a thousand things that you will
learn too soon, which would render it impossible for me to give you my
hand now, even were I willing to forget my duty to my parent. Oh, no,
no," she continued, while the tears which had ceased for a moment
again burst forth from her eyes--"the time will come when you will
hate me, Morley, when you will abhor the day that you first knew
anything of me or mine. That--that is worse than anything to bear--to
think that you should ever have cause to look upon the day that you
met Juliet Carr, as the most unfortunate of your life."
Morley Ernstein gazed upon her for a moment in silence, puzzled by the
words she uttered; but at length he said--"What is it you mean,
Juliet?--You are going to give your hand to another? Oh, Juliet Carr!
beware, beware! Think upon the responsibility you draw upon your own
head. Remember, you not only blast my happiness and peace for ever,
but you take from me all confidence in virtue--all belief in
honour--all trust in human love! You drive me to vice, to wickedness,
perhaps to crime; you plunge me into that whirl of dissipation and
folly, which is the only resource for reckless, hopeless, trustless
despair.--Juliet, you are going to wed another, and ruin both yourself
and me!"
"Never, never, never!" cried Juliet, vehemently. "Morley, you do me
wrong; indeed, indeed you do! I call that God to witness, whose will I
believe I am obeying in sacrificing my own happiness to the commands
of my parent, that no consideration upon earth shall ever induce me to
give my hand to any other man; that I will love you ever, dear Morley,
to the last hour of my life, that I will pray for you as for a brother
dearest to my heart, and that, when death shall free me from a world
where there is nothing but sorrow before me, you shall have a token to
know that my affection was unchanged even to the last hour. I ask
nothing of you, Morley, in return," she continued, after a moment's
pause--"I ask nothing in return, but that you should try never to
think harshly of poor Juliet Carr; to separate her acts in your mind
from the acts of others, and, if you have ever loved her and esteemed
her truly, to remember her but for the purpose of keeping yourself
firm and steadfast in all those high and noble principles that shed
around you a glory in her eyes which shall never pass away from the
picture that memory will supply of the only man she ever loved. Let me
ever hear of you with pride and pleasure, Morley. Let me hear, too, of
your being happy--as happy as the circumstances will permit. Yes,
Morley," she added, laying both her hands gently upon his arm, "happy
with another, who may love you, perhaps, nearly as well as I do, and
who may render your future life brighter than I can do. Oh, yes,
Morley! yes, you were not formed for solitary existence. You were
formed for giving and receiving happiness, and night and day will I
pray that it may be your lot, and that, whatever course of life you
pursue, you may ever be remembered amongst the great, and good, and
happy."
Morley cast himself down in a seat, and hid his eyes with his hands;
not that they contained a tear, for they burned in his head like
living coals, but to shut out, as it were, the terrible and confused
images that flitted before his sight as a vision of the future.
"Farewell, Morley," said the voice of Juliet, sadly and solemnly, as
if she was speaking on the bed of death--"farewell, Morley--farewell
for ever!"
Morley Ernstein started up and caught her again to his bosom. Tears
came then to his relief, he kissed her again and again with agony
which those only can conceive who have known what it is to part for
ever with those that they loved best on earth. Juliet wept, too, in
silence for a moment, and then again murmuring--"Farewell!" she tore
herself from him, and darted away.