Morley Ernstein rode on more slowly than during the former part of his
journey. His mood was changed, another spirit had come over him. It
was no longer the rash, and reckless vehemence of bitter, perhaps we
might call it angry, disappointment, that tenanted his bosom; but it
was the dark, sad, listlessness of a heart which has given up all
expectation for itself, and only lives faintly in its sympathies with
others. If ever the poet's words were made true, it was in his case,
for "black care did, indeed, sit behind the horseman," and was his
only companion by the way. His mind rested frequently, it is true,
upon the fate and character of the man he had just left, but it was
with a vague, careless, indistinctness of thought, very, very
different from the keen and eager scrutiny which he gave to every
phase of human life, in former times. He thought too, occasionally, of
himself--of the change which he felt had come upon him--of the
lifelessness of the world around--of the painful memories of the
past--of the dull and cheerless prospects of the future. He asked
himself, what he should do to fill up existence? and he answered
himself, with a bitter smile--"It will pass somehow, I suppose; and
the space which now seems long, will probably then seem short. Man's
eye in youth is at the wrong end of the telescope. It is in age that
we see clearly how short are the spaces over which we have passed."
Thus musing, he wended on his way, his journey being much like the
life he contemplated--dull, gloomy, dark, and long; but yet, mile
after mile, slipping away he scarcely knew how. At length, he saw a
faint redness in the sky before him, but took little notice, thinking
that it was occasioned by another of the waste coal-fires. It grew
redder and redder, however, and touches of warm yellow began to
brighten the edges of the clouds--
"Can it be morning already?" he said; but the clear grey which took
place of the blackness of night, soon shewed him, that another day had
indeed begun.
A little more than an hour after dawn brought him to a bridge over a
small stream, but he made his horse pass through the water, and
suffered it to pause to drink. As he did so he gazed around him, and
his eyes rested upon a scene strongly characteristic of that part of
the country.
From the edge of the river stretched up a small field full of ripe
corn, which, notwithstanding the advanced period of the year, had not
yet felt the sickle. Beyond, the land rose, swelling gradually into a
considerable hill, about half way up which appeared an old grey stone
mansion, with a wide sort of park before it, spreading down to the
edge of the cornfield, and covered with short grass. On either side of
the house, stretching half way down the hill, with somewhat prim
regularity of outline, was seen a large, dark mass of wood, leaving
the open space of park lawn between, unencumbered by a single tree of
any kind. The only object that broke the calm, still regularity of the
scene was a group of fine deer, which trotted at an easy pace across
the park, as if seeking for some other spot, where the herbage was
richer, or the sheltering fern more abundant.
The house itself was of a castellated form, and a part of it had
evidently been built at that period when each man was obliged to hold
his own with a strong hand, and the sword of justice was impotent to
protect those who could not find shelter within walls and battlements.
Various plans had been adopted to give modern comforts to the ancient
habitation; windows had superseded loop-holes, and gardens had been
laid out where the spears once bristled and the cannon roared. Morley
did not in the least recollect the mansion, for he had not seen it
since he was an infant; but, nevertheless, from the descriptions which
he had heard, he instantly recognised the house he was in search of;
and, finding his way to a gate, he entered the park, and was soon in
the court-yard of his own dwelling.
Servants had gone down before him; everything had been prepared for
his reception; the place looked as gay and bright as it was possible
to make it; and the time had been, not long before, when Morley would
have walked well pleased through the long, wainscoted corridors and
quaint old rooms,--would have enjoyed that calm look of the past which
ancient houses have about them; and might have compared it to the
tranquil aspect of a good old man at the end of a happy life, and
wished that his own latter day might come with as little decay and as
much quiet cheerfulness. Now, however, he walked straight to the old
drawing-room, without looking either to the right or left, and cast
himself down in a chair, each new thing which the hopes of the past
had linked to happiness in the future, producing nothing but bitter
pain, now that the golden chain was broken by the hand of
disappointment. The first sight of the old dwelling had instantly
brought back the bitterness to his heart, and the entrance into his
home only made him recollect that that home was to be for ever
companionless.
His old servant, Adam Gray, had followed him, and marked his haggard
eye and faded cheek with pain. He sought for no explanation,
however--he wanted none; for, with the instinct of old affection, he
had divined the grand cause of the sorrow he beheld, and cared little
for the minor particulars. It was wonderful, too, how accurately the
old man guessed the course which grief and disappointment would take
with his master's mind.
"I am afraid, sir," he said, "that you have been up all night. Had you
not better lie down for an hour or two? Your room is quite ready, for
we expected you last night, and I waited up till two o'clock, thinking
you might come."
"I should not sleep, Adam," replied Morley; "and it is as well to
remain awake where I am--where there are things to employ the eyes
upon--as to shut out everything but thought, which is not pleasant to
me just now, good Adam. Let me have some coffee, my good friend, and
afterwards I will walk round the place with you, for I have something
to give you in charge, Adam. You must see to it yourself, after I am
gone away."
"Gone away, sir!" exclaimed the old man; "I hope you don't intend to
go very soon. There is a great deal to be done here, sir--a great deal
that would amuse and please you, I am sure."
"It must be done by others," answered Morley, sadly; "I shall return
to Morley Court to-morrow morning. There I shall stay but a day or two
ere I set out for London. From London I shall most likely go to the
Continent; but I have not fixed upon any plan yet. Get me the coffee,
Adam."
It is a sad sign when, in youth--the period of innumerable plans, when
everything is to be attempted, and nothing seems impossible--the
scheme of the future is left vague and undefined. The prospects, the
views, the purposes may change every hour, and afford no indication of
anything but youth's bright eagerness; but still each hour must have
its plan for the next, or you may well pronounce the heart to be
vacant, desolate, or broken. It is my firm belief, that the history of
a man's past life, as far, at least, as its happiness or unhappiness
is concerned, may almost always be told distinctly from the plans he
can form for the future. It is the burden of disappointment that
weighs down the butterfly wings of expectation that carry us insects
on from flower to flower.
The old man well understood that such is the case; and he grieved more
at seeing his master without plans and purposes, than at any of the
other signs of listlessness and sorrow which his whole conduct
displayed. He brought him the coffee, then, in silence; he laid out
the breakfast table with care; he found a thousand little excuses for
lingering in the room; and he watched his master's countenance, with
that sort of anxious but humble attachment, which is rarely to be
found anywhere but in an old servant or a faithful dog. For, alas!
truth and honour, and true, deep love, are jewels more frequently to
be found in the plain oak coffer than the gilded casket. At length, he
ventured to say, in a low tone, as if it were more an involuntary
observation he was making for his own relief, than intended for the
ear of the young Baronet--"Well, I did not think Miss Juliet would
have done so!"
Morley raised his finger sternly, with a knitted brow, but he only
said--"Leave me!" and the old man, seeing that a touch upon the wound
was agony, quitted the drawing-room, sorry for the words that he had
uttered.
As soon as he was gone, Morley Ernstein rose from his seat, and, with
his hands clasped together, and his eyes cast down, strode up and down
for several minutes, in bitter meditations. Hitherto the feelings of
heart-broken disappointment--disappointment of the best and brightest
hopes of his existence--the crushing of the sweetest, the tenderest,
the most elevating sensations of his heart, had been unmingled with
any other passion. It had been alone deep sorrow--despair, if one
will--but now the words of the old servant threw in a new ingredient.
I have not represented the character of Morley Ernstein as a perfect
one, for he was anything but perfect, and now--to use what may be
considered a strange expression--one of the most powerful weaknesses
of man's nature was called into action by finding that he was an
object of commiseration to others. Vanity, oh, reader!--vanity, which
lurks in some shape or in some disguise in every human breast, perhaps
without exception--vanity, which is the spring of more actions, good
as well as bad, noble as well as base, than have ever been catalogued
to any other author--vanity, which has made kings and conquerors,
prelates and statesmen, saints and hermits--vanity, which has led men
to the height of pomp, and the lowest acts of humiliation, was roused
in the breast of Morley Ernstein by the one sentence that old Adam
Gray had spoken, and took its course according to the peculiarities of
his character. He felt himself an object of compassion, and he loved
not to be so. There was a feeling of being lowered, degraded, in
knowing that his misery had been observed and pitied; and he muttered
to himself--"This must not be: I shall have my tale of disappointment
sent over all the world. I shall be called love-sick, broken-hearted;
I shall be laughed at by unfeeling puppies, commiserated by
sentimental girls, and scorned by the cold and calculating, who know
nothing of life but its material things. Though she has contrived to
make my existence desolate, and to chill the warm fountain of my
heart's blood into ice, yet I must not suffer myself to become an
object of contempt or neglect. I must move and act in this world as if
it still had matters of interest for me. I must taste of pleasure,
since I cannot taste of happiness; and I must have occupation,
amusement, gaiety, as I cannot have calm tranquillity and domestic
joy. I, too, will do as others do--make my face a mask for my heart,
teach my voice to become but as an instrument of music, to give forth
what sounds art may make me seek to produce, and shut up my spirit
with all the fetters of disappointment heavy upon it, as an unseen
captive within the prison of this earthly frame. Such shall be my
scheme of life; and, come what may, I will follow it with the stern
determination of one who can find for the future no obstacle in all
the things of a world, which is now become a place of emptiness and
vanity in his eyes, no guiding channels for his conduct in those
customs and usages which have lost their importance for ever. I am
afraid, however," he continued, "that I spoke somewhat harshly to that
poor old man. Heaven forbid that I should give him pain!--There is
nothing upon earth of sufficient value to justify us in making even a
worm writhe."
Morley Ernstein sat down, drank some of the coffee, more to shew that
he had used the breakfast things set down before him than from
appetite, and then rang for his old servant. It was another, however,
who now appeared, and Morley had to send for Adam Gray, not indeed
with the intention of referring at all to the stern answer he had
given, or to anything which had passed, but merely to evince towards
him that kindness and confidence which he knew would be the best
atonement for any harshness.
"Now, Adam," he said, in a tone not cheerful indeed, but less gloomy
than before, "shew me which is my dressing-room, and while I shave and
change my clothes, you shall give me some account of all the wonders
of Warmstone. Then you shall take a walk with me round the place, and
we will talk of the disposal of one or two of the cottages that are
vacant."
The old man was well pleased; and, standing by his master's side,
while he dressed and refreshed himself after his long night's ride,
Adam Gray, with some degree of loquacity, which, though not
inseparable from age, is its very frequent companion, proceeded to
relate and comment upon a thousand little particulars which he had
remarked since his arrival at Warmstone three or four days before. He
believed firmly that he was driving from his master's mind some
painful remembrances, though, to say the truth, ere he had pronounced
a dozen sentences, Morley's mind was far away, and the words were
gathered by his ear, bearing but a small part of their meaning with
them, like over-ripe corn which drops the grain ere it be garnered.
Occasionally, indeed, he saw that the old man paused for an answer,
and to satisfy him he replied at random, sometimes successfully as far
as sense went, but sometimes with words totally inapplicable to what
had gone before, and then Adam Gray explained again, and Morley was
obliged to listen more attentively.
At length his toilet was concluded, and, taking his hat and gloves, he
sauntered forth, followed by the old servant, half a step behind. It
was a pleasant, but somewhat cold day, for the time of year, and
strange were the sensations of the young gentleman as he strolled
forward over the short turf, gilded by the autumnal sunshine, with the
woods just beginning to grow brown upon their edges, resting calm in
the tranquil noontide, and an antique solitude of aspect spread over
the whole place. Guided through the tall oaks and beeches on the
right, Adam Gray led him to the old pleasure grounds of the castle,
where high walls of thick black yew, trimmed with the utmost neatness,
flanked broad gravel walks, and protected from the wind various formal
beds of flowers, which, though well kept, and not selected amiss, were
shewing a good deal the hand of autumn. Half way down the principal
walk was a small grassy mound with a sun-dial, on one side of which
was inscribed the name of some former proprietor of the castle, who
had erected it, and thus thought to save himself for a little from
oblivion, while on the other side was inscribed a quaint old rhyme,
shewing the vanity of all temporal things, as if intended as a curious
comment on the vain memento of the opposite face.
A few yards beyond the time-teller appeared the first living thing
which Morley had seen since he issued forth from the house. It was an
old gardener, who seemed in shape to have imitated the sun-dial, with
the erection of which, it is probable, his birth was coeval. He was
habited in a longwaisted coat, with broad flaps and large pockets, and
his breeches, which scarcely covered his knees and mounted no farther
than his hips, displayed a portion of a coarse, but very white shirt
about his stomach, and were fastened with large silver buckles just
above the calves of his legs. Similar buckles of still vaster
dimensions appeared on his shoes, and the costume was completed by a
pigtail and a low-crowned broad-brimmed hat. He was hale and hearty,
though upwards of eighty-five, and his profession was marked by the
spade on which he leant, and which had been familiar with his hand for
more than two-thirds of a century.
Reader, will you forgive me when I acknowledge that this antique
gardener has nothing to do with our history, but yet I could not
forbear giving you this little picture of a sort of being which has
passed away for ever. Morley advanced to the old man and spoke a few
words to him, the answers to which were as quaint as his attire; and
when his young master had passed on, the gardener continued to rest
upon his spade, and look after him with an expression of calm,
speculative thought, evidently regarding him merely as a new sort of
plant, and wondering, perhaps, what sort of flower or fruit he would
bear.
From the garden, Morley and his old servant proceeded across the park
to the little village which lay upon the property at the distance of
about a mile from the house. Morley walked through it, spoke to the
different cottagers, enquired into their situation, gave some
directions regarding them, and then told Adam Gray to take him to the
two small houses which he had said were untenanted. The old man then
led him back upon the road towards Warmstone Castle, but turning, soon
after, up a broad well-kept path by the side of a stream, he conducted
his master into a little glen, at the end of which might be seen a
small water-mill. Some way further down, however, between the mouth of
the glen and the mill, were two pretty stone cottages joined together,
with a little sweep of the hill behind them, and a garden in the front
coming down to the path.
"You seem to know this place well, Adam," said Morley, "though you
cannot have been much here."
"Oh, bless you! yes, sir," replied the man. "In your father's time we
used to spend four or five months at Warmstone every year, and as it
was his particular wish that it should be well kept up, Mr. Hamilton
has sent me over once or twice a year since."
Morley made no reply, but walked on with the melancholy feeling of the
passing away of all things more strong upon him than ever; and he
could not help thinking that the lingering of earthly affection, which
teaches us in the hour of death to care for even inanimate things, and
provide for their preservation after we ourselves have fallen into the
ruin of the tomb, is like the clinging love which the human heart will
sometimes feel towards a fellow-being, the thoughtful tenderness, the
longing aspiration for the happiness of another, which will continue
to exist throughout our being, long after the despair of ever uniting
our fate with hers, has trampled out the selfishness of passion. He
felt that such was the case with himself; and that, though from some
unexplained causes, Juliet Carr had left him hopeless and miserable,
with a heart dead to all the fond expectations of love, yet for her,
and for her happiness, he would always pray, would think of her when
he was careless of himself, and feel an interest in her when all the
rest of the world was nothing but an empty show.
He stopped opposite the gate of the cottage garden, while the old man
went in and opened the doors and windows. Morley then shook off the
load of thought, and looked round the place, examining the different
rooms, and seeing that all was in a state of good repair. Although a
place destined to be the scene of busy life always looks somewhat
melancholy when vacant, there was an air of comfort about the cottage
which satisfied the young Baronet, and turning to Adam Gray, he
said--"You must stay here a day or two, Adam, after I have gone to
town. Have a sufficient quantity of furniture, of a suitable kind,
brought down here from the castle, and let the garden be put in
somewhat better order. Probably to-morrow, or the next day, you will
have an application about the cottage from some people whom I have
promised to let it to rent free--a respectable-looking old woman and
her daughter, a younger one, with a little boy, her child. The younger
woman--and, indeed, both--have been in a better situation. You will
therefore do everything to make them comfortable."
The old man gazed in his master's face for a moment, without reply;
but then enquired--"May I ask what is the old lady's name, Sir Morley?
for a great many old ladies might come, you know."
"That is not likely," replied Morley; "but I have almost forgotten her
name, my good Adam, though it is one, I believe, you ought to know,
for she lived near Morley Court, in my father's time. Oh, I remember
now!--her name is More, the widow of Serjeant More."
The old man's face changed in a moment--"The wife of Serjeant More
come back again!" he exclaimed. "We all heard that she had died in
India. Ha! I shall like to have a chat with her, of old times. Every
one said she was a very good woman--too good a woman to do a wicked
thing--but yet people did suspect that she did one thing which was not
quite right--"
"Well, my good Adam," said Morley, interrupting him, "the scandals of
the past have, doubtless, more interest for you than for me. You will
have plenty of time to hold any conversation you like with the old
lady, for I shall not want you in town till to-morrow week. In the
meantime, however, you must give directions for taking care of the
horses, and see that everything be put in good order, both at Morley
Court and here, for I am going to the Continent, good Adam, and shall
most likely be absent many months."
"I hope you are not going without me, sir," exclaimed the old man. "I
would fain go with you, if you please; for if you leave me behind, I
shall take a sad fancy that I shall never see you again."
"It shall be as you like, Adam," replied Morley. "It is the custom, my
good old friend, on these occasions, to take with one a personage,
who, according to the law of fashion, must not be one's own
countryman, nor have one single tie to the master whom he serves. His
business is, to pay postmasters and postilions more than they ought to
have, to aid the landlords of inns, and the officers of Custom-houses,
the cicerone and the waiter in plundering his employer to the best of
his abilities, to run away from him in case of danger, and to
appropriate such parts of his goods and chattels, in case of sickness
or death, as may be most easily secreted. This personage is called a
courier; and as I go, you know, in the quality of an English gentleman
of fashion, such a piece of roguery is, of course, a necessary
appendage to my travelling carriage. You may go with me too, however,
if you like; but there is one bargain which I must make with you--no
complaints or representations in regard to the courier! You must even
let him cheat me according to the best esteemed mode, till I find him
out myself in something too gross, and then--"
"What will you do then, sir?" demanded Adam Gray, in a quiet tone.
"Throw him out of the window," answered Morley.