Morley Ernstein; or, the Tenants of the Heart

by G. P. R. James

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

We must now endeavour to give the picture of a woman's mind under deep affliction, as a contrast to that which we have drawn of a man suffering from similar sorrow. Juliet Carr sat sad and lonely in her own room at Yelverly, meditating over lost happiness and bitter disappointment. Her father's health was better--that is to say, he was stronger, able to rise, and go about in the immediate neighbourhood, though the surgeon shook his head, warned him that no great exertions must be made, and gave Juliet herself to understand that Mr. Carr was still in a very precarious state. It was a great relief to her, however, to see his health even so far improved, for it removed the necessity of making that anxious struggle to do her duty towards him, by tending him in sickness, which she never failed in, notwithstanding his unwillingness to receive her attention, or be indebted to her care.

She sat, then, lonely in her chamber, thinking over her fate, and it must be acknowledged that sad indeed were all her feelings, and deep was the depression that rested on her mind. But very, very different was her endurance of the sorrow from that of Morley Ernstein. She was sensible that her happiness was gone for ever, her brightest hopes disappointed, the treasured affections of her heart, the first deep, earnest love of her young spirit cast away upon the ocean of Time--one of all the manifold things which in the course of the world are wrecked and perish in that engulfing sea. She felt her fate in all its bitterness, but she writhed not under the pang; she knew that it is woman's lot to endure, and she prepared her mind for a life of endurance. She wept often, it is true, but she prayed often, too. She prayed not only for herself, but for him whose peace was shipwrecked with her own--she prayed that God might give him happiness, consolation, relief--that the grief which had befallen him might not drive his impetuous nature to seek for amusement or occupation in paths of danger or of wrong--nay more, that he might find others to cheer and to support him--that his fate might be brighter than her own--that he might not remember, nor feel, nor love as long as she must do.

For her own part her mind was made up; the day-dream of life was over to her; she asked nothing, she expected nothing from the future. All the aspirations of the young heart were at an end, and though she might expect some pleasures of a certain kind--in the doing good to others, the wiping away some tears, the relief of sorrows, the comforting and the consoling of the poor and the distressed--she dreamt of nothing more. She was well contented, indeed, to bound her hopes to the being an instrument in the hands of God to benefit her fellow-creatures; and if imagination did present a vision to her mind of anything like real joy for herself, if her heart did lift a prayer to Heaven for anything like individual gratification, it embraced but one bright object, it implied but one earnest petition that the time might sooner or later come when she should be of some use to him she loved--that she might have some opportunity of showing him the undying, the unchanging affection which existed in her heart. Oh! with what delight she sometimes dreamed of the possibility of following his footsteps unseen through the world, of hovering round him like a protecting spirit, warding off from him dangers and difficulties, shielding him from malice, enmity, and strife, guarding him against others--perhaps against himself! Such, for a moment, would sometimes be the waking vision of Juliet Carr; but then she would endeavour to shut it out.--It seemed too bright, too happy, for her to believe that anything so joyful could yet be in store for her.

These, then, reader, were the feelings of the woman's heart under the same affliction which had produced very different sensations in Morley Ernstein. He, it is true, longed for the happiness of Juliet Carr, even independent of himself; his voice would ever have been ready to defend her, his arm to protect; he would have gone to strife, and to certain death to procure her even a moment's happiness; but with his endurance of his own grief was mingled a bitterness and a repining which made him writhe and struggle under it. The character of man, born for effort and exertion, destined and taught to resist and to strive, rendered it scarcely possible for him to bow with resignation like hers to the stroke that separated them; there was anger mingled with the tears that he shed, and wrath was in his heart as well as sorrow.

Morley, however, had the world to go to for relief and for occupation. Juliet, in this respect, was far more unfortunate than he was, for she had nothing to take off the first edge of her sorrow; there was no variety in her existence, there was no one object to turn her thoughts from herself. Her father--though the sort of habitual respect with which he was accustomed to treat her, prevented him from breaking forth even into an angry word, nevertheless regarded her, when they met, with a stern and an enquiring eye; and the continual presence of the youth, William Barham, drove her often to seek the refuge of her own chamber, in order to avoid society which she did not like, and which every day was becoming more and more unpleasant to her.

From motives, and with views which Juliet could in no degree divine, Mr. Carr used to indulge the weak, idle, selfish youth whom he had taken into the house, in every sort of whim and fancy. He, who was usually so parsimonious, refused the young man nothing that he desired, and an evident taste for drinking soon manifested itself in his unpromising protégé. Mr. Carr caused him to be supplied with wine, or spirits, or whatever he might think necessary, taking a note, indeed, of every farthing of expense, but still with a degree of liberality which astonished all who witnessed his proceedings. It may be easily supposed, that the sort of unlimited command which the youth had over everything in the house, was not only unpleasant to Juliet personally, but also was painful for her to witness, from the evil effects it was evidently producing upon the brother of Helen Barham.

In one of her letters to Helen, who still remained with Lady Malcolm, Juliet, after much hesitation, mentioned the facts and her apprehensions; and about four days afterwards, while her father and William Barham were both out, she suddenly heard the rolling of wheels, and the moment after her maid ran in to tell her that Miss Barham had just arrived from London.

Juliet went down in haste, and the meeting between Helen Barham and herself was like that of two sisters. In regard to human affections--as indeed in regard to almost everything else--time is a mere relative term; for there are circumstances and situations which bind heart to heart in a few hours by ties more strong than can be woven by the intimacy of a lifetime. It is alone upon the deceitfulness of the world that is grounded the sad necessity of choosing slowly and thoughtfully the friends of the heart; but there are cases where the inmost secrets of the bosom are so clearly displayed that caution may be well done away; and generally it is in such cases that those circumstances exist which draw us irresistibly towards another, and teach us at once to love and to esteem.

So had it been with Helen Barham and Juliet Carr. In a few days--nay, in a few hours, they had known each other well, and loved each other dearly; and if in the character of Helen Barham there were points which Juliet grieved for, yet they were points which excited tenderness and pity rather than condemnation, and proceeded from errors in education, never from defects of the heart. When they had last met there had existed a difference in their state of mind, which was the only impediment to the deepest attachment. It was, that Juliet Carr was then perfectly happy, and happiness, which is at best a selfish thing, prevented her from feeling altogether as she might have done that full sympathy for Helen, which none but those who have themselves known deep grief can experience towards those who grieve. Let me not be misunderstood, however--Juliet had sympathized with her fair companion deeply, and had loved her warmly, and the only abatement was, that Juliet was herself completely happy. Now, however, happiness had passed away from her heart, and as she held Helen in her arms for a moment, at their first meeting, she felt that she had hardly loved her half enough.

Luckily for themselves, they were suffered to be alone for several hours, for they had much to explain to each other which was difficult to tell--many subjects to speak upon, in regard to which even woman with woman hesitates. And Juliet had dreamt a dream, so mingled of sweet and noble purposes, of painful expectations, of devotion, of resignation, and of tenderness, that it was hard for her even to approach the subject--hard even to think of it, without the tears rising in her eyes, and her heart throbbing as if it would beat through her bosom. She gazed on Helen Barham, while they sat and talked together; she looked at her bright and sparkling beauty, almost as if she had been a lover; she read the deep, strong affections of those bright heart-full eyes, she fathomed in her own mind the well of intense feelings that existed in that soft bosom, and in her humility she asked herself--"What am I, that he should love me rather than her?"

Juliet went on with her enquiries, and demanded of herself, "Is it not possible--is it not even probable, that, knowing we can never be united, with his attachment to me broken by the cold hand of despair, his affections may turn to one who so well deserves them, and Helen Barham, happy in his love, may, in the end, make him happy likewise?" Not only was it likely, she thought, but scarcely to be doubted. It was impossible that he could see much of one so beautiful, so talented, so engaging, without learning to love her, if love for another could once be extinguished in his heart.

A pause had taken place while she thus thought, and Juliet saw her fair companion's eyes rest upon the green expanse before the house, while an expression of deep melancholy stole over her countenance. Juliet read that look, and read it rightly; and though she felt somewhat timid, in regard to touching upon the subject at all, and sought not to raise any expectations, especially when she could not be sure that they might not be disappointed, yet she resolved, with the generous confidence of a pure and high mind, to let Helen know the exact position in which she herself stood towards Morley Ernstein. "I am sure," she said to herself, "that Helen will not rejoice in my disappointment. But, nevertheless, the knowledge that he whom she loves is not actually about to be united to another, may make a difference in her own fate and conduct."

Thus thinking, she fixed her eyes for a moment upon Helen Barham again, saying--"Dear Helen, you look somewhat pale and sad."

The blood rushed up into Helen Barham's cheek, from the well of consciousness in her heart. But Juliet went on, anxious to prevent her making any reply--"I am afraid, dear Helen," she continued, "that you are not very happy, though there never yet was one who more deserved happiness, I am sure. I can now sympathize with you, dear Helen, more deeply than I ever could do before, for I am not happy, either."

Helen started, and gazed eagerly in her face--"What is it you mean?" she cried. "You unhappy, Juliet!--you, whose days I thought were to be all sunshine, blessed and blessing from the beginning of life to the close!--you, whose fate I believed was destined to show to man that it is possible to be happy, even on this earth!--you, who I fancied were to be for ever a being of brightness, and goodness, and joy!--you to be unhappy! Then, indeed, is this world a place of trial to every one; and, as old Comines says--'Right loyally has God kept his word with man, that in sorrow shall every one eat of the fruit of the ground, all the days of his life!' Oh, Juliet! this is very sad to me, for it takes away that belief in the mere existence of such a thing as happiness, which was all that was left to make me remember my own."

"Why should I be exempt, Helen?" replied Juliet. "I am not vain enough to think I deserved that which I believed was in store for me; and though deep and bitter has been the disappointment of all my hopes, yet I trust to be enabled, by God's mercy, to bear that disappointment calmly."

Helen Barham gazed earnestly and sadly in her face, making no reply, for some moments; but she then said--"Speak, Juliet, speak; tell me more, now you have told so much; but do not, do not say he was unworthy, for that I can never believe, even from your lips."

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Juliet, eagerly, with her whole soul coming into her beautiful eyes. "Unworthy! oh, no!--he is worthy of all the deepest, the tenderest, the most ardent, the most enduring love that even a woman's heart can bestow. But, alas, Helen, it is all in vain! He and I can never be united. Say not a word, dear Helen; for on this subject I must be very, very brief. I dare not speak--I cannot speak much, lest these tears should drown me. We can never be united, Helen; there is a barrier between us that cannot be removed; and my only hope, my only wish, is, to see him happy with some one who may deserve to share his fate."

Helen Barham cast her arms round Juliet's neck, and, for a moment or two, gave way to an overwhelming flood of tears. She made no comment, she asked no further question; and all she said, even in the end, was "Oh, Juliet Carr--dear Juliet Carr!--would to God, that I might spend my life with you! I know not, but I think that I might comfort you, as you have often comforted me; and that peace, Juliet--calm peace, which is all that either of us can hope for now, might sooner come to our dwelling if we were together. To be with you, even for a brief space, is a great happiness to me; and when your father sent for me--oh, how gladly did I come, although I had long tried to fancy that I was better away!"

There was a pause for several minutes, but at length Juliet asked--"Did my father, then, send for you, Helen?"

"Yes," replied Helen Barham. "Did you not know it, Juliet? He sent a messenger express to London for me, begging me to come down immediately, on business of importance."

"I never heard of it," said Juliet. "I thought you had come on your brother's account. But there are my father and Mr. Barham in the avenue. I will speak to you more about your brother, Helen, when I have an opportunity. There are many things of which I wish to warn you."

To the heart that deals with facts as they exist, and not according to the conventional mode of viewing them--to the heart that tries things by its own feelings, and not by the appreciations of others to the heart, in short that feels and acts for itself, the world, and the world's customs, the idle apathy, the selfish indifference, the narrow calculations, the dark, and often stupid caution of that ordinary crowd which forms what is called the mass of society, must ever be considered as a host of natural enemies. Thus we close our bosoms against them; and when the gates have been unbarred for a moment, and the feelings have been permitted to issue forth, it is wonderful how soon, if any of the adversaries' troops approach, in the persons of the worldly and the indifferent, the soldiers of the heart retreat within the walls of the fortress, the drawbridge is pulled up, the doors and sally-ports closed, and everything is put in a state of stern defence.

Such was the case with Helen Barham and Juliet Carr. The traces of tears were rapidly wiped off, the every-day look put on as a veil, and the very thoughts with which they had been so busy were chased away, lest they might still affect the countenance, as soon as Mr. Carr and William Barham approached the house.

The old lawyer himself had become extremely thin and haggard since Helen had seen him, and though he had recovered sufficient strength to drive to Doncaster on that very morning, he was evidently sadly broken and enfeebled. He met Miss Barham, however, with a good deal of that fawning courtesy which he always displayed towards those whom he sought to flatter and to win, and which was strangely, but not unnaturally, contrasted with the acerbity and sarcastic bitterness that he assumed towards those he disliked or despised.

The conduct of William Barham, on meeting with his sister, was such as the reader may very well conceive it would be. There was a shy coldness about it, a sort of schoolboy-awkwardness, which was mixed with an affectation of ease; and, through all, an enquiring underlook of apprehension was apparent, as if he feared that Helen might have been betraying his secrets to Miss Carr. In short, every word and gesture rendered their meeting painful, even to Helen herself. Indeed, for many months, each conversation between the brother and sister had added but one source of grief or another to the number which the more amiable of the two had to bear; but now she remarked not alone the unpleasant and ungentlemanlike demeanour of her brother, but that in personal appearance a considerable and painful change had taken place. He looked thin and worn, and his face, which always bore a look of pale dissipation, was now marked by several purple blotches, in various places, and a bright red spot in the centre of each cheek. He had a peculiar cough, too, which Helen did not like; for she was old enough to remember something very like it, before her mother's death; and the course which Juliet told her that her brother was pursuing was certainly not one to improve his health and restore his vigour. After Mr. Carr and the young man had been about ten minutes in the room, the former left it, with a chuckling laugh, saying to Helen, that he had a little note for her in his desk. He returned almost instantly, and put into her hand a long slip of writing, upon which she gazed with enquiring eyes, finding it very nearly, if not totally unintelligible. "It is a sort of summons, my dear young lady," said the old man, "to appear, and give evidence upon the trial of those villains who broke into the house. It is all in proper form."

Helen Barham turned very pale, saying--"I thought I should have been spared this;" and sitting down with the document in her hand, she continued gazing upon it in silence, with a thoughtful and anxious expression of countenance, as if placed in a situation of sudden and unexpected difficulty.

"Pray, Mr. Carr," she asked, at length, "was it on this account that you sent for me from town?"

Mr. Carr saw that he had pained her, and he was evidently not a little anxious to give her no offence.

"No, no," he replied, eagerly--"not entirely, my dear Miss Barham--not entirely; there are various other important things to be done. I must have your authority, as well as your brother's, to act upon. He is not quite of age yet, you know; and I have to consult with you upon a great many matters, though I have put your affairs into the hands of a gentleman, who agrees to take it upon the 'no cure, no pay' system. He sees his way as clearly as I do, and signs an agreement to stand all the expenses if he does not recover your property. Nevertheless, there is much to be talked about; and as to this affair," he continued, seeing that the first effect upon Helen's mind was wearing away--"you know, my dear Miss Barham, I acted for the best in giving you the subpœna here, where I was at your elbow to afford you advice and assistance. If I had not done so, they would have sent it to you in London, and what would have come of it then? Nobody can escape such a thing, you know, my dear Miss Barham; it is one of the bounden duties of Englishmen to give evidence for the purpose of promoting the ends of justice."

Helen sat silent for a moment, and then asked--"What are the consequences, Mr. Carr, of a person refusing to give evidence?"

"Oh, very terrible, indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Carr; "I can scarcely tell you what might, or what might not be done; but, certainly, in the very first instance, anybody doing so would be committed for contempt of court, and then they might stay their whole life in prison."

Helen's cheek turned very pale, and Mr. Carr continued--"When anything happens to make witnesses wish not to answer, they generally contrive to evade the question, to say they are not sure of this thing or that--to equivocate a little, in short."

"But suppose they do not choose to equivocate?" said Helen.

"Then they tell the truth," said Mr. Carr, sharply.

Helen was silent and thoughtful, but there was a look of resolution in her face, which made Mr. Carr somewhat apprehensive that she would not act exactly in the way that he wished; and he was preparing all his eloquence to show her the dangers and inconveniences of the plan he suspected she was about to pursue, when one of the maids came into the room quickly, saying, with an impatient air--"There is an old woman, sir, at the door, wants to speak to you."

"I can't speak with her now, Sally," replied Mr. Carr; "she must come again."

"But she says she must speak with you directly, sir," rejoined the maid; "indeed, she is very saucy about it."

"Oh, I dare say it is that old woman, Brown," said Mr. Carr, "who says always there was five shillings owing to her son who died. Tell her it is no such thing, and that she had better go away, or I will send for a constable."

"It isn't Goody Brown, at all," answered the woman, in a tone of very little reverence for her master--"she told me something about her name, but I forget what it was."

"Go, and ask it--go, and ask it, then!" said Mr. Carr; and he was about to recommence his argument with Helen during the girl's absence; but she was not away more than a minute, and returned with a vastly indignant air, saying--"The saucy old thing says she must and will see you directly--that her name is Jane More, widow of Sergeant More; and she will take no refusal."

Mr. Carr turned as pale as death, pressed his hand upon his heart, and sunk into a chair.

"You are not well," cried Juliet, starting up. "Let me go and speak to her, sir."

"No, no, no!" cried N. Carr, eagerly--"on no account. Take her into my little room, Sally. Some one give me a spoonful of brandy. Tell her I am not well, or I would have spoken to her at once, but I will come directly."