CHAPTER XXX.
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."