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 Various plans had been adopted to give modern comforts to the ancient habitation; windows had superseded loop-holes, and gardens had been laid out where the spears once bristled and the cannon roared.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.