Morley Ernstein; or, the Tenants of the Heart

by G. P. R. James

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."