"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.