Morley Ernstein; or, the Tenants of the Heart

by G. P. R. James

"Throw him out of the window," answered Morley.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

We must pass over the space of two days, and then return to the cottage, of which we have spoken in the last chapter, having now to dwell for some time upon the fate and history of persons in a very different station of life, and of a very different character from Sir Morley Ernstein. Yet let not the reader think that we thus go from scene to scene, and from person to person--leaving those for whom we have just created an interest, almost as soon as that interest is excited, and turning to others whom the reader cares little about--from any wantonness of imagination, or carelessness of plan. On the contrary, it is done deliberately and designedly; not only because it is in the ordinary course of nature, and because the fates of the great and the small, the good and the bad, the wise and the foolish, are linked together in such a manner throughout the whole scheme of human life, that they all affect each other in the most intimate manner, but also because it is absolutely necessary to pursue such a course, in order that the reader may, in the least degree, comprehend the story of this book. Let him be forewarned, then, that if he misses one chapter, one page, or perhaps one sentence, he may very probably lose the key to the whole, and understand no more at the end than he did at the beginning; for the destiny of each person herein spoken of, was so twined and intertwisted with that of the others, by the decree of fate, that the life, property, and happiness of the greatest and the best amongst them, was often entirely dependent upon the actions of the least and the worst, and the ultimate result of all was brought about by circumstances that seemed the most trivial.

To the cottage, then, we must turn, on the evening of the second day after that on which Sir Morley Ernstein had visited it; premising, that the young Baronet had set off for London on the day after we last saw him. The little tenement had undergone a considerable change, and though it may seem strange to attribute anything like poetry to tables and chairs, yet I must say there was the poetry of comfort about it--ay, dear reader, there is a poetry in anything which calls up before the eye of imagination all the sweet relationships of domestic life; the household joys, the bright hearth's happy circle, parental fondness, the husband's protecting care, the wife's devoted love. There is a poetry in it all, the blandest, the most soothing to the human heart; for it is the poetry of the purest happiness that man is permitted to know on earth. That sort of poetry had been produced in the cottage I have spoken of, by the change from the vacant rooms, and dull uncovered walls, to the cheerful, furnished cottage-kitchen, with the bright fire blazing on the hearth, the long row of shelves loaded with various articles for daily use, all clean and shining; the polished oaken table in the midst, the stools and seats around, the large chair by the fire, and a thousand little objects, not of absolute necessity, perhaps, but which all more or less contribute to comfort; for good old Adam Gray had taken an interest in the orders his masters gave him, and had forgotten nothing--no, not even a small crib for the child.

At the moment that we speak of, the elder woman, whom the little boy himself has introduced to us by the name of Granny, was seated in the arm-chair by the fire, and looking round with a feeling of relief and satisfaction, though her face was somewhat worn with the anxiety and watching which she had undergone during the last week, and with being hunted, as she expressed it, like a wild beast, over the moors. The boy, her grandson, was on the floor near her feet, rolling to and fro a large round mass of wood, which was used to keep the cottage-door open in fine weather; while his mother was gazing down upon him with a look of sorrowful affection; and in her eyes might be read deep and sad comments upon, the fate of her child, upon human love, and human errors. Oh! could one have seen into her heart at that moment, how touching--how strangely touching--would have been the terrible blending of intense affection, and strong anxiety, and profound sorrow, which would have been found there as she gazed upon her boy!

The two women had been in the house for several hours, but had been busily engaged in arranging all things in their future abode, so that this was the first moment that leisure had been found for calm contemplation. Neither mother nor daughter spoke for some time, and nothing was heard but the ticking of the clock behind the door, and the rolling to and fro of the wooden ball by the little boy. Suddenly, however, there was a footfall in the garden, and the younger woman started and listened, but the moment after she shook her head, saying--"It is not he."

The well-known music of the step we love, the sweetest of all sounds to those who have been long absent from the arms of affection, was not there. It was the slow and heavy tread of an old man, and in another minute, after tapping at the door, good Adam Gray entered the cottage and approached the fire. He had not thought fit to be present when the little party took possession of their new dwelling; but he now came, both to see that his young master's orders had been executed, and to satisfy, in some degree, his own curiosity upon more than one point.

The younger woman had said--"Come in!" and her mother had turned round to see who it was that entered, but the eye of the latter rested upon the form of the old butler without the slightest sign of recognition. He gazed upon her in return as he advanced; but whether it was that his memory was better, or that she was less changed by time than he was, it was very evident, from the expression of his countenance, that he saw in her an old acquaintance.

"Good evening," he said--"good evening. I hope you find everything comfortable here. It was my young master's strict order that I should do everything to make you so."

"I thank you, sir," replied the younger woman, with a tone and manner that would not have disgraced any society, "we are deeply indebted to Sir Morley Ernstein, and have found everything far more comfortable than we could even hope, certainly far more than we had any right to expect."