Morley Ernstein; or, the Tenants of the Heart

by G. P. R. James

Adam Gray heard the tidings in silence, and turned into the inn to communicate the news he had obtained to those who were more interested in the matter than himself.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

We must now endeavour to give the picture of a woman's mind under deep affliction, as a contrast to that which we have drawn of a man suffering from similar sorrow. Juliet Carr sat sad and lonely in her own room at Yelverly, meditating over lost happiness and bitter disappointment. Her father's health was better--that is to say, he was stronger, able to rise, and go about in the immediate neighbourhood, though the surgeon shook his head, warned him that no great exertions must be made, and gave Juliet herself to understand that Mr. Carr was still in a very precarious state. It was a great relief to her, however, to see his health even so far improved, for it removed the necessity of making that anxious struggle to do her duty towards him, by tending him in sickness, which she never failed in, notwithstanding his unwillingness to receive her attention, or be indebted to her care.

She sat, then, lonely in her chamber, thinking over her fate, and it must be acknowledged that sad indeed were all her feelings, and deep was the depression that rested on her mind. But very, very different was her endurance of the sorrow from that of Morley Ernstein. She was sensible that her happiness was gone for ever, her brightest hopes disappointed, the treasured affections of her heart, the first deep, earnest love of her young spirit cast away upon the ocean of Time--one of all the manifold things which in the course of the world are wrecked and perish in that engulfing sea. She felt her fate in all its bitterness, but she writhed not under the pang; she knew that it is woman's lot to endure, and she prepared her mind for a life of endurance. She wept often, it is true, but she prayed often, too. She prayed not only for herself, but for him whose peace was shipwrecked with her own--she prayed that God might give him happiness, consolation, relief--that the grief which had befallen him might not drive his impetuous nature to seek for amusement or occupation in paths of danger or of wrong--nay more, that he might find others to cheer and to support him--that his fate might be brighter than her own--that he might not remember, nor feel, nor love as long as she must do.

For her own part her mind was made up; the day-dream of life was over to her; she asked nothing, she expected nothing from the future. All the aspirations of the young heart were at an end, and though she might expect some pleasures of a certain kind--in the doing good to others, the wiping away some tears, the relief of sorrows, the comforting and the consoling of the poor and the distressed--she dreamt of nothing more. She was well contented, indeed, to bound her hopes to the being an instrument in the hands of God to benefit her fellow-creatures; and if imagination did present a vision to her mind of anything like real joy for herself, if her heart did lift a prayer to Heaven for anything like individual gratification, it embraced but one bright object, it implied but one earnest petition that the time might sooner or later come when she should be of some use to him she loved--that she might have some opportunity of showing him the undying, the unchanging affection which existed in her heart. Oh! with what delight she sometimes dreamed of the possibility of following his footsteps unseen through the world, of hovering round him like a protecting spirit, warding off from him dangers and difficulties, shielding him from malice, enmity, and strife, guarding him against others--perhaps against himself! Such, for a moment, would sometimes be the waking vision of Juliet Carr; but then she would endeavour to shut it out.--It seemed too bright, too happy, for her to believe that anything so joyful could yet be in store for her.

These, then, reader, were the feelings of the woman's heart under the same affliction which had produced very different sensations in Morley Ernstein. He, it is true, longed for the happiness of Juliet Carr, even independent of himself; his voice would ever have been ready to defend her, his arm to protect; he would have gone to strife, and to certain death to procure her even a moment's happiness; but with his endurance of his own grief was mingled a bitterness and a repining which made him writhe and struggle under it. The character of man, born for effort and exertion, destined and taught to resist and to strive, rendered it scarcely possible for him to bow with resignation like hers to the stroke that separated them; there was anger mingled with the tears that he shed, and wrath was in his heart as well as sorrow.

Morley, however, had the world to go to for relief and for occupation. Juliet, in this respect, was far more unfortunate than he was, for she had nothing to take off the first edge of her sorrow; there was no variety in her existence, there was no one object to turn her thoughts from herself. Her father--though the sort of habitual respect with which he was accustomed to treat her, prevented him from breaking forth even into an angry word, nevertheless regarded her, when they met, with a stern and an enquiring eye; and the continual presence of the youth, William Barham, drove her often to seek the refuge of her own chamber, in order to avoid society which she did not like, and which every day was becoming more and more unpleasant to her.

From motives, and with views which Juliet could in no degree divine, Mr. Carr used to indulge the weak, idle, selfish youth whom he had taken into the house, in every sort of whim and fancy. He, who was usually so parsimonious, refused the young man nothing that he desired, and an evident taste for drinking soon manifested itself in his unpromising protégé. Mr. Carr caused him to be supplied with wine, or spirits, or whatever he might think necessary, taking a note, indeed, of every farthing of expense, but still with a degree of liberality which astonished all who witnessed his proceedings. It may be easily supposed, that the sort of unlimited command which the youth had over everything in the house, was not only unpleasant to Juliet personally, but also was painful for her to witness, from the evil effects it was evidently producing upon the brother of Helen Barham.

In one of her letters to Helen, who still remained with Lady Malcolm, Juliet, after much hesitation, mentioned the facts and her apprehensions; and about four days afterwards, while her father and William Barham were both out, she suddenly heard the rolling of wheels, and the moment after her maid ran in to tell her that Miss Barham had just arrived from London.

Juliet went down in haste, and the meeting between Helen Barham and herself was like that of two sisters. In regard to human affections--as indeed in regard to almost everything else--time is a mere relative term; for there are circumstances and situations which bind heart to heart in a few hours by ties more strong than can be woven by the intimacy of a lifetime. It is alone upon the deceitfulness of the world that is grounded the sad necessity of choosing slowly and thoughtfully the friends of the heart; but there are cases where the inmost secrets of the bosom are so clearly displayed that caution may be well done away; and generally it is in such cases that those circumstances exist which draw us irresistibly towards another, and teach us at once to love and to esteem.