It was over some of the smaller poems of Milton that Morley paused; and though he could not go on very connectedly, yet there was a depth and a freshness in the whole as invigorating as the waters of a clear, cool river to the limbs of one who has wandered far through a hot day. His spirit seemed to plunge into that well of pure poetry, and rose up refreshed.
At length he retired to rest, and though he slept not for some hours, yet his thoughts were calm. He determined that he would go early on the following morning to see Juliet Carr--that he would not wait for any formal time of visiting, although he saw that she was travelling with a party consisting of persons whom he believed to be nearly strangers to him; and he lay and revolved all that he would say and all that he would do, with the usual vain calculation of man, who never till the end of life learns to know that the very next minute is not his own. Thus passed the first four hours of the night, and then came a short period of repose, broken with thought running into dreams, and then came deep and profound slumber.
It seldom, if ever, happens that we can obtain sleep when we most require it, but the unbidden guest visits us at the times when we wish him most away. Morley Ernstein slept longer than he intended, but, nevertheless, it was not late when he woke; his watch pointed to a quarter to eight, and, starting up, he rang eagerly for his servant, intending to proceed upon his errand at about half-past nine. There was a note in the hands of old Adam Gray as he entered, and, as may be easily imagined, it was with some emotion that Morley opened it when he saw the hand writing of Juliet Carr; but that emotion was greatly increased when he read the contents.
"We go early," she said; "and though I will never refuse to see you when you think fit to come, I am inclined to believe that it would be better you should not come to-day at all. I could say nothing, Morley, to console you. All that I could tell you would, perhaps, but make you the more unhappy. For me the dream of life is over, and I feel from what passed last night, that it agitates us both too much at present to meet frequently. I will not say 'too much for me,' because I resign myself entirely to my fate--it is fixed and determined--I hope nothing, I fear nothing, I expect nothing. There is only one thing that I pray for in this life, to know that you are happy, and never, by any chance, to have cause to think otherwise of you than I have always hitherto done. Such is my fate, Morley, and such must be the fate of every woman situated as I am; but with a man it is very different. Suffer the memory of these days to fade away--I do not say forget me, for that I think you will never do; but remember me only as one that is dead. Form other ties, open your heart to other attachments, and believe me, that I shall experience the only consolation that I can receive in knowing that your affection for me, and the bitter disappointment that we have both undergone, has not permanently affected the happiness, or in any degree changed the nature of the man I love."
"When did this come?" exclaimed Morley, in a tone that made the old man start.
"About an hour ago, sir," replied Adam Gray. "I knocked at your door, but you were sound asleep."
Morley cast down the paper, dressed himself as rapidly as possible, and hurried out.
There were two or three people lounging quietly at the door of the inn called "The Towers," without any one of those signs and appearances which indicate to the eye of the experienced traveller that a departure is about to take place. There were no boxes in the passage, nor leather cases, nor cloaks and shawls, nor portfolios and drawing-books, the stray volume of a new romance, nor the couriers' innumerable straps and buckles. There were two or three men with whiskers, and one with mustachioes, and each bearing about him that indescribable something which points out the travelling servant; but they were all in a state of calm tranquillity; and Morley, by the whole aspect of the place, became convinced he was not, as he had feared, too late. He went into the house, then, and enquired of a person whom he met, and whom, from certain signs and symptoms, albeit as unlike an English innkeeper as possible, he took to be the master of the hotel, where he should find Miss Carr?
The man stared, and then replied, that there was no such person there. Morley next asked for Lord Clavering, which name immediately brought up a look of intelligence in the innkeeper's countenance; but the answer that instantly followed, at once damped the young Englishman's hopes.
"Oh, they are gone--they are gone!" replied the man. "They have been gone three quarters of an hour."