We have left Earle for a long time in his magnificent loneliness at Wycliffe.
But magnificent loneliness it indeed was, for in his great house there was not a soul to whom he could go for either sympathy or cheer.
He was surrounded on every hand by everything that almost unlimited wealth could buy; he possessed one of the finest estates in England, and farms and forests in France, which, as yet, he had never seen; he occupied a position second to none save royalty; he had the finest horses and carriages in the county; cattle and hounds of choicest breed; he had all this, and yet he was heart-sick with a bitterness that seemed unbearable.
He could interest himself in nothing—he took pleasure in nothing—all his fair domains and riches were like a mockery to him; he never stood in the oriel window that looked out from the center of the main building at Wycliffe, and viewed the broad expanse spread out before him, and beautiful as Eden’s fair gardens, without feeling that he was cursed worse even than Adam and Eve were cursed when driven from Paradise.
His beautiful gardens, shining streams stocked with finest trout, broad fields of waving golden grain, the noble park with its grand old trees, God’s most glorious handiwork, all mocked him with their loveliness.
It was as if they said to him, “You can have all this—you can revel in everything that serves to make the world bright and beautiful; you can buy and sell, and get gain, add to your stores, and get fame and honor, but after all is told, you must ever carry a desolate heart in your bosom; you can never possess the one jewel worth sevenfold more than all you possess; you can never behold the fair face, dearer than all the world, beaming upon you in your home as you go and come on the round of daily duties.”
What did it amount to?—of what value was it all to him if he could not share it with the only woman whom he could ever love?
He forced himself day after day to go over the estate to see that everything was in order, and that his commands were properly obeyed; but there was no heart in anything that he did, while the servants and workmen all wondered to see him so sad and dispirited.
The interior of Wycliffe was in keeping with the surroundings.
Entering the wide and lofty hall, with its carpetings of velvet, its panelings of polished oak, its rich furnishings, its statuary and pictures, one gained something of an idea of the luxury awaiting beyond.