Morley Ernstein; or, the Tenants of the HeartJames, G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford)
General
Morley Ernstein; or, the Tenants of the Heart
James, G. P. R. (George Payne Rainsford)
Fiction
Morley undertook to arrange the whole of that business for her, to see
the landlord of the house, and to have some person put in to take care
of it, as soon as she was gone. He then rose to depart, though the
chief object of his coming had not been spoken of as yet; but when he
took her hand to wish her good bye, he said, "There is one thing that
I must ask you to promise me, and to keep your promise most strictly,
without asking me why."
"You have but to name it," said Helen, looking up in his face timidly.
"It is simply this," replied Morley; "and it will not be very
difficult to keep, I trust. Give me your word that, under no
circumstances whatsoever, you will mention where you are going to
before you leave this house for Lady Malcolm's, or even that you are
going away at all, till you are actually gone. I say, to no one,
meaning, not only to your own brother, but speaking generally, to no
one--not even to my dearest friend."
He laid so strong an emphasis upon the last words as to make Helen
Barham give a little start, and gaze inquiringly in his face. But she.
replied, the next instant--
"I will mention it to no one upon earth. I see that you have some
strong reason for what you say, but I am quite contented to be
ignorant of it, till you think fit to tell me--though, perhaps, I may
not see you again for a long while."
Morley understood that she did not venture to ask the question "When?"
and he replied, "I shall meet you this very night, I trust, for Lady
Malcolm has asked me to spend the evening there. Believe me, dear Miss
Barham, it will be the greatest satisfaction to me that I have ever
known, to see you there; for, under the protection of that excellent
lady, and with the acquaintance and friendship of Miss Carr, you may
set the frowns of fortune at defiance; and I trust that such sorrow--I
may say, such agony of mind, as you must have been suffering when I
saw you a few days ago, may have passed away for ever."
He let go her hand as he spoke, and turned towards the door, while
Helen Barham, with her eyes gazing upon the ground, stood murmuring to
herself--"And in those few days you have done all this!"
When he was gone, she pressed her hand tightly upon her brow for
several minutes, and then saying--"I must not think of it, I will not
think of it; it is foolish--it is mad--it is wrong!" she proceeded
hastily to occupy herself with other things; putting by all the
objects that she did not intend to take with her; locking up this
drawer and that; sometimes sitting down for a moment, and sketching
with her pencil some wild, fanciful head, upon a sheet of paper which
lay on the table, and then starting up again, to employ herself more
actively--struggling vehemently, in short, against feelings and
thoughts that called loudly for attention, in every pause of
occupation. She had been thus engaged for about an hour, and the clock
stood at a quarter to twelve, when there came the roll of wheels, and
a loud knock at the door.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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