On, how often in life, when struggling with temptation, in the darkness of error and of wrong!--oh, how often would we give the best jewel we possess, for one ray of light to guide us back to the bright path that we have forsaken. That light, indeed, is always to be found, till life itself is at an end, though with more difficulty at every step that we take onward in the darkness; for the hand of a beneficent God has planted beacons all across the stormy sea of life, to guide us into port, if we would look for them. But besides these--these steadfast lights, which mark out the right track, and should keep us ever from deviating--there are a thousand circumstances arising, apparently, by the merest accident, which cross our course, like wandering boats, to hail us as they sail, and tell us we have gone astray. It is for some of these that we long when we first find ourselves chartless, amidst the waves of error. We look not for the beacons that guide us back, but too often gaze afar for some distant sail to follow her in hope of help and guidance.
Morley Ernstein leaned his head upon his hand on the morning after his conversation with Lieberg, and, with his brain all in confusion, his heart full of contention, he would have given all he possessed for any little accident which would have forced him away from Venice. He was ashamed of his own irresolution--he felt that he was hurrying on to the destruction of a life of hopes--he felt that he could never love but one--that his love for her--his pure, high, holy love--even in agony and disappointment, was better, far better, than the fiery cup of mere passion; and that though he might know delirious joys and feverish happiness with another, yet the sorrowful memory of Juliet Carr was worth a world of such enjoyments. But he was fascinated, the magic spell was over him--like the glamour, which the Scotch, of old, attributed to the gipsies,--compelling him to follow wheresoever the charmer would. Poor Morley, however, had not to contend against his own passions only, there were obstacles thrown in his way by others; and though on that very morning he took the same resolution which he had followed in Paris, to quit the place at once, yet he was prevented from acting upon it.
"Lieberg," he said, going down to the saloon, where breakfast waited him, "you will think me eccentric and capricious; but I much wish to leave Venice to-day."
"Nay," said Lieberg, in reply, "that is scarcely possible, for me, at least; and I think, Morley, you will not, a second time, deal so brusquely with me, as you did in the French capital. Wait for me, only till the day after to-morrow; and then, however wrong I may think you, I will accompany you at once."
"Why do you think me wrong?" demanded Morley, sharply.
"If I must speak the plain truth, Morley," answered Lieberg, "I think you wrong, because I know all that has happened to you. I am aware that you have been trifled with, deceived, made a sport of, by one who was not worthy of you, and whose conduct you will one day see in its proper light; and I am sure, also, that you have now within your grasp a treasure, which would make you the envy of one half of Europe, and that you will not take it, out of weak regard for a woman who has parted with you, in the most cruel manner. I say you are wrong, Morley, in point of justice to yourself, and equally so to Veronica, for she is not one to exact from you any ties, but those of love; and it would be less painful far to part at an after period, if you find that you cannot be happy together, than to leave her now, when you have taught her to fancy you everything that she has dreamt of as forming the being for whom she could regard the whole of the rest of the world with coldness. But you would be happy! She is too enthusiastic and devoted, ever to lose that dream; and you would find in her that love which alone can give you felicity, and that endless variety which would keep up the charm to the last hour of life. However, to-day you cannot go, for you forget you left your carriage at Mestre, with a broken spring, and it cannot be repaired before to-morrow."
Strange, that a broken spring should have an effect which no argument could have! Morley had hardened himself against Lieberg's persuasions; but the broken spring gave him an excuse for staying, which was valid to himself; and though it could hold good but for one day, that was all Lieberg wanted. It was enough to let his words have their effect in silence.
"That is unfortunate!" replied Morley; and, retiring to his own chamber, he sent the courier to have the carriage repaired at once; but in the meanwhile he thought of all that Lieberg had said, and dressed himself hastily, to go to the house of Veronica.
There was one point rested on his mind, more than all the rest of Lieberg's persuasions. He had alluded to the conduct of Juliet Carr, almost in the same terms which had been used by Harry Martin. Indeed the latter had never mentioned Juliet's name; but an eager and impetuous character, like that of Morley Ernstein, always applies what others say vaguely, to the subject most interesting to itself at the time.
On this point, then, he paused, and pondered with exactly the same train of thought which Lieberg could have desired, asking himself--"Is it, then, true? Is it, then, self-evident to everybody but myself, that my feelings have been sported with, my heart trampled upon, my love despised, and rejected without reason, without cause? And shall I cast away my chance of happiness with another, on the account of one who so treats me?" But then, again, came the question--had he that chance of happiness with another? Did that fascinating being really love him? Was he not deceiving himself, in reading all that was strange and peculiar in her manner as marks of a growing feeling new to her heart?
With confusion of mind and thought hardly describable, Morley buried his eyes in his hands, as if to let the troubled current of ideas work itself clear. But it was in vain he did so, and finishing his toilette hastily, he snatched up his hat, and issued forth. In a few minutes the gondola glided up to the steps of Veronica's house, the door opened to admit him, the servant did not even go on to announce him. All spoke as plainly as signs can speak, that he was regarded in that dwelling as no other person was regarded; that he was one and alone in the favour of its mistress, and that her feelings spread themselves around to her dependents.
He went on up the stairs, then, with a quick step, and a beating heart; but as he did so, in passing the window of an ante-room, that overhung one of the canals, there was the gliding rush of a gondola through the water below, and voices speaking as the boat was pushed along. It was Italian they were talking; but one sweet voice was very like that of Juliet Carr, and Morley paused, and trembled. Reader, though he was fascinated and attracted, though admiration and regard--ay, and passion, had each its share, Morley Ernstein did not love Veronica--he could think of another at a moment like that, and he did not love Veronica!
He heard her move in the next chamber, however, and went on. She was paler than usual, but her paleness was not a defect, but rather the contrary. She looked beautiful, though she was not beautiful, and her dark resplendent eyes were full of soul and life; while over the whole of the rest of her face, and of her exquisite figure, there was an air of languor that contrasted strangely, but finely, with the light and fire of those dark orbs.
"You have been long this morning," she said, in a voice, every tone of which was music. "Why have you come so late?--You are agitated, too;" and she gazed in his face for a moment, while similar and still greater agitation took possession of her whole frame. Her eyes gradually sank to the ground, her cheek became crimson, her hand trembled in his, her whole form shook in every limb. Morley felt that she was sinking, and, catching her in his arms, he supported her to the sofa, at the other side of the room.
"Veronica!" he said--"Veronica! what is this?"
"Ask me not--ask me not!" she replied, putting away his hand, and covering her own eyes. "Ask me nothing, Morley. Tear not away the veil from my own sight. Make me not own that I have deceived you--that I have deceived myself. Oh! leave me, leave me, and forget me!"
Morley tried to soothe her, but it was in vain; Veronica burst into a passion of tears, and though she left her hand in his, when he took it she answered him not.
Thus it continued for some time; Morley remained more than an hour with her, and it were useless to attempt to describe all that took place, impossible to detail all that was said. Neither of them knew what they had uttered when they parted, but the method of their parting was somewhat strange. Veronica had become calmer, she had even given to Morley Ernstein the first caress of affection that her lips had ever bestowed upon mortal man. But whether it was that remorse and regret even then, like a serpent only half hidden by the roses, suffered itself, in some vague and shadowy manner, to appear in word, or look, or action, I cannot tell; Veronica suddenly started away, and clasped her hands together, exclaiming--"I thought you long, but you are come too soon! I thought you were here seldom, but you have been here too often!--Oh, Morley, Morley! leave me now, I beseech you. Leave me to thought, leave me to reflection!--I will write to you--I will send to you. Fear not!" she continued seeing a look of pain come over his countenance; "I will never make you unhappy; but I would only have time for thought--I would only act calmly--it shall be at your own choice. Everything shall be at your will; but if you come to me again, you come for ever.--Leave, leave me, now;--if I say more, I shall die."
Morley left her, and strange and great was the agitation in his heart, as he cast himself again into the gondola, and the boat rowed away.
It was gliding rapidly up the great canal, when suddenly it passed one of those large boats, used by the Venetian government to carry strangers to and from Venice, in communication with the post-houses of Mestre and Fusina. It was filled with people, and rowed by several men. There were English liveries, and English faces in it, and in the principal part appeared a group, which, at any other time, would have attracted Morley's attention instantly. As it was, it was only when the boat was shooting fast past his own, that the countenance of Juliet Carr burst upon his sight, and was gone again in a moment.
"Stop, stop!" he cried to his own boatman. "Where is that boat going? Follow it quick!"
"It is going to Mestre, sir," replied the man. "We can never catch it. They are going to join the post-horses, and will be gone before we arrive."
"Ten sequins, if you come up in time!" said Morley; and away the boat flew over the waters, like a bird.
The moments seemed dreadfully long; but what is there that gold will not do? Mestre was at length in sight, Morley's foot was upon the shore, and darting at once to the inn--which so many readers will recollect as a mere hotel for empty carriages--he gazed round for the party, which must have arrived only a few minutes before him. There were two chariots standing before the door, with horses attached to them, ready for departure, and servants lingering round, as if all were concluded in the way of packing, and nothing remained but for their masters to appear, ere the vehicles rolled away. Before Morley could enter the inn there were voices on the stairs, and the face of Juliet Carr herself appeared, with several others, in the doorway. It was as beautiful as ever, but somewhat pale, and there was a listless sadness in the expression, which spoke to Morley's heart, and told him that the spirit within could find no satisfaction in sporting with the feelings of him who loved her. Morley strove to be calm, to collect his thoughts, to tranquillize his demeanour; but every one must know how vain are such efforts at such a moment.
He advanced straight towards her, however, and took her hand, while the first expression that passed over her countenance, was that of pleasure, succeeded suddenly by that painful shadow which their mutual situation naturally produced.
"I must speak with you, for a few minutes, Juliet," he said, heeding nobody, seeing nobody but her. "You must not refuse me; for there is much at stake."
"I will not," replied Juliet, in a low and agitated tone; "I will never refuse you that which you have every right to ask, and I know you will never ask anything but what is right. Wait one moment. Let me speak a word to Lord Clavering, and I will be back."
She took a step or two forward, to the group of persons who apparently had gone on in order not to interrupt a conversation which all must have seen was one of no slight interest; and for about a minute Morley remained, gazing down upon the ground, with thoughts and feelings agitated almost to madness. He now learned, with agony, how different is love and passion, as his heart was torn between the ties that chained him to Veronica, and the higher attachment that bound him to Juliet Carr. He might have stood there for an hour, swallowed up in his own sensations, had not Juliet returned, saying, in a low and tender voice--"Now, Morley--now!"
She led the way, and he followed, to the saloon upon the first floor, where her party had been waiting till the carriages were ready, and there she paused, supporting herself with her hand upon one of the tables, and gazing with her tender, speaking eyes, upon Morley's face. with a look almost approaching to apprehension.
"Juliet!" he said, after a moment's hesitation--"Juliet! you owe me some explanation. Let me know whether you are sporting with a heart that loves you, for your own gratification, or at the dictates of others?"
"Oh, Morley!" she exclaimed, her eyes filling with tears; "do I hear such words from you? Are you not sure--do you not see, that I am as wretched as you can be?"
"Then why, Juliet--why?" he demanded; "what is the obstacle? What is the motive that should make you not only cast away your happiness, but mine--mine, which was trusted entirely to your keeping, with the most boundless confidence? If you can assign no motive, I claim you as my own, by every tie, by every right--"
"Nay, nay," she said--"not so, Morley! I conceal not that I love you deeply, truly; but it must be told--I am bound, Morley, by an oath, I am bound, by a promise which I cannot, which I dare not break, and must fulfil to the letter, though it condemns me to sorrow and despair through life!"
"Juliet," replied her lover, in a tone now calm, but calm with despair--"I one time fancied that you would be my guardian angel; that you would form my blessing; that you would be the light of my home, the guide of my footsteps; would cure me of all that was weak or wrong in my nature; would prove at once my safeguard and my happiness. How have I deceived myself! You have taken from me peace; you have deprived me of hope; you leave me without object or expectation in life; you withdraw from me all motive for virtue; you plunge me into degradation and vice!"
Juliet had turned very pale, and trembled as Morley spoke; but as he went on to tell her too truly the state of mind to which he was reduced, and the peril in which he stood, agitation overcame all habits; she sank upon her knees before him, and clasped his hand eagerly.
"Oh, no!" she cried, "oh, no!--I am very, very miserable! Morley, save me from that despair--save me from the dreadful thought that I have debased as fine a spirit as ever God sent for trial on this earth. Morley--dear Morley, believe that I am not in fault; and oh, in pity, if ever you loved Juliet Carr, yield not to evil, but conquer it, as we are told to do, with good!--Have compassion upon me, Morley, and do not, in addition to all the wretchedness that has fallen upon my head--in addition to the bitter, the everlasting disappointment of my first and only affections--do not give me the undying agony of thinking that he whom I have ever loved has cast away his fair name, and blasted his heart and spirit with evil, on account of this our sorrow. Promise me, Morley--promise me, at least, to try--promise to resist to the utmost. Nay, nay, I will kneel here till you do promise; I will kneel--I will die, Morley, at your feet, sooner than that you should leave me with such thoughts and purposes as you but now entertained. Will you--will you promise me? When this poor heart is broken, you will then believe and understand all that I feel--nay, strive not to raise me, unless you give me that promise."
"Well, Juliet--well, I do," said Morley Ernstein; "but you know not how I am beset."
"Oh! if you would but forget me," replied Juliet, "happiness might yet be yours;--every happiness that you have dreamt of with me might be yours with another. I know it, Morley--I am sure of it; and Juliet Carr would bless the woman who, as the wife of Morley Ernstein, would fulfil that vision of peace, and goodness, and delight, in which she herself must not share. Oh, that I might say all I know and all I think!--but I must not. Yet the time will, I trust, come ere long, when your own eyes will be opened to qualities far superior to any that I possess, and that you will at length find peace and affection with one upon whom there is no restraint, who can and will--perhapsdoeslove you, even now."
Morley shook his head sadly, but without reply. After a moment's pause, there was a voice calling from below for Juliet.
"Do not go!" he exclaimed, catching her hand--"do not go!"
But she withdrew herself gently from him, saying--"I have your promise! Oh, forget not that you have given your promise!" and with those words she left him.
In about an hour, Morley Ernstein came down slowly to the courtyard of the inn; but during the interval he had hardily heard one of all the many sounds in that abode of noise, or seen any object but the forms of his own imagination, though several persons had come in and out of the room while he was there. His face when he descended was pale and stern, but there was no longer that absent air about him with which he had remained standing so long in the midst of the saloon above. He looked round the court as he came down the stairs, and amongst the first persons on whom his eye rested, was his own courier, and his old servant, Adam Gray; the one examining his carriage with a blacksmith, the other gazing up towards the windows of the inn, with a face anxious and sorrowful. After speaking a few words, and giving some directions to both, Morley re-entered his boat, and was rowed slowly back to Venice. A slight wind curled the waters of the lagune, and the undulating motion of the boat seemed to soothe him, and to tranquillize thoughts that were in themselves but too turbulent.
But his brief conversation with Juliet Carr had produced the effect it always had upon his mind. There was a magic in the soft melody of her voice, in the pure, spirit-like light of her eyes, in the grace that pervaded her every gesture which his heart could never resist; and there was still greater power over him, in that tone of high truth and deep sincerity which was felt in all her words and looks. He might think others beautiful when she was not near; but their beauty faded away like stars before the sun, as soon as he saw her. He might doubt others, but when he heard her speak, he could as soon have doubted truth itself as Juliet Carr.
As soon as the first terrible agitation was over, although he felt more strongly than ever that the flower of happiness was utterly blighted, that, root and branch, it was withered away, yet her presence and her words had awakened the higher and the holier spirit in his heart once more, even in the midst of sorrow and despair. The passions of earth lost their light and their importance in his eyes; mere material things, and the joys that they bring with them, became at once to his sight the ephemera that they really are, and principles and feelings assumed their place, as the only imperishable possessions of man. It was as if, for a brief space, he had passed the grave, and had been enabled to see and judge all that this world contains, as, perhaps, we may see and judge it hereafter.
Dark and sad had indeed become his sensations, but the purpose of right was strong within him, and he now turned his mind to consider what he ought to do, how he ought to act. He had a duty to Veronica to perform as well as to himself, and steadfastly he resolved to execute it. It is true that she had aided to deceive him, as to what her own feelings might be, and that he also had deceived himself; but he could not wholly exculpate himself of all that had ensued. He had gone on after he felt the danger to himself and her; he had proceeded when he knew that it was wrong to proceed, and he prepared to bear the consequences, whatever those consequences might be, provided they implied no guilt or dishonour. It took him long to think of all these matters, reader; but as the boat slowly wended its way back to Danielli's, he had time for thought, and when he entered the door of the inn, his mind was fully made up as to his future conduct. He would be true and honest; he would deal with Veronica without a concealment, without reserve; he would tell her all, and leave her to decide his fate and her own. Already, he thought, that fate might be sealed; she had promised to write to him, and the letter might be now waiting which would determine all. On enquiry, he found that such was not the case, and he at once sat down to take that step on which his future destiny hung.
MORLEY ERNSTEIN TO VERONICA PLATESI.
"You promised to write to me, and you have not done it. Had you written, ere this time, your fate and mine would have been decided for life. But you have hesitated, and it is evident that there is a struggle in your mind as well as in my own. I therefore take the task upon myself of opening to you my heart's inmost feelings, and shewing you what must be the future, as far as my eyes can discover it. We have both, I fear, Veronica, deceived ourselves, and unconsciously may have deceived each other. You were confident in the impunity which you have hitherto enjoyed, and thought that love could never assail you. I felt equally secure in the memory of a deep and permanent, though disappointed passion, and believed that I could never be sufficiently attracted towards any woman, to seek or to win her affection. You thought I was sufficiently warned by the words you have more than once spoken, and I believed you to be steeled against love, or incapable of feeling. Let us first forgive each other for having mutually deceived one another, and then let me offer you all that I have to offer, and ask if it can make you happy. I have heard you speak rash words in regard to marriage, but I will believe that they were spoken more in sport than earnest, and put them aside altogether, for you must be mine by ties we can both respect, or not at all. I offer you, then, my hand and my name; I offer you the tenderest affection; and I promise you that, as my wife, you shall never have to call yourself 'a slave.' But at the same time, dear Veronica, I cannot but tell you that the first freshness of my heart has been given to another--that I have loved as man only loves once. I leave it to you to decide whether you can be satisfied with less. Every devotion, every tenderness, every affection, shall be yours, that it is possible for my heart to feel; but still I have loved deeply, passionately, entirely, and though the dream is gone for ever, its memory will always endure. It is for your voice to pronounce upon our fate. If you do not like to write at length, tell me to come to you, and I will conceive your answer given. At all events, trust to me as a man of honour, that if you become my wife, my whole days thenceforward shall be devoted to forget all others, and make you happy.
"Morley Ernstein."
He sealed the letter and sent it; and then, burying his face in his hands, remained for some time in deep and anxious thought. Hour after hour passed, and there was no answer, till, as night drew nigh, he became apprehensive, and went to the well-known dwelling where he had spent so many hours of excitement and temptation. The door no longer opened as if to a master, and the servant, in answer to his questions, said that his mistress was unwell. Morley sent in his name, but Veronica's answer was, that she would write to him. It was not till the following morning that the letter arrived.
FROM VERONICA PRATESI TO MORLEY ERNSTEIN.
"No man ever understands a woman's heart. It never has been, and never will be. The language written in that book is unknown to you all, and you attempt to read it in vain. I did not write to you, my friend--not because there was any struggle in my bosom, for the struggle was over--but I was impeded by feelings you cannot comprehend, for man can never understand what it is to woman to own that she loves for the first time. Such was the task before me if I had written before your letter reached me, and it seemed then a terrible one, when I fancied that a life of joy and happiness was to follow. Such is the task before me still, even now that I know all your feelings, and see the wide extent of misery into which I have plunged. And yet, strange to say, it is less difficult to confess that I do love, when, coupled with that acknowledgment, I have to bid you quit me for ever.
"When your letter first reached me, Morley, disappointment and agony of mind made me unjust. I was angry with you who have in no way offended, rather than with myself on whom the whole blame must justly rest. I called your words cold, unfeeling, base. But I soon recollected what might have been the result if you had really been base and unfeeling--if, instead of offering me your hand while you nobly confessed the state of your heart, you had taken advantage of my passions and my prejudices, made me the paramour of a few months or years, and then cast me away like a worn garment. My mind soon did you justice, and owned that you were generous, true, sincere--all that it is proud to love, and agony to part with. But, Morley, then came the greatest temptation of all. Weak, weak woman that I am! A voice within me whispered--Accept his offer, use every means of pleasing, put forth every effort, twine yourself round his heart with every binding tie, make yourself necessary to the joy of every hour--become a wife--Oh, Heaven! perhaps become a mother!--and honour, and virtue, and gratitude, will all combine to win for you that love which is now necessary to your existence! Oh, Morley, what a terrible temptation was there! How vanity flattered, and passion persuaded, and selfishness deceived! But I conquered at length. I love you--and yet will never see you more. Never, unless--yes, there is yet one hope left me!--I cannot, I will not share one thought of your heart--one remembrance with any woman, on the face of earth; but with the dead I am not so miserly. If the grave have closed over this affection--if your memoried love be with some saint in heaven, come to me--come to me, dear Morley! I will soothe, I will comfort, I will console you! We will weep together over the tomb of her who is gone, and when I strive to cheer each hour of your existence, I will think of her and redouble every effort. But if the air of this earth be still breathed by her who has taken your love from me, adieu, for ever!
"Veronica."
MORLEY ERNSTEIN TO VERONICA PRATESI.
"Alas, Veronica, that I should add pain to pain! Had my heart been with the dead I would have told you so at once. But still I must not deceive you; it is not so. She whom I have so deeply loved still lives, and her own will is the only barrier between us. Such is the plain truth.
""Morley Ernstein."
Morley was not kept long in the faint suspense that still remained after he had written the last sentences. Ere half an hour was over, a note was brought him containing those few sad words, "Adieu, for ever!"
In two hours more, he and Lieberg were once more rolling on upon their way towards Bologna, Morley bearing with him some regret and much grief; but so far happy that he could lay his hand upon his heart, and say--"Though I may have erred in the commencement of this sad affair, in the end I have done right."
If Angerona, the secret divinity said to have presided over the fate of ancient Rome, could hear the many barbarous and unromantic names of inns, the Isles Britanniques, the Hotel de l'Europe, the Ville de Paris, etc., which are daily vociferated in the ancient capital of empires, doubtless her ears would be more offended than were told, they were formerly, on any one pronouncing her own harmonious title. It was to the principal hospitium, however, in the Piazza di Spagna, that the carriages of Count Lieberg and Sir Morley Ernstein took their way in the middle of one of those winter months when Rome is fullest. The streets were crowded with vehicles of all kinds, as the travelling companions passed along; and so many fair English faces were to be seen in every direction, that it was difficult for them not to believe themselves in that part of Bond-street, where, at about four o'clock of the day, during five months of the year, there seems to be an inextricable impediment to the advance or retreat of any sort of carriage whatsoever.
The first order to their respective couriers, given both by Morley Ernstein and Lieberg after they had taken seizin of their apartments, was to proceed to the post-office and enquire for their letters. Lieberg, indeed, seemed the most anxious, and it is to be remarked. that he had kept up with England a much more constant and regular correspondence than his friend.
During the couriers' absence, however, the two comrades occupied themselves in different ways, according to their several characters and habits. Lieberg, with that regular attention to his own comfort which never deserted him, proceeded to arrange the rooms, of which he took possession, with scrupulous care of their neatness, grace, and convenience. His books were assigned to their particular station; trinkets and ornaments took their place upon one table; implements for writing and drawing were laid upon another; a few small miniature pictures of faces pleasant to the eye were displayed where they could be seen in the best light, and, in short, in half-an-hour the room looked as different as possible from that which it was when he entered it, and represented as nearly as can be conceived the interior of his lodging in Sackville-street.
Morley Ernstein, on the contrary, walked up and down the saloon, which was common to both their apartments, with eyes fixed upon the ground, and a sad and pensive brow. He was arranging the chamber of his own breast while Lieberg was busy with the contents of his carriage, and the agitation of all his feelings was too great to admit of his attending to other things.
It may be asked, then, if Lieberg--whose passions I have represented as intense and strong, and whose keen and active mind was always in movement--if he had no thoughts to occupy him as well as his companion. Yes, reader, he had; and busy were those thoughts all the time, but their activity interrupted nothing else, for there were no contending emotions in his breast--there was no struggle there between good and evil--no regret for aught that had passed--no hesitation in regard to what was to come. It is only when feeling rises up to war with feeling, when principles combat passions, and when, from the great battle-field of the present, our fugitive thoughts fly from both hosts of good and evil into the wide surrounding country of the past and the future, and struggle as they run--it is only then, I say, that, taken up entirely with the strife within, man can attend but little to the idle things without.
What were Morley's sensations the reader may well divine. It is true, no new event of any importance had occurred to grieve or agitate him; but every one must have felt, when any abiding sorrow is at the heart, how a fresh scene will sometimes rouse it, as if from sleep, and with it all its host of painful memories.
In about half-an-hour the courier returned with the letters. There were several to each of the gentlemen; but the two or three first that each of them opened, seemed to excite very little interest, for they were read carelessly, in one instance, eliciting a passing smile, in another, a momentary look of thought, and then cast aside. At length, however, Lieberg came to one which brought a dark look of triumph upon his handsome features; and after reading it twice, he folded it carefully up and put it by, turning his bright dark eyes slowly to the countenance of Morley, who now stood in one of the windows, perusing with anxious attention a long letter of several sheets. The young Englishman's brow was contracted, his lip was curled, his eye straining on the paper. When he had read one sheet he re-read it, and then glanced more rapidly over the second and third which seemed to be written in another hand.
But we must turn to the first sheet, and give the reader some account of its contents. It was addressed to Morley by his guardian, Mr. Hamilton, and conveyed some of the most unpleasant tidings that could meet his eye, as far as his pecuniary affairs were concerned.
"My dear Morley (the letter said), I am distressed not to know exactly where to find you, as I have to write to you on business of a very urgent nature. I shall, however, address this letter to Rome, trusting that you may receive it ere long. A fortnight ago I received what I then considered a very extraordinary application from a solicitor, informing me that a bill in chancery was about to be filed against you immediately, for the recovery of the estate of Warmstone Castle, your title to which he maintained to be bad. At first I felt inclined to treat the affair with contempt, but upon this legal gentleman calling upon me again, I saw him, and found that several eminent lawyers had been engaged in the affair, and consequently that it was more serious than I at first imagined. At the same time there was a degree of fairness about the tone of the opposite party, which induced me to meet them in the same manner, and I have had two interviews with all the parties in which I find they ground their claim upon the following assertions. You are aware, I dare say, that your father became possessed of Warmstone by purchase from a Mr. Barham. The sum given was ninety-three thousand pounds, and the title at the time seemed perfectly good. A will, however, and deed of settlement is now produced, showing that this Mr. Barham did not succeed to the estate as his father's direct heir, but under this will and settlement, by which the estate was strictly tied up. The father left but one son, indeed, the person who sold the estate to your father, but that son at the time the will was signed was married and had a child, and the will strictly limits the estate to that child and his children, appointing in a diffuse manner certain contingent provisions for younger children, with which we have nothing to do. The youth who now claims the property is the grandson of the person who sold the estate to your father, and the papers necessary to prove his claim were discovered, I hear, by a Mr. Carr, with whom I well remember your father once had a severe dispute concerning what he believed to be a very nefarious transaction in which poor Lady Malcolm suffered severely. Thus, as the character of the finder of this document is undoubtedly very bad, and the young man himself not the most prepossessing person in the world, I naturally concluded that the will might be manufactured. The parties gave me every opportunity of examining the document with my own lawyer and yours; and your friend, Mr. Wills, whose eyes you know are very sharp where your interests are concerned, remembered that there is an old clerk still living who belonged to the house, the name of which is upon one of the documents. This clerk, after some difficulty, was discovered, and, I am sorry to say, he remembers distinctly having seen the will itself, when it was submitted on some legal point to the house with which he served his time. I have at once caused the whole case to be laid before the highest legal authorities, and send you their opinion. You will see that they believe you could keep the claimants out of the estate for years, but must yield at last, as the case is quite clear. It is for you to decide; but I think I know how you will act. The worst part of the whole, however, is still to be told: the estate has been in possession of your family for thirty years, and though the fault lies not with you or yours, but in the fraudulent conduct of the man who sold it, you are held to be responsible for all the rents which have been received, and which now amount to more than a hundred and fifty thousand pounds. You would recover the ninety-three thousand pounds with interest, if the man who sold the estate had left any effects; but the present claimant comes in as heir of entail, and his grandfather who illegally sold the estate died in poverty. Perhaps a composition may be entered into in regard to these back rents, and, at all events, we must obtain time for the payment, as, I believe, that after the purchase of the small estate in Sussex, there remained no more of the guardianship account than fifty thousand pounds, and it would take ten years of the whole rents of the Morley Court property to clear off the sum still unpaid. Unauthorized by you, I have of course not been able to act; but I beg of you to write to me at once, giving me your own views."
The banker went on to consider the subject in various ways, but the terrible fact remained, that one estate was virtually gone, another deeply encumbered, and that all the long and careful savings of his minority were to be swept away at once.
What was the effect upon Morley Ernstein? Very different from that which might be supposed. The first blow was undoubtedly startling; he looked round like one bewildered; re-read what Mr. Hamilton had written; and then turning to the legal opinions inclosed, perused them accurately. They confirmed but too fully the account which his banker had given, and Morley Ernstein made up his mind in an instant. After the first stunning effect of the intelligence was over, it seemed to give him strength and energy; and merely telling Lieberg that he must instantly answer the letter he had received, he quitted the room, sent for his writing-desk, and applied himself busily, and with a steadfast mind, to put down, in a letter to Mr. Hamilton, the resolutions which he had immediately taken.
"My dear Mr. Hamilton," he said, "I will never defend an untenable cause. The present case is one in which it is very difficult, if not impossible, for the law to deal justly with both parties, and proves the utter absurdity of the axiom, which we hear so continually repeated by lawyers, that according to English law there is no wrong without a remedy. A notorious and shameful fraud was evidently committed in the sale of the Warmstone estate to my father, and in the concealment of the entail. The law has now only to judge which must suffer--myself, or the persons on whom it was entailed. Perhaps it is right that I should be the victim; but, at all events, a wrong is done and suffered somewhere. You have my full authority to concede the whole question, to give up Warmstone to the rightful owners, and to make the best arrangement that you can for paying the back rents with as little inconvenience as possible. All that I have in the funds must be immediately sold out for that purpose; but you say that there will still remain about a hundred thousand pounds to be paid. Morley Court I will part with on no account--not an acre of it; and the other little estate in Sussex, if sold, would still be but a drop of water in the ocean. What I propose, then, is this: immediately to cut off every superfluous expense, and to live as so many do, comfortably and happily upon the rents of the Sussex estate--seven hundred and thirty pounds per annum, I think we made it. This is not poverty, my dear sir, though the change is certainly great to me, but still I can endure it without a murmur. The Morley Court estate I propose to place immediately in the hands of trustees, for the purpose of paying off the debt. In the first place, the house and grounds must be kept up in the most thorough repair; the game must be properly protected; none of the old servants or labourers must be discharged. I would rather deprive myself of every superfluity than such should be the case. As near as I can recollect, not having my accounts with me, these charges amount to about eleven hundred per annum. That paid, there will still remain between nine and ten thousand per annum, to discharge the amount now claimed, and in eleven years it will be done. I have a considerable sum with me here, in money and letters of credit; but there are various things to be paid, some old people and pensioners to be provided for, and thus I shall soon get through that which I have. I think these proposals are so fair that they will not be refused, especially if by any chance one of those extraordinary coincidences, which sometimes cross us in life, has occurred in this instance, as I am led to suspect by some words in your letter. Is the young man you mention a fair-haired, pale-faced lad, with a look of sickly dissipation about him? If so, I rather imagine I once saved him from the gallows, and it is his sister, in regard to whom I wrote you a long epistle. Shakspeare says that our bad deeds turn round and whip us; but it would seem that our good deeds do so too, if I am to lose almost all I possess in consequence of having interposed between this youth and destruction. I am sorry to say that owing to the uncertain course I have pursued, your letter has been lying here for two months;"--and Morley went on to enter into the details of the changes he intended to make in his own mode of living, and to give directions for all the necessary papers to be forwarded for his signature as speedily as possible. When he had concluded, he returned to the saloon, where he found Lieberg seated near one of the windows, gazing forth in meditation.
"I am afraid, Morley," said the latter, as soon as he heard his friend's step, "that you have had bad tidings from England."
"I have," replied Morley. "You are a strange reader of human countenances, Lieberg. I thought I had guarded mine so carefully that no emotion could be apparent."
"It is my belief," rejoined Lieberg, "that everything that seems extraordinary may be accounted for with the most perfect ease; so that there is not a miracle, from the creation of this world down to Aaron's voracious walking-stick, which ate up the walking-sticks of all the Egyptians, that could be explained to us in a single word, only that poor fool Eve, after having eaten half the apple, stopped short in a fright, and was not wise enough to make even one good meal of the tree of knowledge. See how everything that we think strange becomes ridiculously simple when it is explained. You judge me a great reader of countenances; now, I never looked at your face at all, but merely read my letters while you read yours, and there found news which of course has reached you."
"That I have lost a considerable property," replied Morley, "and have to pay back rents to an immense amount."
"And are you aware to whom?" demanded Lieberg.
"I suppose, from the similarity of the name, and from the description of my friend, Mr. Hamilton," Morley answered, "it is to that William Barham of whom you and I know a good deal."
"To be sure," rejoined Lieberg, with his eye flashing; "I felt certain that something of the kind would happen at the time."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Morley, with much surprise; "how so?--why so?"
"Because," replied Lieberg, with his lip curling, "I never saw a man caress a scorpion, or put a viper in his bosom, that, sooner or later, he was not stung. Would to God I had hanged him!"
"I am much obliged to you for your kind interest," replied Morley, with a melancholy smile; "but if the thing was destined to happen at all, I am well pleased that it is as it is--not for the sake of that weak and vicious young knave, but for his sweet sister's sake. He will only use his fortune ill; but she will, of course, come in for a part, and thus be placed in a station for which she was evidently intended by Heaven. But now, Lieberg, let us speak of something more immediate. I am sorry to say our companionship must soon end, as I have assigned the greater part of my property to pay off this unexpected debt, retaining to myself not more than seven hundred a-year; all my expenses must, of course, be curtailed, and I can no longer afford to travel in the way that befits you."
"Nonsense, Morley," replied his companion; "you can very easily reduce your expenditure to the scale required, without depriving me of the pleasure of your society, or yourself of the gratification and advantage of travelling with so pleasant and instructive a companion as myself. You can diminish your whole host of lackeys, send your old grey-headed friend to England, and keep the most useful of your men. Get rid of your courier, in the very first place, both because you don't want him, one being quite enough for you and I; and, secondly, because he is a very bad one, while mine is the best that ever cheated a master, bullied an innkeeper, defrauded a postilion, or gave a hint to a bandit. Then, as for the rest, we need not travel more rapidly than suits your purse; you shall pay for whatever additional horses are necessary to my carriage, in consequence of your being with me, but, of course, no more; and, I can assure you, all this may be done upon even less than you propose. Try, at least,--try for a few months! If you refuse to do so, I shall conceive that you take advantage of this circumstance to draw off your forces."
Morley felt that he could not refuse to make the experiment, though he certainly had misgivings; but he steadfastly and strictly held his resolution of curtailing all his expenses, from that very moment. He explained to his servants, that he had met with a severe loss, and though a younger and more active attendant might have been preferable, in many respects, yet he retained no one about his person, but old Adam Clay, knowing that the good man would feel pained not to serve him, even though he were to pension him off, and leave him to spend his latter days in peace. His carriage he immediately ordered to be sold, and for want of knowledge how far his limited income would go, denied himself, at first, many an indulgence which he could very well afford. He divided his expenses into weeks, and almost into days, and bound himself down to all those small and narrow economies which are always a painful thing to a generous mind, and are only to be compensated by the internal satisfaction of doing that which is just and right.
Upon the whole, the circumstances in which he was so suddenly placed, proved beneficial to the heart of Morley Ernstein. He had other subjects for thought given him, besides the bitter disappointment which he had endured. He had now matter for activity, energy, determination, self-denial. He had to keep his spirit from repining at petty evils, he had often to struggle with his inclinations upon small points, and that habit gave him power to strive more successfully on greater occasions.
The conduct of Lieberg towards him was, apparently, all that was kind. At first, while he knew that the weight which had been suddenly cast upon his young friend, had produced a great reaction of the mind, he tempted him in no degree to go beyond the limits of a strict economy; but as the immediate effect wore away, he certainly did cast inducements in his companion's path, to spend money which might have been spared. Two or three times, too, when tempted suddenly, Morley forgot his altered circumstances, and yielded without consideration. He bought things that were unnecessary, he gave an order which he was sorry for but would not rescind; and Lieberg with pleasure saw a probability of leading him to overstep the bounds of the income he had left himself, and plunging him into difficulties which might bring on more false steps to remedy.
For the present, however, Morley was safe; for the sum which he had brought with him from England, was so much larger than he required, on his reduced scale of expenditure, that he could fall back upon it at any moment, though he did so with regret.
Thus passed a month in Rome; and though Morley Ernstein often thought of Juliet Carr, and wondered whether she was or was not in the same town with himself, he met her not in public or in private, while the period of his stay in Rome wore rapidly away.