In early youth there are pleasures in all seasons of the year; and as the schoolboy-story goes, it is difficult to choose between the glowing summer, with its brightness and its smiles--the sweet spring, with its soft breezes and its flowers--the brown autumn, with its fruits, and days of harvest--and the hardy winter, with its sports, and merry nights. But, believe me, reader, as one advances in life, the days that we would choose are always warm ones; and putting the brighter season of the year out of the question, the only difficulty is, to say which is most grateful; that brief return of summer-like hours, which generally takes place in the commencement of November--like that return of prosperity towards the end of life, which sometimes brightens the fate of men who have long struggled with adversity; or the burst of warmth and sunshine, which often, in the early spring, forestalls the summer--like the splendid vision of a great and glorious career which presents itself in hours of meditation to the unchastised eyes of youth.
It was in the end of February, however, with days warmer than many in June, with a balmy air, and a clear sky, that some travellers, with whom the reader is already well acquainted, took their way as nearly as possible by the same course that Morley Ernstein had pursued towards the classic land, in which he was now sojourning.
Nor let it seem strange, and romance-like, or make any one doubt the accuracy of this true history, that three parties of people, without any common consent amongst them, are here represented taking exactly the same path to a particular object, when there were five or six other roads open before them. Ay, but, dear reader, it is the very question which you are begging. If you remember rightly, at the period of which we are now speaking, a tremendous storm had swept the Alps, greatly injuring two of the principal passages; the Splugen was impassable, neither of the St. Bernards could be thought of, either very late or very early in the year; and Mont Cenis could only be passed in traineaux; but the Brenner was, and is passable, and convenient at all seasons, though sometimes the traveller is very cold before he gets at it. The convenience of this passage, especially to an invalid, in the early month of which we speak, was the cause why it was chosen by the party, to whom we now return; for one of that party was an invalid.
It was on one of those warm days of February, then, which generally brighten a part of the coldest season of the year, that a splendid green chariot, quite new, with much more silver about it than was in good taste--with a courier behind, dressed out to the highest pitch of courierism--and a lady's maid, of a very different appearance, neat, plain, and staid--drove along one of the roads that traverse the Black Forest, taking its way towards the small town of Schaffhausen. The vehicle was nevertheless at the distance of several leagues from that place; and, as it ascended one of the tall hills which diversify that part of the country, a wide extent of forest ground was displayed to the eye, undulating into all the most beautiful forms, with the yellow sun resting upon the bare, leafless branches of that ocean of trees, which.--although not a bud could be perceived upon the closest inspection, nor the slightest promise of the spring--yet bore over all, when beheld from afar, a kind of misty bloom, which is not seen in the earlier part of winter, and is difficult to account for.
The air was so warm that Helen Barham, at the request of her sick brother--who was now journeying for his only chance of life, towards that land where so many of the children of the North have laid their bones--opened the window of the carriage, and let in the breath of spring, which for a time seemed to revive the invalid. She herself leant forward, and gazed over the prospect, enjoying it with a spirit attuned to every thing that is beautiful, but with feelings saddened by a partial knowledge of her brother's perilous state; though William Barham himself, like most sufferers from the same malady, was utterly ignorant of the fate that hung over him, and had that very morning been cursing the doctors, for some little inconvenience which he had undergone at the last inn, declaring that if they had let him remain in England, he would have been well long before.
Helen gazed, as I have said, pleased but somewhat sorrowful; and, indeed, there is nothing on earth I know more melancholy, than to look over one of the bright scenes of nature with an eye fresh from the bed of deadly sickness. There is a strange and awful contrast in it: it makes life seem so utterly vain and worthless, that all we have been taught to prize turns suddenly, like the fabled fruits, to dust and ashes; and our heart sinks with a conviction of the emptiness of every thing below, even before it can rise with the consciousness of a better state beyond.
Helen gazed, then, and meditated; and her lovely eyes filled with tears. At that moment her brother's voice said, "Helen;" but for a short time she would not look round, lest he should see the drops upon her eyelids, and divine their cause. But the next moment, he repeated the word "Helen" in a tone that alarmed her, and when she did turn, his countenance alarmed her still more. His cheeks had become more hollow, the red spot which had been constantly there for some weeks was gone, his temples seemed fallen in, and the thin light hair lay more wild upon his brow than usual. There was a transparent greyness, too, about the flesh which Helen had never seen before, in him, but had marked it to well in another; and when once seen, it is never to be forgotten. At the same time a sort of spasmodic gasping seemed to convulse his chest, and his hands lay upon his knees.
"Helen!" he cried--"Helen! I feel very queer. Don't let them go on in this mist. Stop the carriage--I should like to get out. The air is so thick here I cannot breathe. Stop the carriage, girl, I say! Those d--d doctors, if they had but left me in England I should have been well by this time. That mist--"
Helen let down the window hastily, and called to the postilions to stop, but they did not hear her, and it was some time before she could catch the ear of the courier. At length, however, the carriage paused; and the door was opened, and, by a great effort, William Barham raised himself from his seat, and fell forward into the arms of the courier. The man carried him to the bank, and placed him at the foot of a tree, but the unhappy youth sunk back upon the grass with his eyes closed; while the same death-like pallor continued upon his countenance, and a quick, hard-drawn respiration shook his emaciated frame. Helen sprang from the carriage after her brother, and knelt beside him, her heart palpitating with apprehension, and her eyes filled with the tears of natural affection, no less keen and sensible because he who lay there dying before her had been so frequently the cause of pain, and sorrow, and anxiety. She bade the man bring water from the stream to throw upon his face; but though he went civilly to obey, yet he shrugged his shoulders, saying, in French--"It is of no use, mademoiselle--he is dying."
Oh! of all the many painful things of earth, there are few more terrible than to stand by the side of a being that we deeply love, watching the last struggles of departing life, looking round for aid, consolation, and support, and finding about us none but indifferent strangers, who view our sorrow and its cause but as a scene upon a theatre. Though she knew that medical aid was useless, what would not Helen Barham have given, at that moment, for the presence of a physician, for the presence of any friend! But all she could do was to clasp her hands, and gaze through her tears upon the unanswering countenance of her brother, expecting every moment to see the spirit depart. After the courier had been gone for a minute, however, a hasty step called her attention, and then a voice which seemed familiar to her ear, asking aloud, in English--"What's the matter--what's the matter?"
Helen looked up, and the face of Harry Martin met her eyes.
"Oh, I am so glad to see you!" she exclaimed. "My brother--my brother,--he is dying, I am afraid."
Harry Martin said, in his own heart, "And no bad job either!" But there was too much of the milk of human kindness, mingled with his rough nature, to let him utter one word which could pain poor Helen Barham at that moment.
"I am very glad to see you, ma'am," he replied; "but sorry to find you in such a state. But why did you take the young man out of the carriage? The place they call Steig is only two miles off; the doctor will be there in half an hour, to see our poor old woman who broke her leg. Better put him in again, Miss! Take the maid with you, inside; I'll jump up behind, and we'll soon be there."
The courier came back with some water in his hands, but though thrown upon the face of the unhappy youth, it produced no effect, except a slight shudder which passed over his frame. The suggestion of the man Harry Martin was then followed. He himself carried the almost lifeless body of William Barham to the carriage, and placed him in it; while Helen, taking her seat beside him, supported his head upon her arm, and the door being closed after the maid had entered, they proceeded on their way.
The postilions drove quick--much more so, indeed, than any money would have induced them to do--and in about twenty minutes the chariot stood before the little post-house. Much to the satisfaction of Harry Martin, the surgeon who had been attending old Mrs. More was seen, as they came up, in the very act of getting into his ancient caleche, to rumble back again to Friedburg, and, springing down, the Englishman stopped him, and told him what had occurred. The surgeon followed him instantly to the side of the vehicle, but when they came up, the post-master, the servants, and the courier were all whispering round, Helen's beautiful face was buried in her handkerchief, and the dead body of William Barham lay beside her, with the head resting upon her shoulder.
Harry Martin sprang round to the other side of the chariot, opened the door, and, raising the corpse in his powerful arms, bore it into the inn. Helen started, and looked round for a moment, as she felt the weight that had leaned upon her removed; but then bent down her head again, and once more covering her eyes, wept bitterly, without making any movement to quit the carriage. In another instant, however, Harry Martin was at the door again, and gently laying his hand upon her sleeve, he called her attention, saying--"You must get out, Miss Barham, I fear, for there is much to be done.--Be comforted, madam," he added, in a low tone--"be comforted. Ay, and thank God! Remember, it might have been worse--much worse."
Helen dried her tears, and entered the inn, where much sad business lay before her. Luckily, however, she was amongst kindhearted and honest people, and the only effort that was made to wrong her in any respect, was on the part of her brother's courier. He was detected in pilfering and cheating, on the day after the funeral of William Barham, by the keen eyes of Harry Martin, who, as he himself said, not knowing the laws of the country, ensured that the rogue should not go without punishment by thrashing him most terribly on the spot, and at the moment. He then reported his conduct to Miss Barham, and the man was accordingly dismissed, so that Helen was left in a small German village, without any counsel or assistance of the kind and character which she most needed, to choose her own plans, and to follow out the curious windings of that fate, which had placed her in so many an unforeseen position through life. She had been compelled to choose her course before, in circumstances that may seem to the reader far more difficult; but, strange to say, now that great wealth was at her command, and that all the self-named friends and humble servants who are always ready to bow down and worship at the shrine of the great god of this world, were prepared to court and seek her, and show her kindnesses and attentions, not the slightest of which her high qualities of mind and heart would have won from them had she remained poor,--strange to say, she felt more embarrassed, more anxious, more doubtful in acting for herself, than she had felt when left, by her father's death, to provide by her own exertions food for her brother and herself.
At one time, she thought of returning to England; and, perhaps, had she been a person to consult the dictates of prudence alone, she would have done so; but alas! reader, Helen Barham was not by nature a prudent person. She was good, indeed,--she was very good; and she had strong and fine principles, but it was from her heart that her goodness proceeded--in her heart that her principles dwelt. On the present occasion there was some secret longing--some inclination hidden from herself which made her anxiously desire to go on towards Italy; and though, at first, she felt some sort of fear at the mere idea of doing so, of taking so long a journey by herself, of encountering strange scenes and strange people, and undergoing all the dangers and difficulties of the road, yet these apprehensions soon disappeared, and she reasoned down every other objection in her own mind.
Nor did many real obstacles present themselves. All her brother's affairs had been settled before she left England, and she came in as the clear and sole heir, he having died under age, of the whole property which they had lately acquired. The steps necessary to be taken in consequence of his decease, the lawyers were very willing to carry through without her presence, and Helen having once written to England and received an answer, openly took the resolution of going on to Italy--speaking the truth when she said that she herself did not feel well, and would probably be better for the air of a milder climate.
There was a difficulty, indeed, in procuring an honest and respectable servant, and her experience of the last courier did not tend to give her any great confidence in that sort of cattle. But she was not destined to proceed alone. The man Martin and his wife had shown her that devoted attention and respect, which could only spring from deep gratitude; and although the good old lady, Mrs. More, was still in a very feeble and even dangerous state, they had lost no opportunity of offering to Helen every attention and assistance. The funeral of William Barham had been arranged and carried through by Harry Martin himself, who had by this time learnt to converse in a somewhat barbarous kind of German, and many of the painful particulars which attend the act of committing our kindred clay to the earth, had been spared to Helen by his consideration for her.
When he now heard that she was going on to Italy, he made all the preparations, took her orders, as if he had been her servant, and often gazed wistfully in her face, with a look that seemed to imply there was something in his mind which he wished to speak, without presuming to do so. He often, too, held long consultations with his wife; and, in the end, he came one morning suddenly into the room which Helen had made her sitting-room, saying, without any preface--"I can't think of your going to Italy by yourself, Miss Helen. I know you talk of getting a courier fellow at Schaffhausen or Constance; but bless you, ma'am, he's as likely to cheat you as the other, and you are going into a place where there are blackguards of all sorts. Now, it's very possible, ma'am, that, from what you know of me, you may think I am not a very likely person to take with you, and that I may just prove as bad as the rest of them you would meet with; but I give you my word of honour, that I never cheated any one in my life, though many a time I have done, perhaps, what may be worse. But, however, I would not wrong you in any way for a great deal more than the world, and if you were to give me to keep for you a hundred thousand pound without counting it, you should have every farthing back again, if I were starving."
"I am quite sure of it, Martin," replied Helen Barham, with one of her sweet confiding smiles; "I should not in the least mind putting all I have in the world in your hands. But what is it you wish to propose? You could not, quit this poor lady in her present state--"
"Why, Miss Helen," replied Harry Martin, "that is just what I have been talking to my wife about. She is not the least afraid of staying here to attend to her mother, till I go with you to Italy and come back again. What I want is, just to go along with you, on the outside of the carriage, to see that nobody does you any harm. You can get a courier fellow where you can find one, for you see I know nothing about that sort of business, and should not exactly like such a thing either; but I will see that he keeps all straight, and when once you are safe, and amongst people who will love you, and take care of you, as you ought to be, I can come back again, or Jane can come to me, as the case may be."
Helen took a day to consider, but her consideration ended in her adopting the plan which was proposed, and though she obtained a courier with a good recommendation, Harry Martin attended her onward into Italy.
That season of the year was approaching when it is necessary for foreigners to quit Rome, if they hold their life very dearly; and Morley Ernstein, though certainly with no thought of malaria, had more than once proposed to Lieberg to pursue their way to Naples, but for some reason, best known to himself, the latter had always made some excuse to delay. In the meantime, he surrounded Morley Ernstein with temptations of all sorts, upon which we will not dwell, having already displayed the course which he followed, and the means which he took, and it being unnecessary to repeat nearly the same story. He did not succeed, it is true, to any great extent. Some few pieces of extravagance, Morley certainly was led to commit--some few acts which he regretted,--not many, but enough to give Lieberg encouragement to pursue his plan with good hope of success at last; for the water does not more certainly wear the stone over which it passes, than a constant familiarity with vicious scenes destroys the moral principle in the heart of man.
Morley Ernstein would not approach the gaming-table, however, neither would he drink to anything like excess, though that also was tried by his dear friend, who well knew, that, as in the case of the Santon, one folly of such a kind opens the door to vices of all sorts. It may be asked, what was the object of all this?--it may be said that there must be a motive for all human actions. Reader, I cannot clearly tell you what the object was; and Lieberg's conduct certainly seemed more fiend-like than human. He afterwards indeed uttered some dark words which were never explained and might be untrue; but if there was not some deep seated cause of enmity towards Morley Ernstein in his bosom, arising in circumstances that we know not, we can only guess at his purposes and motives. To degrade Morley in the eyes of Helen Barham was certainly one end in view; but besides this, we have seen that his young companion had on more than one occasion thwarted him in an object of passion, had mortified his vanity and wounded his pride; and if we take these causes of offence, acting upon a malignant mind, together with the natural antipathy that the evil feel towards the good, and the jealous hatred of a man who sees another preferred by the being that he loves, the motives may perhaps be considered sufficient for his conduct. There may indeed have been something more--I am inclined to believe it was so--but what, I know not.
The struggle was still going on with Morley Ernstein between temptation and resistance, when, one day, as he was passing along the Piazza del Popolo, he saw a magnificent carriage, undoubtedly of English construction, standing before the great hotel, the name of which I forget, with two or three servants round the door, and the usual quantity of lackeys, couriers, and ciceroni at the entrance of the inn. When his eyes first lighted upon it he was at a considerable distance, and while he was still some thirty yards, a lady came out of the hotel with a quick step, and entered the vehicle. The door was closed, the order given where to drive, and the carriage, taking a turn, dashed past Morley the moment after. There was an earl's coronet and emblazoned arms upon the panel, and Morley, raising his eyes to the window, beheld the countenance of Juliet Carr. How often had he seen that face with joy--ay, even after hope had passed away; and the first sensation had always been pleasure; but now, there was something in Juliet's dress and appearance--something in the magnificence of the equipage--something, perhaps, in his own pre-conceived suspicions which made the sight of her he loved feel like a heavy blow upon his heart. She evidently did not see him, and was speaking with a smile to some one else who was in the vehicle with her. Morley paused for an instant to recover breath, and then advancing to the inn, determined to have his doubts satisfied, he asked an English servant, who was still gazing after the carriage, whose it was.
The man was one of those saucy English footmen who are the disgrace of many of our noble houses; and to any one but a man of Morley's distinguished appearance he might have made an insolent reply. To him, however, he answered, in a civil tone--"The Countess of Clavering, sir."
"Lord Clavering has not long been married, I think," said Morley, in as firm a voice as he could command.
"About a month, sir," replied the man, with a grin, "and he has already gone back to England to attend the house of peers. That was my lady who just drove away."
Morley turned with his heart burning and his brain whirling round; but, pausing after he had taken a step or two, with a bitter smile curling his lip, he took out his card-case, and, walking back, gave the man a card, saying--"That for Lady Clavering, with my congratulations."
The attempt to describe the feelings of Morley Ernstein, when the full agony burst upon him, would indeed be vain. His passionate indignation approached nearly to madness; his bitter, bitter anguish of spirit might have tempted him, at that moment, to commit any act which his worst enemy could wish. He felt it--he knew it to be so--his command over himself was gone, and he feared to return to the inn where he had left Lieberg, lest he might be led into some irretrievable step of folly or of vice. He wandered, then, through the streets of Rome for several hours, with the hurried pace and unequal step of a man torn by terrible emotions. He saw nothing that passed him; his eye marked none of the objects it rested upon; his spirit, busy within itself, seemed to have lost communication with the bodily senses; and it was nearly night when he was recalled to himself by some one suddenly seizing his arm, and exclaiming--"What is the matter, Morley? I have been following you this half hour, and you do not seem to know where you are going, or what you are doing."
"Nor do I, Lieberg," replied Morley. "All I have undergone is not equal to this."
"Nay, nay," said Lieberg; "come back to the hotel, and tell me what is the matter. By keeping your griefs and anxieties to yourself you more than double them; and not only that, but you are unjust to me. In striving to suggest those things which might divert your mind without knowing what it is that weighs upon it, I very often may propose the worst things when I wish to offer the best. I beseech you, Morley, tell me all."
"I will, Lieberg--I will," replied Morley. "I will; but let us go home first;" and walking quickly on by the side of his companion he took his way to the hotel, where, casting himself into a chair, he covered his eyes with his hands for two or three minutes to collect his thoughts, and then gave Lieberg a hurried and confused account of his attachment to Juliet Carr, and all that had occurred in the course of that true love, which had run even more roughly than is usually the case with the troubled course of human affection.
After he had brought his narrative up to the events of Venice, he paused, and Lieberg replied--"I had known something of all this, Morley, but not accurately, and I see I have made several mistakes in dealing with you. I did not know that you loved her so intensely. You may think me light, but my passions and attachments are as strong, or stronger than your own. I believed that you would have acted, if you truly loved her, as I would have acted under similar circumstances, that you would have pursued her, struggled against her resolutions, combated her arguments, set at nought idle vows, and ultimately won her for your happiness and for her own. But I forgot, Morley, that you are less experienced in all things than I am, and though passion may give the impetus to action, it is experience that must guide it to success. I forgot this, I say, and fancying that you loved her with one of those half loves, which may be diverted by pleasures and occupations, or swallowed up in another attachment, I endeavoured to lead your mind upon a course it could not follow. Now, however, I am convinced that you do love--at least I believe so, but I shall soon see, by the steps which you once take when your eyes are open. You seem to think that she has true affection for you; and, though from your agitation now, I suppose you have seen her again, and that she has once more treated you with the same cruel coldness, if you do love her, you will pursue her with that vigour of determination which will sweep away all obstacles. There is a might in real passion to which all inferior things soon bow, and which woman's heart can never resist, even for an hour, when once convinced that it is truly present. But that conviction cannot be produced by any sign of weakness,--you must show her that you love her, as none but strong and powerful hearts can love. That you are resolved to possess her, or to die----"
"Vain, vain, vain!" cried Morley, in bitterness of spirit. "It is all now in vain; she did love me; but driven by some promise extorted by her father, I suppose, she is now the wife of another!"
Lieberg started, and gazed upon him in surprise, then grasped his arm, and with his dark star-like eyes fixed on his face, exclaimed--"Take her from him! What right has he to possess her? Is she not yours? Yours by the bond of the heart's affection--yours by the tie that is beyond the earth--yours by the union of spirit with spirit! Talk not to me of human laws and ordinances, where the soul itself recognises a rule that is defined. You are her husband, if with the true intensity of heaven's own fire you love her and she loves you. You are her husband, I say, and every hour of her union with another is adultery. Take her from him, Morley--take her from him, be he who he may. Scruple at no means, stop at no pitiful considerations; it is due to her as well as to yourself--it is due to her in every sense. Think, think of the long and lasting misery that she must endure. Do you not know--are you not sure that every hour she must recollect you? What human ordinance will blot you out from her memory? What empty words, spoken at an altar, will erase from her heart the husband of her early dreams. Morley, if you are a lover--if you are a man--you will spare that sweet, mistaken girl the hell-fire tenderness of him whom she cannot love!"
"Hush, hush, hush!" cried Morley. "You will drive me mad!"
"You are mad already, Morley", replied Lieberg, "or you would fly to her at once. You would show her the brow which she loves, scathed with the lightning of passion, the form of him to whom she promised heaven, blighted by the consuming hell of disappointed affection. You would call upon her to remedy the wrong that she has committed--you would urge her with those words of power, the omnipotent magic of love, to save you from despair, destruction, and death, and to give you back the joy of which she has robbed you."
Thus did he proceed, reader, adding to the words he spoke, that overpowering eloquence of look, gesture, and tone, which has far more effect than language, but can never be described. Let it be remembered, too, that this was addressed to Morley Ernstein at a moment when the whole powers of his mind were shaken by the agony he endured, when reason herself tottered on her throne, and despair had broken down the great prop of all good principle--hope. He sat and listened, not without a knowledge that there was wrong and evil in the words he heard; but it was as a man for whom all life's joys and expectations are extinct, and who, in a moment of frenzied desperation, takes quietly the cup he knows to be poisoned, and drains it with a bitter smile.
At length, however, he rose, and said, "Lieberg, I will leave you for to-night. I cannot converse with any one--my story is scarcely told, but a few words more will do it. She is married to a man as old as her father--to a Lord Clavering--"
"Why, he is just gone to England!" exclaimed Lieberg.
"I know it," answered Morley, "and has left her here."
"Fly to her, Morley--fly to her!" cried Lieberg, grasping his hand--"fly to her this very night!"
"No," answered Morley, "no! Whatever I do, I must have time for thought."
Thus saying, he left him, and in the silence and solitude of his own chamber, paced up and down for more than an hour, with the better spirit within him struggling vehemently against the spell, but too weak to cast it off by its own efforts.
"I must fly," he said to himself, at length--"I must fly from this man, or he will destroy me. I will fly speedily, both from him and from the presence of her who has cast away my happiness and her own. To-morrow I will seek for the means, and to-night I will see him no more. I will throw off his dangerous companionship. To avoid evil is the next thing to conquering it."
He opened the door to call his servant Adam Gray; the old man was sitting at the other side of the antechamber, and looking eagerly towards the entrance of his master's room.
"I have knocked twice, sir," he said, "but you did not hear me."
"I was busy with very sad meditations, Adam," replied his master.
"I thought so, sir," answered the old man, simply, "for I saw to-day the person who always causes them--I wish I might say all--"
"Say nothing, my good Adam--say nothing upon that subject," replied Morley.
"No; I must not tell anything now, sir," rejoined Adam Gray, "but the time will come for me to speak."
"You said you knocked," continued Morley, gravely; "what do you want?"
"Why, sir," replied Adam, "there's another person in Rome besides her; a person whom you will be glad to see, I think; and who will be glad enough to see you, poor thing!"
"Who is that?" demanded his master; the expression, "poor thing," showing him that his old servant spoke of some person he believed to be attached to him, and making his mind immediately turn to Veronica. Alas, he never thought of Helen Barham!
"Why, sir, it is the young lady who was for some time with Lady Malcolm," replied Adam Gray. "Miss Barham, or Miss Helen, as people always call her. I saw her maid looking about the town with the courier, about an hour or two ago, and told them where you were, so just now the courier brought this note for you."
Morley ordered lights into his room, and taking the note, read as follows:--
"My Dear Sir;
"Although, under ordinary circumstances, it might seem strange for me to ask you to come to see me, yet I feel that it would show a want of gratitude were I to be in the same city with yourself and not tell you that I am here. But I have another excuse for that which I acknowledge I am very willing to do. You are, I dare say, aware, by this time, of my poor brother's death, and that the property which to my great regret, he claimed and obtained from you, has descended to me. There is still, however, some business to settle in regard to it, which I am sure he would have wished to arrange himself as I propose, if his life had been spared to do so. In regard to these arrangements, I could much wish to speak with you, as well as to assure you that I am, ever most truly,
"Your grateful,
"Helen Barham."
"P.S. I will wait at home to-morrow till you call, unless you let me know that it is inconvenient to do so on that day."
Morley answered the note at once, and named the hour, and this return to the ordinary things of life had some effect in calming his mind again. Twice he asked himself why Adam Gray had called Helen "poor thing," but he turned his thoughts away from the images to which the reply gave rise.
Pale, haggard, and sick at heart, Morley Ernstein rose from his sleepless bed, and made preparations of various kinds for that speedy departure, which all the varied trains of thought that had visited his mind during the night, had but shewn him to be the more necessary. The next thing to be done, was to announce his determination to Lieberg, and for that purpose he proceeded to the saloon, where his companion was already seated at breakfast. There was a sparkling sort of smile upon Lieberg's countenance which Morley was never very fond of. He had often seen it precede conversations that ended or went on in a painful manner; but it was Lieberg's general plan never to commence any subject himself, except of an ordinary kind, and on this occasion, as usual, he suffered Morley to speak first, merely giving him the common salutation of the morning. Now, as we have shewn, the character of Morley Ernstein wasintimately mixed of good and evil, but he had one invariable quality, which was, frankness; at times carried too far, perhaps--too far, at least, for his own earthly interest: truth can never be carried too far for Heaven. In the present case, he not only told Lieberg his purpose, but he told him why; he acknowledged that he feared him; that their views on the subject which they had discussed on the preceding night, were as different as light from darkness; but that he dreaded lest, under strong temptation, he might yield, and never cease to regret that he had so given way.
"I believe, Lieberg," he said, "that you wish me well, and would direct me to what you conceive to be happiness. My view of that not to be found jewel, however, can never be the same as yours; and though I thank you much for your good wishes, yet I must pursue my own plan."
Morley paid no great attention to his companion's countenance while he spoke, and yet it was worth observing. There was once or twice a look of displeasure, and once or twice a look of triumph, especially when the young Englishman owned that he feared his influence. A scornful smile marked his lip, too, when Morley spoke of proceeding at once; but the whole settled down into an expression of calm, well-satisfied pride, and he replied, attaching himself, in the first place, to the words, "My view of happiness can never be the same as yours,"--"You must come to it, Morley," he said--"You must come to it. The time will be, believe me, when you will find such happiness as mine the only happiness to be procured. However, be it as you will! Take your own way! Go to Naples at once, and wait for me there till I come. I will not be long after you; and then, as I shall have nothing to tempt you with, you may pursue your journey with me in safety, through the sunny land of Greece, and perhaps to the brighter and more ardent skies of Syria. There we shall see whether even your cold blood may not be warmed into a flame. But where go you after breakfast? Let us, at least, spend this last day of your stay in Rome together."
"I fear that cannot be," replied Morley; "I have various things to do, and have an engagement at eleven; but after two I am at your command."
Lieberg bit his lip, but made no reply, and Morley had finished his breakfast as soon as he left the saloon, and proceeded to his own chamber. It happened, by the merest accident in the world, that after he had taken his hat and gloves, and give some additional orders to Adam Gray, he went out of his room by another door, on the side opposite to that which opened into the common vestibule, and issued forth from the hotel by a small staircase which he had only used twice before. It is true that, although he believed Helen Barham to be now placed by fortune far above Lieberg's pursuit, yet he felt no inclination to speak of her being in Rome at all; but still, in going out by the back way, he acted without premeditation, and without ever dreaming that he would be watched.
Had he gone through the anteroom, however, he would have seen that Lieberg's valet was waiting there; and there the man continued to sit, till Adam Gray came out of Morley's room, when a few words were interchanged between the two servants. The valet seemed surprised, and immediately went in to speak with his master; after which the old man's ear caught a furious imprecation, followed by a sound, as if the Count in his anger had struck the table a violent blow with his clenched fist.
In the meanwhile, Morley Ernstein walked on to the inn where Helen Barham was to be found, and, on asking for her, was immediately admitted. She rose as soon as she saw him, a little fluttered and agitated, but with the mounting colour in her cheeks, the slight quivering of her beautiful lip, and the dancing light in her dark eyes, all adding to that loveliness which in itself was incomparable. She strove hard to be calm and placid, and indeed would sooner have become somewhat cold than otherwise, but it was a difficult thing for Helen Barham to be so. I have heard people called creatures of impulse, but she was a creature of emotions--tender, fine, high, noble, but still trembling, like a finely-balanced lever, at the lightest touch. She could not restrain her feelings; and as Morley met her, she looked so happy with her resplendent beauty, with all her wild grace, with light, and soul, and tenderness in her eyes--she seemed to possess so much of everything that God can give to content the utmost expectations of a human creature, that Morley was forced to ask himself again why it was the old man had called her "Poor thing!" Morley fell into a very common error notwithstanding all his own experience. It is, that we always make a mistake as to the source of happiness. It springs from within, and not from without. It is the water that gushes from the rock of our own hearts, not the rain that dimples the stream, adding but a few drops to the current.
"I am most delighted to see you," said Morley, taking the hand she offered; "and though I know you must feel the loss of your brother deeply, yet I must still congratulate you on your accession to the fortune you now possess. I was always sure, my dear Miss Barham, that you would do honour to high station and extensive means, and I thank God that I see you now possessed of them!"
"If I had had either voice or choice in the matter," replied Helen, earnestly, "I never would have become possessed of them in such a way. A very small portion would have contented me; and the superabundance which I do possess is rather a burden than otherwise, especially as I feel that, to have taken it from you, is to have turned our heel against our benefactor."
"Not at all," answered Morley Ernstein. "It was perfectly your brother's right; and as soon as I became convinced that it was so, I could not have held the estate for a single hour. Neither did your brother behave at all unhandsomely in any of the proceedings regarding it--"
"Nay--nay," said Helen, holding up her hand--"though he did not, Sir Morley; and I believe would ultimately have done what was right, yet his lawyers did behave unhandsomely in his name; but I have immediately taken means to remedy what was amiss."
"I do not know what you have done, my dear Miss Barham," said Morley, with a smile; "but I trust and hope that your kind and generous feelings have not induced you to undo anything that has been settled. What the law gives you, is yours; and as far as I am concerned in the matter, I cannot consent to your making any sacrifice--honour and common honesty forbid me; and now, having said this, let me enquire what it is that you have done?"
Helen was sitting beside him on the sofa, and for a moment she raised her bright eyes to his, with a look of internal satisfaction mingled with regard, which, if Morley had chosen to translate it, might have been read--"I have done that which gives me the highest delight, because you must and will approve it." But she did not answer exactly in those words, and withdrew her eyes again immediately, with a sigh, and a look of sadness, as if she saw something in Morley's countenance, which she had not remarked before.
"What I have done," she said "is only what is just and right. There has been no generosity--no flights of what people call fine feeling in it, and I think you will confess at once that it is so, and not give me the greatest pain, by refusing to accede to that which your own heart will tell you is just, merely because it is proposed to you by a person whom you have already loaded with benefits. I think," she added, in a lower, but not less eager tone, "you would not willingly make me very unhappy."
"God forbid!" replied Morley, warmly. "What is there that I, would not do to make you happy?"
Helen's cheek became a little pale, and, for a moment, she did not answer; but finding that he paused also, she said--"The fact is, simply, this: the property which my brother claimed, and recovered was bought from my grandfather, who, I am told, was the most careless and thoughtless of men. He did not, I am sure, intend to defraud your father, and acted without consideration. But, at all events, your father paid ninety-three thousand pounds for the estate; and the lawyers tell me, that if my grandfather had been still living, you could have claimed and recovered that sum from him. It is but just, then, that I should pay it back to you, and I have told the people in London, to place it immediately in the hands of your friend, Mr. Hamilton.--Nay, now," she added, "do not look grave and thoughtful--your heart tells you that what I propose is right."
"But--" said Morley Ernstein.
"Nay, nay," interrupted Helen, playfully; "I will have no buts. Tell me, Sir Morley, in former days--to remember which, connected with your kindness, will always be most delightful to me--did I not ever do what you told me, as soon as I was convinced that it was right?"
"You did, indeed," said Morley, with a smile; "but I wish first to be sure whether this is really right?"
"What would you do if you were in my place?" demanded Helen.
"As you have done," answered Morley.
"Ay, and perhaps more," said Helen. "You would do all that I should wish to do, but dare not offer, because I know you would reject it angrily."
"Not angrily--not angrily, with you," exclaimed Morley; "but firmly. You have already done as much, and more, than the most generous feeling could dictate; and as I believe it is a pleasure to you to do it, I will not refuse to accept what you propose, though I see that you do not know the whole circumstances. Let me tell you, then, my dear Miss Barham, what they are, in some degree; for if you feel a pleasure in doing a generous act, the satisfaction will be doubled when you know that act relieves one who has the greatest regard for you from a severe embarrassment."
He then explained to her, that the only means he had found of paying the large claims against him, were, to assign the rents of almost all his landed property, to dismiss his servants, to curtail his expenditure, and to live upon an income comparatively small and pitiful. Helen's cheek first grew pale, and then burned with the hue of crimson; and as he went on she burst into a bitter flood of tears, exclaiming--"And we have done this!--we have done this!"
Morley took her hand, and pressed his lips upon it, saying--"Others have done it, and were not to blame. You have remedied it all, and how am I to thank you?"
"Oh, no, no!" she exclaimed--"I have not remedied it all; I fear that I still am robbing you--robbing you of that fortune which you used so nobly; and that, too, when I owe you everything--life, and more than life; for in the state I was when you found me, I could not have lived long, and should not only have died, but have died with shame and misery!--Ah! you cannot tell, Sir Morley," she continued, "how much sooner I would be a pensioner upon your bounty for a small pittance to supply my daily wants, than take from my benefactor that property which I cannot but feel of right is his."
"Not so, indeed!" answered Morley Ernstein; "it is not mine, Helen. It was of right your brother's, and is yours. I scarcely know, indeed, whether I am justified in not following out the plan that I had first proposed, and paying you all. But as you wish it, I will not insist upon that point; and now, tell me how you are, and let me hear all that has happened to you, since we met."
"Why, I am well," replied Helen, wiping away the tears which still felt inclined to flow; "well, and yet not quite well. But speak of yourself--I scarcely dare to ask how you are, for I see that you are ill, Sir Morley."
"I must not have you call me by that name," said Morley Ernstein; "after the strange way in which our fate has been linked together, we can but look upon each other as brother and sister; and if you will let me, Helen, I will be a brother to you instead of him that you have lost."
"You have been a better brother already," replied Helen; "but you do not say, if you are ill; and yet I am sure you are, for you are so changed."
"I have had much to pain me, Helen," answered Morley Ernstein; "very much."
"I know it--I know it," said Helen; "and it has been our doing--Morley."
The last word she pronounced after a moment's hesitation, and in so low a tone that he scarcely heard it; but yet the blood came up into her cheek, as if she had told him that she loved him.
"It was not on that account, Helen, that I have grieved," he replied. "Fortune could never disturb my night's repose; but there have been many other things pressing heavily upon my mind."
Helen cast down her eyes, and replied not; but the paleness that crept over her countenance might well shew that there were some emotions busy at her heart. Morley Ernstein was silent, too, for there was a light breaking upon him, to which he would have fain been blind. At length, Helen spoke, saying, with an effort--"I was in hopes I should have heard of your being very happy."
"It is quite the reverse, Helen," he answered. "Those bright days, which you once saw me enjoy, are past away for ever, and I have nothing left but to fly from myself, and from her who might have made my happiness, and has made me miserable."
"Oh, no, no!" cried Helen; "do not say so."
"Yes, indeed!" replied Morley Ernstein. "It is on that account I quit Rome to-morrow. Are you aware that she is in this city?"
"Who?--Juliet Carr?" exclaimed Helen.
"She, who was Juliet Carr," replied Morley, bitterly; "now, Countess of Clavering."
Helen started from her seat, and clasping her hands, gazed wildly in Morley's countenance. "It is impossible!" she cried; and then sinking down upon the sofa again, she buried her face in her hands, murmuring some words that Morley did not hear, while the crimson was seen dying her temples, and her fine small ear. What were the mingled emotions that at that moment possessed her?--Who can say? She herself was not aware; so strange, so complicated, so contending were they.
The first thing that roused her, was Morley's voice: "You say it is impossible, Helen," he replied. "I begin to think all things possible. When those whom we love best, and to whom, of all the world, we have given least cause to treat us ill, destroy our peace, betray our trust, cast away our love, and even sacrifice themselves for sordid motives, what may we not believe next?"
"O, you wrong her--you wrong her!" cried Helen Barham, raising her head, and speaking with enthusiastic eagerness. "You wrong her, Morley, most assuredly. There is something in this that you do not know--some cause she has for her conduct which will justify it, I am sure; or, at least, will palliate it. She may never be yours, but you must not cease to esteem her. I will take upon me to say, that she has not acted thus without some powerful, some overpowering motive."
"You judge her by your own heart, Helen," replied Morley. "No coronet would tempt you to such a union as this."
Helen would not be ungenerous, even by remaining silent, and she replied, eagerly, "You are wrong--you are wrong. She does love you,--she has ever loved you. She loves you still, whatever duty may say; and, though she may struggle to forget you, bound as she is to another, yet the struggle will be in vain, and will be more than a sufficient punishment for any weakness she may have shewn."
Poor Helen Barham knew not that whilst she fancied she was but doing justice to Juliet, and soothing the agonized feelings of Juliet's lover, she was by every word giving force and vigour to the most terrible temptation which Morley had ever undergone. There seemed to be something peculiar in Lieberg's evil suggestions--a something which made them resemble those of Satan himself. Every accidental circumstance gave them additional venom, and even words which were the most repugnant to all that is wrong, stirred them up in greater virulence and power than ever. Morley put his hands over his eyes, as if to shut out the temptation; but after a moment's pause, he rose, saying--"Helen, I must leave you. I will set out for Naples this very day, if it be possible. I take it for granted, that your steps will soon be bent thither also. You must let me know when you arrive, for I believe the only society from which I could derive comfort and consolation, would be yours."
As he spoke he took Helen's hand, bidding her adieu, and she left it in his, gazing with an anxious and sympathizing look in his countenance, and thinking more of his sorrow than of the sweet and gratifying words that he addressed to herself.
"I will see Juliet," she said, "before I come. I believe that I can induce her to tell me all. You shall hear her motives as she gives them to me, for I would fain restore to her your esteem."
"Let it be as it is, Helen," replied Morley, solemnly; "for it is less dangerous for me to despise her than to love her still."
Thus saying he left her, and was hurrying home, with his thoughts so agitated that he scarcely remarked a man who stood in his way at the bottom of the stairs, till Harry Martin stopped him, by pronouncing his name.
"I am afraid, Sir Morley," he said, as soon as the other paused--"I am afraid I gave you some offence by what I said to you in Germany, about some one that you trust. Now I--"
"You did, my good friend!" replied Morley; "but I was wrong, and you were right. All that is over--my eyes are opened, and I trust no more."
"That's right--that's right!" cried Harry Martin. "All may go well, then, and you may be as happy as the day is long; for if ever man was loved by an angel, you are, by one not very far from here."
"Hush!" Cried Morley; "hush! You are mistaken altogether;" and, turning away, he hurried back as fast as possible to his own hotel, and quitted Rome ere the day was many hours older.