It was a sombre evening, the moment of danger he knew was to be
towards nine o'clock that night, and Lieberg sought not to make his
companion pass the hours in any occupation which might banish thought
and reflection; on the contrary, it seemed as if a deep and heavy
gloom had fallen upon himself; his conversation was of the darkest and
desponding character; and, as they sat alone together, he skilfully
called up every idea that might pile such a load upon Morley's heart
and mind, as would impel him to anything in order to cast it off.

"Such evenings as this make me sad," he said, with his dark, bright
eyes resting mournfully upon the young Englishman. "Autumn, indeed, is
always to me a time of darkness. It is the death-bed of the year, and
still, when I think how many pleasures have slipped by us
untasted--how few will ever return again,--when I think of the
emptiness of many things that I have sought and cared about, I feel a
cloud come over my spirit that I would give worlds to disperse! What a
difference, Morley," he continued, looking out of the window--"what a
difference between this evening and that on which I some time ago met
you in the park, with a beautiful girl hanging on your arm, and
looking as if she loved you!"

Morley shrunk as if he had been rending open his heart, and bent down
his eyes upon the table, but Lieberg went on--"I, too, was happier
then," he continued; "but those dreams fade, and I do believe, after
all, that with women, the virtue and the high principle which we
admire is but coldness of nature. They will be to all appearance as
fond, as attached, as devoted, as may be, but put some small
stumbling-block in their way, and we shall find that they will whirl
all our happiness to the wind without a hesitation or a care."

Morley stretched out his hand to the Burgundy that stood by with a
sort of convulsive grasp, filled the tumbler to the brim, and drank it
off without a pause.

"Give me the woman of passion," continued Lieberg--"she who yields to
the impetuous torrent of her love without fears of the consequences or
thoughts of the future--a thousand to one she betrays me, it is true,
but still she is mine while I possess her, and she can never inflict
upon me the pang of the cold-hearted, virtuous coquette, who raises
love almost to a pitch of agony, and then disappoints it with an agony
more terrible, verifying the Icelandic fable of the damned, whose
torture is, to be first burned in the heart of Hecla, and then plunged
into its eternal snows. There have been periods in my life, Morley,
when I have felt more bitterly than you know of; and it is ever in
such dull times as this that the memory of all which is sad and dark
in the past comes upon me. I wish the Salon was opened; I think I
could go and stake my last louis, to see if, by the gambler's feverish
joy, I could cast off this oppressive weight upon my breast. Give me
the wine, Morley, and let us have the windows closed--I love not the
world nor anything in it!"

Thus went he on for some time in a tone of dark despondency, which
made the moral poison that mingled with all he said ten times more
potent and dangerous than when it came diluted with gayer things. Had
he presented to Morley's mind the memory of Juliet Carr in all her
purity and goodness, he would have called up a warning angel rather
than a fiend; but it was the memory of sorrows alone that he recalled,
of that anguish of mind which--as corporeal pain will sometimes drive
the wretch, in a moment of madness, to fly to deadly poison for the
repose of death--will often urge on the spirit to a thousand harmful
things, even for a moment's relief.

As he proceeded, the load seemed to lie more and more heavy upon
Morley's heart. At first it bore him down, and seemed to overpower
him, but gradually he rose to struggle against it; the wine seemed to
strengthen him; he took another and another draught, but then he
paused, saying, he would drink no more: Already, however, it had
produced some effect, not in intoxicating, not in clouding his senses,
but in sending that fire through the veins which none but the
Burgundian grape can produce. He became impatient of Lieberg's gloomy
tone--he was glad when the clock struck nine.

"Ha! there is the hour," cried Lieberg. "Now will you come to the
Salon, Morley? We shall find some excitement, at least, in those
mischievous pieces of pasteboard."

"No," answered Morley, "I have an engagement to-night; my carriage
must be by this time in the court;" and hurrying away to escape
further question, the sound of wheels were heard the moment after.

A dark smile came upon Lieberg's countenance. He, too, went forth, but
he was not absent more than an hour; and then, speaking a word to his
valet as he passed, he walked into the sitting-room, and sat down to
read. It was past one o'clock when the valet entered, suddenly
saying--"That is his carriage now, sir."

Lieberg went out into the corridor, and passed Morley Ernstein, as,
with a slow step, the young Englishman mounted the stairs. He gave him
but a word of salutation, and hurried on; but Lieberg marked the
haggard eye and the flushed cheek, and, entering his own bed-room, he
stood silent for a moment in the midst of the floor, with a look of
fierce triumph. It was as if he had won a great victory.

But there must have been a motive for all this. There was, and his
words showed it: "He has fallen!" he cried--"he has fallen! The first
plunge is taken! Who shall stop him now?--Neither Heaven nor hell. He
shall go on--he shall go on! and ere many a year, I will show her this
god of her idolatry as low and empty a licentious debauchee as any
that crawls through opera saloons, or spends his days and nights
between the gaming table and the brothel!"

CHAPTER XLIV.

At breakfast the following morning, the two travelling companions met
again, and by that time a great change had come over the aspect of
Morley Ernstein. A change in a very small particular, but one so
remarkable that it instantly struck the eyes of Lieberg, surprised and
puzzled him. Morley was grave--perhaps one might say, sad--but there
was a calm, a tranquillity in his grief which had not appeared in his
demeanour since his parting with Juliet Carr. There seemed none of
that bitterness, that struggling against the hand of fate which had
before characterized his sorrow: he was sad, as we have said, but he
was no longer moody, indignant, and discontented.

Although, alas! we have no window through which to look into the
breast of man, and see the springs and wheels of thought and action as
they work, yet imagination may pry into the motives, and, perhaps,
obtain some insight. It is but supposition, reader, yet we will try to
show the causes of the change in Morley Ernstein. Previous to this
period, the share of pride, which is in every human heart, had fixed
itself upon his high and steadfast adherence to right; there had been
in his bosom, in short, a sense of deserving; and a feeling of
ill-treatment and angry repugnance to submit to the will of God had
risen up when the first touch of sorrow lighted on him. He seemed to
think that he had a right to happiness, and that to make him take his
part in human griefs was an injustice.

Of course it must not be supposed that he acknowledged such sensations
to his own mind; I paint them in the broad light as I believe they
stood, without the veils with which the deceitfulness of man's heart
covered them to Morley's own eyes. Had he analyzed his feelings, in
truth he would have discovered that--though he might have experienced
sorrow, deep poignant sorrow, at his disappointment under any
circumstances--the bitterer, the more fiery part of his grief would
have been absent, had he not set up a claim to deserving a better
fate. He had looked round, saying, as did the apostle, but with a
different feeling--"What man convinces me of sin?"

Such had been his state up to the day before, and now the change which
had come over him was produced by self-abasement. He no longer stood
in the same proud position in his own eyes, he felt all his weakness,
all the weakness of human nature, and his spirit was bowed down in
humility before the will of God. He could no longer say--"I have
deserved;" and although his sadness was increased by knowing that he
had himself erred, yet it was a more wholesome grief than that which
he had before experienced, and bitter repentance opened his hearth, so
that resignation could take the place of despair.

I have said that his demeanour puzzled Lieberg; he could not
comprehend the change that he saw in Morley Ernstein; but the truth
is, his own character was so different, that similar events would with
him have produced the reverse result. His spirit was one neither to
sorrow nor repent, and the consciousness of evil would but have made
him raise his head to meet the avenger; he might bow, indeed, under
the force of circumstances, but it was only for the purpose of an
after-struggle. He watched his companion attentively, then, but he
commented upon nothing that he saw; he took no note of their
conversation on the preceding evening, or of any events which might
have followed, but he began in a lighter, though not a gay tone,
asking Morley how he had slept, and adding--"What a stormy night it
has been."

"Indeed!" replied Morley; "I did not hear it."

"Innocence sleeps sound," said Lieberg, with a laugh--

     "'Virtue, without the doctor's aid,
     In the soft arms of sleep was laid;
     Whilst vice, within the guilty breast,
     Could not be physick'd into rest.'

"Is it so, Morley? But after all, what conventional nonsense those
poets write! Well may it be said that they deal in fiction, and their
morality is not a bit more real than the rest. A pretty sort of
morality, truly, one finds in all these moral poets, and other
righteous personages; they think no more of manufacturing a falsehood
to serve the cause of truth, as they call it, than a poor, honest,
wicked man like myself thinks of drinking my cup of coffee. Now what a
gross lie it is--so gross, indeed, as to be quite impotent--to tell us
that virtue is happiness, and that innocence always sleeps
comfortably! For my part, everything that I see around me makes me
believe, that, in this world at least, virtue is more akin to misery
than to happiness; and how many pangs and sorrows are there that from
time to time disturb the repose of innocence, and break the rest of
the purest and the best!"

"That is true," replied Morley, thoughtfully. "Griefs may often break
the sleep of innocence, but can vice ever repose, Lieberg? And as to
the happiness or unhappiness of the good and the bad, thank God there
is another world where things may be made even!"

"Your English proverb says," rejoined Lieberg, "that 'a bird in the
hand is worth two in the bush.' I would rather take out my stock of
happiness here, my good friend."

"I have been thinking much over that subject this very morning,"
answered Morley, "and have made up my mind upon the matter, Lieberg."

"And to what conclusion?" asked his companion.

"That the balance even here is in favour of right," replied Morley.
"Supposing that there be an equal portion of misfortunes and
disappointments, successes and advantages, allotted to the virtuous
and the vicious--and there is nothing either in reason or experience
to show that the bad man is more favoured by fortune than the
good--the very nature of the virtuous man's own mind leaves his
pleasures not only more pure, but more poignant from the freshness of
his heart, while his sorrows are diminished by resignation to the will
of Him who sent them, and by those bright hopes which lighten half the
load of life."

"I am glad to think that you have got up such a comfortable
philosophy," answered Lieberg, "for of late I have certainly seen that
you are very sad, Morley, and I have striven to the best of my power,
though somewhat vainly, to cheer you."

"I thank you for it deeply," replied Morley, extending his hand, "and
I wish I had been wise enough to get up this philosophy, as you call
it, before. You would not have found it, then, so difficult to soothe
me, Lieberg."

"It is an excellent good philosophy," answered his companion; "and the
only part of it with which I might be inclined to quarrel, my good
friend, is the actual estimation of what is right and what is wrong,
what is innocent and what is vicious. I do not take for granted the
dictum of every would-be philosopher--no, nor of every puritan--when
he tells me that a thing which makes me very happy, and does no harm
to anybody, is a vice or a wickedness;--but there is no use of
talking any more about it. Ethics are a very uncertain science;
what's excessively wicked in one country is highly virtuous in
another--polygamy is an honoured observance in Turkey. Dwindle it down
to bigamy in England, and it becomes a great crime, for which you send
the poor wretch to hard labour in a penal colony, as if the fool's act
would not be punishment enough if we did but compel him to abide by
the consequences, and live with the two wives at once."

Lieberg laughed aloud, half drowning Morley's reply--"The Christian
has always a standard of morality, Lieberg."

The former, however, wished to pursue the subject no more, for he was
satisfied with the advantages he had gained, and was well inclined to
leave the boundaries of vice and virtue vague and undefined.

He therefore turned the matter off with a jest, and as their breakfast
concluded, demanded--"Well, Morley, what shall we do to-day?"

"For my part," answered Morley, "I shall quit Paris this very day, but
I do not wish to influence your conduct, Lieberg, as you many have
affairs to keep you here somewhat longer. I wish to be away from the
place, and will wait for you anywhere that you like, till you rejoin
me."

Lieberg's eyes flashed with an angry expression for a moment, when
Morley talked of leaving the French capital so suddenly; but the
latter part of his companion's speech cleared his brow again, and he
replied--"Nay, nay, I will go with you. I have nothing to do here,
unless it were to take leave of some of the fair girls we know; but as
you are in such haste, we will do without even that. Doubtless, as the
poet says--

     'Fresh freres will clear the bright blue eyes
     We late left swimming o'er.'"

All the arrangements were soon made, passports were signed, bills were
paid, accounts were closed, horses were procured, and, ere night,
Morley Ernstein and his companion were some miles on their way towards
the banks of the Rhine.

It was rather late in the year for the German watering places, and
about one half of the company which, during the summer, had thronged
the picturesque villages of Nassau and Baden had taken its flight
towards greater cities. A number still remained, however, to linger
out the last fortnight of the season, and roulette and rouge-et-noire,
and certain select gambling parties, went on with only the greater
vigour from the want of that excitement which the more extended
society of the full season brought with it. It is just at that time of
year that the arrival of strangers--especially if they come with some
little display of importance--creates the greatest sensation, and it
may be easily believed that the two handsome English carriages, the
servants and the couriers which accompanied Morley and his companion,
made many a head protrude itself from the windows, and many an idler
gather round the vehicles. The appearance of those within them did not
diminish the interest felt, and some questions were asked of the
servants as to the names of the two gentlemen, which soon circulated
amongst the inhabitants of the place. The dinner at the table-d'hôte
passed off pleasantly; Lieberg meeting with several persons whom he
knew, and Morley being placed next to a most respectable looking old
German Baroness, with her white hair beautifully arranged round her
fair though wrinkled face. Notwithstanding the melancholy which still
hung heavily upon Morley Ernstein, the frank and ladylike manner of
his fair neighbour at the board, soon seduced him into conversation,
which the society of the young and the beautiful, perhaps, might have
not been able to effect.

In the evening, he strolled with Lieberg into the great hall where the
company had assembled, intending but to gaze for a moment at the
splendour which such a place generally displays, and then to wander
out into the walks round about which had been cut with careful taste
to give every attraction to the little town. Very different indeed was
the scene presented from that which he had often witnessed before in a
Parisian gaming-house. Roulette and rouge-et-noire, were, it is true,
going on in one part of the vast hall, and card-tables were to be seen
laid out in another; but besides the parties occupied with such
dangerous pursuits, there were various gay and glittering groups
moving here and there, or seated at various tables taking different
kinds of refreshment. A band was playing in the open space before the
manifold windows of the building, the night was clear and warm, for
the time of year, and everything that heart could do had been done to
render the scene splendid, and to banish thought by forcibly engaging
the mind with a whole host of amusements.

Again Lieberg, as they moved onward, met with many acquaintances--some
of them foreigners, some of them Englishmen. Indeed, in every place,
and amongst every nation, he seemed to have friends, and he took care
to introduce his young companion to all the most distinguished
personages present; princes, and counts, and barons without number,
and more than one noble lord whom Morley had often heard of as men of
high repute, but had never met with before.

Not anxious for much society, Morley Ernstein, at length, disengaged
himself from Lieberg, telling him that he was about to stroll out
through the walks; but the moment after he was stopped by a
fine-looking elderly man, of a fresh and pleasing, though somewhat
melancholy countenance, who held out his hand to him as an old
acquaintance. After a moment's thought, Morley recollected the old
nobleman whom he had met in London, and to whom he had been introduced
at the house of Mr. Hamilton. Well pleased at what he remembered of
their conversation on those occasions, he returned his greeting
warmly, and willingly sat down beside him for a few moments in one of
the windows.

"I hope you are not in search of health, Sir Morley," said Lord
Clavering. "You do not look so well as when I met you in London."

"Oh, no!" answered Morley; "my health is good; but I am seeking what
most people seek, after they have found the uselessness of seeking
happiness--I mean amusement. But I trust your lordship is not less
fortunate in point of health, though I am afraid, from your asking me,
that you yourself have been driven to these baths by some of the
unpleasant ills of the flesh."

"Not exactly so," replied the old nobleman, "though I always think
that mineral waters are medicines with which nature herself furnishes
us for almost all diseases, if we do but apply them rightly. It is now
many years ago since I myself received great benefit from these
waters. I had just suffered a deep and terrible affliction which,
through the mind, had preyed upon my constitution, and no one expected
that I should ever recover. I was then a younger son, seeing life, as
it is called, in the Austrian service. I accordingly threw up my
commission, and was returning home to die in England, little cared
for by anybody, and, to say the truth, caring little for anybody
myself--except, indeed, one who has also been snatched from me since,
by the inexplicable decrees of God. I paused, however, at this very
place; and though at that time I thought life a very valueless
possession, and was prepared, like Cawdor, 'To throw away the dearest
thing I owed, as 'twere a careless trifle,' I remained here for six
weeks, and by so doing recovered health and life."

"And have you never had to curse the waters since?" asked Morley,
gloomily, "and to wish that you had not tasted them?"

"No, my young friend," replied the old lord; "though I thought at that
time, as you seem to think now; yet I have since had to bless them for
affording me time to judge better of many things, and to learn
submission to the will of the Almighty--nay more, for having left me
to the enjoyment of many blessings, the calm sunshine of health and
ease, and that degree of freshness of heart--notwithstanding some
bitter sorrows and deep disappointments--which enables me still to
feel many endearing affections, partaking, perhaps, less of the eager
passions which are the portion of youth, but more of the permanent
convictions of experience. I can now love worth," he continued, with a
smile, "better than beauty, and seek in the companion of my later
hours the friend rather than the mistress."

"I have been wrong, my lord," said Morley, "and gave way to a
bitterness of spirit which I do not wish in general to indulge----"

At that moment Lieberg came up hastily, and spoke to his young
companion in a low voice, saying--"Will you do me a favour, Morley? I
know you hate play of all kinds, but I know also you do not care about
losing a crown or two. The old Baroness Von L----, next whom you sat
at dinner, is very anxious for a quotidian game of whist. She has
pressed me into the service, and there is the old Prince of
Naggerstein, but we cannot get a fourth, all we can do. Come, only sit
down for one rubber. I hate that dull drivelling game as much as
anybody, but I could not well refuse."

Morley rose and walked slowly to the table, feeling that it was
utterly impossible he could take the slightest interest in any one of
all the gambler's pursuits. In his eyes, rouge-et-noir was as stupid
as whist, and whist as stupid as draughts. Of all the games that were
ever invented, if he had been forced to choose one, it would probably
have been marbles. He sat down to play, however: the old lady was
charmed with his politeness; the Prince of Naggerstein was courtesy
itself. Morley soon found that the stakes were enormously high, and
that the two old opponents of Lieberg and himself were a couple of
thorough-paced gamblers. Lieberg seemed to discover the fact at the
same moment, and gave a warning look across the table towards Morley.
He himself played well and carefully, but during the first rubber the
young Englishman could not bend his attention sufficiently on the
game, made several mistakes, and the two companions were losers of a
very considerable sum.

"For Heaven's sake, Morley, be careful!" said Lieberg. "You have lost
me five hundred louis by not playing up to my lead. We must have our
revenge, however, for it is impossible to rise with such a loss as
that. I understand the old lady's game now; only be careful, and we
shall recover."

In the evening, he strolled with Lieberg into the great hall where the
company had assembled, intending but to gaze for a moment at the
splendour which such a place generally displays, and then to wander
out into the walks round about, which had been cut with careful taste
to give every attraction to the little town. Very different indeed was
the scene presented from that which he had often witnessed before in a
Parisian gaming-house. Roulette and rouge-et-noir, were, it is true,
going on in one part of the vast hall, and card-tables were to be seen
laid out in another; but besides the parties occupied with such
dangerous pursuits, there were various gay and glittering groups
moving here and there, or seated at various tables taking different
kinds of refreshment. A band was playing in the open space before the
manifold windows of the building, the night was clear and warm, for
the time of year, and everything that heart could do had been done to
render the scene splendid, and to banish thought by forcibly engaging
the mind with a whole host of amusements.

Again Lieberg, as they moved onward, met with many acquaintances--some
of them foreigners, some of them Englishmen. Indeed, in every place,
and amongst every nation, he seemed to have friends, and he took care
to introduce his young companion to all the most distinguished
personages present; princes, and counts, and barons without number,
and more than one noble lord whom Morley had often heard of as men of
high repute, but had never met with before.

Not anxious for much society, Morley Ernstein, at length, disengaged
himself from Lieberg, telling him that he was about to stroll out
through the walks; but the moment after he was stopped by a
fine-looking elderly man, of a fresh and pleasing, though somewhat
melancholy countenance, who held out his hand to him as an old
acquaintance. After a moment's thought, Morley recollected the old
nobleman whom he had met in London, and to whom he had been introduced
at the house of Mr. Hamilton. Well pleased at what he remembered of
their conversation on those occasions, he returned his greeting
warmly, and willingly sat down beside him for a few moments in one of
the windows.

"I hope you are not in search of health, Sir Morley," said Lord
Clavering. "You do not look so well as when I met you in London."

"Oh, no!" answered Morley; "my health is good; but I am seeking what
most people seek, after they have found the uselessness of seeking
happiness--I mean amusement. But I trust your lordship is not less
fortunate in point of health, though I am afraid, from your asking me,
that you yourself have been driven to these baths by some of the
unpleasant ills of the flesh."

"Not exactly so," replied the old nobleman, "though I always think
that mineral waters are medicines with which nature herself furnishes
us for almost all diseases, if we do but apply them rightly. It is now
many years ago since I myself received great benefit from these
waters. I had just suffered a deep and terrible affliction which,
through the mind, had preyed upon my constitution, and no one expected
that I should ever recover. I was then a younger son, seeing life, as
it is called, in the Austrian service. I accordingly threw up my
commission, and was returning home to die in England, little cared for
by anybody, and, to say the truth, caring little for anybody myself?
except, indeed, one who has also been snatched from me since, by the
inexplicable decrees of God. I paused, however, at this very place;
and though at that time I thought life a very valueless possession,
and was prepared, like Cawdor, 'To throw away the dearest thing I
owed, as 'twere a careless trifle,' I remained here for six weeks, and
by so doing recovered health and life."

"And have you never had to curse the waters since?" asked Morley,
gloomily, "and to wish that you had not tasted them?"

"No, my young friend," replied the old lord; "though I thought at
that time, as you seem to think now; yet I have since had to bless
them for affording me time to judge better of many things, and to
learn submission to the will of the Almighty--nay more, for having left
me to the enjoyment of many blessings, the calm sunshine of health and
ease, and that degree of freshness of heart? notwithstanding some
bitter sorrows and deep disappointments? which enables me still to
feel many endearing affections, partaking, perhaps, less of the eager
passions which are the portion of youth, but more of the permanent
convictions of experience. I can now love worth," he continued, with a
smile, "better than beauty, and seek in the companion of my later
hours the friend rather than the mistress."

"I have been wrong, my lord," said Morley, "and gave way to a
bitterness of spirit which I do not wish in general to indulge----"

At that moment Lieberg came up hastily, and spoke to his young
companion in a low voice, saying--"Will you do me a favour, Morley? I
know you hate play of all kinds, but I know also you do not care about
losing a crown or two. The old Baroness Von L----, next whom you sat
at dinner, is very anxious for a quotidian game of whist. She has
pressed me into the service, and there is the old Prince of
Naggerstein, but we cannot get a fourth, all we can do. Come, only
sit down for one rubber. I hate that dull drivelling game as much as
anybody, but I could not well refuse."

Morley rose and walked slowly to the table, feeling that it was
utterly impossible he could take the slightest interest in any one of
all the gambler's pursuits. In his eyes, rouge-et-noir was as stupid
as whist, and whist as stupid as draughts. Of all the games that were
ever invented, if he had been forced to choose one, it would probably
have been marbles. He sat down to play, however: the old lady was
charmed with his politeness; the Prince of Naggerstein was courtesy
itself. Morley soon found that the stakes were enormously high, and
that the two old opponents of Lieberg and himself were a couple of
thorough-paced gamblers. Lieberg seemed to discover the fact at the
same moment, and gave a warning look across the table towards Morley.
He himself played well and carefully, but during the first rubber the
young Englishman could not bend his attention sufficiently on the
game, made several mistakes, and the two companions were losers of a
very considerable sum.

"For Heaven's sake, Morley, be careful?" said Lieberg. "You have lost
me five hundred louis by not playing up to my lead. We must have our
revenge, however, for it is impossible to rise with such a loss as
that. I understand the old lady's game now; only be careful, and we
shall recover."

He spoke in English, which language the other two did not understand,
and Morley, vexed with himself, continued at the table. He did now
pay attention--nay, more, he became interested, eager. The dark bright
eyes of Lieberg were fixed upon him sharply from the other side of the
table, and Morley fancied that he read in them anxiety to see what he
was about to play. It was, on the contrary, only to mark how far the
gambling spirit of the place was getting a hold upon his mind. The
scheme had been well arranged, and it was so far successful, that Morley
felt that dangerous degree of excitement which he had never experienced
before, the first symptoms of the growing disease--of that fell and
terrible disease, which, when once it has taken full possession of any
human being, never leaves him till it has destroyed him--the immedicable
fever of the mind.

Once he raised his eyes from the table, and saw Lord Clavering standing
opposite to him with a look of melancholy interest in his face. Morley
averted his glance, and went on eagerly with the game, the impetuosity
of his nature affecting him in this, as in all other pursuits, and
carrying him on with a vehemence which he wished to restrain without
being able. As his mind was clear and rapid, and his memory good, he
played well now that he paid attention; Lieberg also managed his game
with admirable skill, leading Morley on almost to the very last with the
expectation of winning.

The end of the rubber was again approaching; Morley Ernstein had
played, the Prince of Naggerstein had just made a trick; the result of
the whole depended upon Lieberg's next card, and while he paused, as
if in thought, Morley again lifted his eyes. Lord Clavering was still
there, but another figure now stood beside him which made the young
Englishman turn, for a moment, as pale as death. The next instant the
blood rushed from his heart into his face and temples, he saw and
understood nothing more of what had passed at the card-table, except
that Lieberg had played, and that the game was lost.

Rapidly paying what the other party had won, Morley turned away, saying,
in a determined tone, that he would play no more. Lieberg marked the
look, and said, in a low voice to himself, "The time will come!" But the
next instant, following Morley with his eyes, he saw him standing
beside one of the most lovely creatures he had ever beheld, with a
degree of agitation in the manner of both, which not even all the
crowd that was around them could repress. The lady was dressed in deep
mourning, but Lieberg had no difficulty in recognising the same fair
being whom he had once seen with Morley in the park, and with Lady
Malcolm upon another occasion.

What were the sensations of Morley, as he stood beside Juliet Carr,
and, with a low voice and beating heart, enquired into what had passed
since he left her! Juliet was not less agitated than himself. It was
evident that she was glad, not sorry to see him, though melancholy
mingled with her joy, and she left the soft, fair, trembling hand in
his as long as he thought fit to detain it. She told him that the
cause of the mourning which he beheld was the death of her father, and
those tidings, it must be owned, produced but one sensation in
Morley's heart. He had respect for Juliet's grief, however, and for a
moment or two bent down his eyes for fear glad hopes should sparkle up
in them, and jar with her natural sorrow. In the brief pause that took
place, Lord Clavering, who had stood by with Juliet's arm resting in
his, watching with no slight interest, apparently, the agitation of
his fair companion and her lover, disengaged himself from her,
saying--"I will see if the carriage is there, Juliet. Sir Morley, will
you take care of this lady till I return; I will not be long."

"Oh, Morley," said Juliet, the moment he was gone, "I have one great
favour to ask of you--a favour that will make me as happy as anything
can!"

"Name it, Juliet," replied Morley; "are you not sure that, to make you
happy I would sacrifice life itself?"

"Never sit down again to a table like that, Morley," said Juliet. "You
know not the agony of watching one that we love with a countenance
full of passions which only the dark spirits of this place can impart.
Promise me, Morley--promise me, if you have ever loved me. You cannot
tell what I have suffered within the last five minutes."

"I do promise you, Juliet," replied Morley; "but you know not what I
have suffered during many weeks. I told you, Juliet, that I could not
answer for what occupations I might seek, in order to cast off the
misery which your loss inflicted on me."

"That which is wrong," replied Juliet, "depend upon it can but add
gall to the well of bitterness. Oh, Morley, for my sake--for Juliet's
sake--strive for better consolations. To know that you are happy, were
the only happiness that I could now possess; and I am sure that such a
heart as yours can never find anything but wretchedness in vice."

"I will trust," said Morley, "that the state of despair which might
well drive me to any source of relief is to last no longer. Where are
you to be found, Juliet? I will come early to-morrow; and you must
then give me up at least an hour--to myself and by myself, Juliet."

She shook her head mournfully, but replied at once--"We are at the
place called the Towers. Come if you like, but it is all in vain. I
would fain be with you often, Morley--I would fain be with you always,
to advise--to counsel, to soothe you; but it must be as a sister. I
can never be more."

"This must be explained," answered Morley; but at that moment Lord
Clavering again appeared, saying--"The carriage is here;" and at the
same time offering his hand to Juliet to lead her from the hall.

Morley, however, would not give up his post till the last minute, and
he himself conducted Juliet to the side of the carriage. He waited
with a heavy heart and frowning brow, till the old nobleman, taking
his seat by Juliet in the vehicle, ordered the coachman to drive to
"The Towers." Then, after pausing moodily for a moment or two before
the door of the building, he looked up into the sky, and, with a deep
and long-drawn sigh, turned into the paths that wound away, through
the woods, up towards the summit of the hills.

CHAPTER XLV.

Night and meditation were friendly to Morley's spirit; he wandered on,
rising higher and higher as he advanced, over the busy world of
emptiness, of folly and vice that he had just left in the great hall.
The fresh breeze of the mountain played around his head, and quieted
the feverish throbbing of his temples. He looked up to the Heavens,
and saw star beyond star, till the deep blue sky seemed, to his
intense gaze, to grow white with the multitude of brilliant orbs that
shone forth from the very bottom of the depth. Was it possible that he
could see that infinite immensity of worlds without thinking of God,
without wondering at the mightiness of his power, without asking
himself if his goodness or his strength could ever fail, and without
deriving thence powers of endurance--ay, and powers of resistance,
too--which no other philosophy could have afforded?

The very sight of Juliet Carr, too--the very words that she had
uttered, though their import was sad, and though not a ray of hope
could be elicited from anything that she had said, woke the better
spirit in the bosom of her lover, and led his thoughts on to higher
and to holier things than those to which the earthly spirit would have
prompted him.

He wandered on, thinking of endurance: for the first time since the
bitter disappointment that he had met with, the heavenly spirit in his
bosom seemed to have free sway, to clear away, as in days of yore, the
mists and shadows of earth from his eyes, to unveil the skeleton face
of earth's ordinary pleasures, and to show him the rankling corruption
of even the fairest forms of vice.

"I will endure," he thought, "firmly, strongly, resolutely. I will
endure with resignation, with submission, with the courage of a man,
with the humility of a Christian. Juliet shall not grieve to see me
plunge into those things which my own heart condemns. I will learn,
once for all, whether there be any real and substantial obstacle
between us; and if my life must be passed in sorrow and regret, I will
not add remorse also to the burden."

He had now climbed high up the side of the hill, with nothing but the
stars above him, and turning his eyes from them down upon the town
below, he beheld the place where he had so lately sat, with the lights
glittering from the manifold windows, and the music sighing faintly up
to his distant ear. The sight and the sounds only filled him with
disgust; and it was with regret that, after remaining for some time
longer upon the hill, he took his way back again to the busy haunts of
men.

On arriving at the inn, and entering the rooms which had been assigned
to himself and Lieberg, he found considerable confusion and disarray.
The cause was soon explained to him, for the moment after he appeared,
his companion issued forth from the left-hand room, saying, with an
eager look--"What say you, Morley, to a journey by night? I have just
received intelligence which obliges me to set off for Munich
immediately--every hour is of consequence. Will you come?"

Morley thought of Juliet Carr, and replied, that he was sorry that he
could not go--that it was impossible. Lieberg pressed him much, and
seemed mortified that he would not consent; but his friend explained
to him that he had made an engagement for the following morning which
he could not break; and it was at length arranged that they should
meet at Augsburg or Munich, Morley adding, with a faint light from
hope still shining in his bosom--"If nothing should occur on either
part to prevent it."

In less than half-an-hour the wheels of Lieberg's carriage rolled
away, and Morley, finding that it was hopeless to attempt to sleep,
sat up and read for some hours. How few books are there, amongst all
the many that come from the hand of man, on which the mind can rest
when the heart is sad! How often is even the very best of human
productions taken up and laid down, looked at and cast away, as the
sad thoughts wander round the one painful subject to which they are
fixed, like an animal tethered in a field to one particular point,
which he may turn round and round in every direction, but from which
he can never break away. Many a book will amuse the couch of pain,
will draw away the mind from corporeal uneasiness, but the anguish of
the heart has a property in our thoughts that cannot be dissolved; and
if any work can call us from that anguish, even for a moment, its
chief characteristic must be goodness. Wit, and fancy, and imagination
jar sadly with the tones of sorrow, but high and pure philosophies
come as a balm to the wounds of the spirit.

It was over some of the smaller poems of Milton that Morley paused;
and though he could not go on very connectedly, yet there was a depth
and a freshness in the whole as invigorating as the waters of a clear,
cool river to the limbs of one who has wandered far through a hot day.
His spirit seemed to plunge into that well of pure poetry, and rose up
refreshed.

At length he retired to rest, and though he slept not for some hours,
yet his thoughts were calm. He determined that he would go early on
the following morning to see Juliet Carr--that he would not wait for
any formal time of visiting, although he saw that she was travelling
with a party consisting of persons whom he believed to be nearly
strangers to him; and he lay and revolved all that he would say and
all that he would do, with the usual vain calculation of man, who
never till the end of life learns to know that the very next minute is
not his own. Thus passed the first four hours of the night, and then
came a short period of repose, broken with thought running into
dreams, and then came deep and profound slumber.

It seldom, if ever, happens that we can obtain sleep when we most
require it, but the unbidden guest visits us at the times when we wish
him most away. Morley Ernstein slept longer than he intended, but,
nevertheless, it was not late when he woke; his watch pointed to a
quarter to eight, and, starting up, he rang eagerly for his servant,
intending to proceed upon his errand at about half-past nine. There
was a note in the hands of old Adam Gray as he entered, and, as may be
easily imagined, it was with some emotion that Morley opened it when
he saw the hand writing of Juliet Carr; but that emotion was greatly
increased when he read the contents.

"We go early," she said; "and though I will never refuse to see you
when you think fit to come, I am inclined to believe that it would be
better you should not come to-day at all. I could say nothing, Morley,
to console you. All that I could tell you would, perhaps, but make you
the more unhappy. For me the dream of life is over, and I feel from
what passed last night, that it agitates us both too much at present
to meet frequently. I will not say 'too much for me,' because I resign
myself entirely to my fate--it is fixed and determined--I hope
nothing, I fear nothing, I expect nothing. There is only one thing
that I pray for in this life, to know that you are happy, and never,
by any chance, to have cause to think otherwise of you than I have
always hitherto done. Such is my fate, Morley, and such must be the
fate of every woman situated as I am; but with a man it is very
different. Suffer the memory of these days to fade away--I do not say
forget me, for that I think you will never do; but remember me only as
one that is dead. Form other ties, open your heart to other
attachments, and believe me, that I shall experience the only
consolation that I can receive in knowing that your affection for me,
and the bitter disappointment that we have both undergone, has not
permanently affected the happiness, or in any degree changed the
nature of the man I love."

"When did this come?" exclaimed Morley, in a tone that made the old
man start.

"About an hour ago, sir," replied Adam Gray. "I knocked at your door,
but you were sound asleep."

Morley cast down the paper, dressed himself as rapidly as possible,
and hurried out.

There were two or three people lounging quietly at the door of the inn
called "The Towers," without any one of those signs and appearances
which indicate to the eye of the experienced traveller that a
departure is about to take place. There were no boxes in the passage,
nor leather cases, nor cloaks and shawls, nor portfolios and
drawing-books, the stray volume of a new romance, nor the couriers'
innumerable straps and buckles. There were two or three men with
whiskers, and one with mustachioes, and each bearing about him that
indescribable something which points out the travelling servant; but
they were all in a state of calm tranquillity; and Morley, by the
whole aspect of the place, became convinced he was not, as he had
feared, too late. He went into the house, then, and enquired of a
person whom he met, and whom, from certain signs and symptoms, albeit
as unlike an English innkeeper as possible, he took to be the master
of the hotel, where he should find Miss Carr?

The man stared, and then replied, that there was no such person there.
Morley next asked for Lord Clavering, which name immediately brought
up a look of intelligence in the innkeeper's countenance; but the
answer that instantly followed, at once damped the young Englishman's
hopes.

"Oh, they are gone--they are gone!" replied the man. "They have been
gone three quarters of an hour."

"Who do you mean by they?" demanded Morley.

"Why, the old 'milord', and the lady, and the beautiful young lady,
and all--maids and servants and couriers, and all," answered the host.

"Are you sure they are the persons I mean?" said Morley with the last
faint hope struggling up.

"I will shew you their names in the book," rejoined the innkeeper;
and, taking him into a small room at the side of the passage, he
opened a huge book before him, and pointed to a long string of names,
half way down the page.

Morley read, but he soon saw enough, for there stood the words--"Lord
Clavering, Lady Malcolm, Juliet Carr." He turned away in, silence,
with his heart full of bitter thoughts, and, taking his way back to
the inn, he gave but one order--"Let everything be prepared for
departure."

"Do you know, sir," said Adam Gray, after hesitating for a moment or
two--"do you know, sir, that Miss Juliet is here? I saw her maid this
morning, in the street, and I did fancy that note came from her--"

Morley waved his hand impatiently, and the old man stopped. "She is
gone," replied Morley Ernstein; "do as I told you, Adam."

"Will you not take breakfast, sir?" demanded the old servant, with a
wistful look in his master's face.

"No, no!" answered Morley, impatiently; and Adam Gray quitted the
room. He paused musing at the door, however, laying his finger upon
his bald forehead, and muttering to himself--

"If I was sure it was she who is making him miserable--I would--that I
would! But she never seemed to have any pride in her. What right had
she, indeed? But I can't think it's her doing; she was always a good,
kind young lady, as ever lived, and I am sure I thought she was fond
enough of Master Morley, as well she might be. She wont find such
another match in a hurry. But I'll watch, and see; she may be playing
the fool after all, for there's no knowing about women--they are so
devilish uncertain."

With this moral reflection old Adam Gray concluded his soliloquy, and
went to give the orders with which his master had entrusted him, in
regard to preparing for departure. Ere noon all was ready, and Morley,
alone in his carriage, with his arms folded on his chest, his brow
bent, and his hat pressed over his forehead, drove out of the little
town, while many a foreign idler of the baths stood gazing at him,
sneering at the gloomy aspect that they did not comprehend, and
pointing him out as the true personification of English spleen.

Buried in the depth of his own thoughts, Morley cared little what
comments were made upon his appearance. The brief glimpse he had had
of Juliet Carr, the momentary revival of hope, had but plunged him
into deeper gloom now that it was gone, and for a time all the better
feelings which reflection had produced passed away, and left him as
bitter in spirit as ever. There was one strong, predominant
determination, however, in his mind, which was, to seek another
meeting with Juliet wherever she had gone; to induce her to give him
reasons for her conduct; to make her speak plainly why she debarred
him and herself of hope, why, if she loved him, as she did not deny
that she did, she made him miserable now that her father's death had
removed his opposition to their union.

Such were the feelings with which he went on through the wild valleys
and deep ravines that led him back to the banks of the Rhine. This is
not the journal of a tourist, reader! but still I must pause, to say a
word or two upon the scenes through which Morley Ernstein now passed,
because those scenes were not without effect upon his mind. At first
the impression was imperceptible, but gradually it became more and
more strong, operating like some fine restorative balm, and producing
a slow but salutary effect, as he journeyed on. It is not through the
ear alone, nor by the written words addressed to the eye, neither by
the tale, nor the fable, nor the moral, that man's heart may receive
instruction, if he will but take it. There is not--I say again--there
is not a sight, there is not a sound, from the flower in the valley to
the cloud-covered peak of the mountain--from the song of the lark to
the thunder of the storm, which does not speak to the heart of man
sweet counsel, and wisdom without end; sinking softly, calmly, almost
imperceptibly, into the mind.

The mere aspect of nature's ever-varying face must, if we will let it,
tranquillize the passions, harmonize all the jarring affections of our
nature, and with a solemn, and a soothing voice, proclaim to us the
love, and the wisdom of Him--

     "Who shapes our fate, rough-hew it how we will."

Such also was the effect upon Morley Ernstein, as he journeyed onward,
though it was produced very slowly. When he first raised his eyes, the
mouth of the valley through which his course had been directed was
just opening out upon the Rhine. High on either side rose grey ruins,
pinnacled upon the ancient mountain-tops, all that remained of the
feudal domination of the past; dark, and solemn, and sad, each itself
a legend, appealing more strongly to the imagination than any of those
with which tradition had ornamented the walls. Fancy might there range
at liberty, might people the deserted halls with life, might see fair
faces gazing from the casementless windows, might cover the winding
roads with the bands of horsemen, and might see the plundered
merchants, or the train of captives, borne up to the hold of the
lordly robbers who reigned in the towers above. The ruined church
called fancy to other creations--the bridal song, and gay procession,
the joyful birth of the young heir, the dark funeral of the departed
lord, and all the manifold acts to which the ceremonies of religion
lend their aid.

It is true, the imagination of Morley Ernstein, occupied with one sad
subject, was not disposed to tear his mind away from the present; but,
still, as the eye rested upon this object or upon that, his thoughts
would stray for a moment to the scenes of the dim past; or, leaving
his own fate for an instant, would find a temporary occupation in that
of others. The merry vintage was going on; and on every bank, and on
every hill, thousands and thousands of the peasantry, rejoicing in the
reward of honest industry, poured forth their songs as he passed by.
While he gazed around, perhaps, he pictured to himself the return home
of the labourers he saw, the embrace of affection, the soft domestic
love, and all the household joys that were never to be his; but still
he was not so selfish that he could not bless God for the happiness of
others, though he himself could not partake of it. The better spirit,
reader, gained the ascendancy, and in deep and pensive thought, calm
though sad, he went upon his way.

All those who have travelled along the banks of the Rhine--and few
there are who have not done so, now-a-days--know well, that though,
perhaps, the Rhone presents more picturesque beauties, there is
scarcely any spot on earth where, to loveliness of scenery, are joined
so many thrilling memories, and such a wide extent of associations.
Well might it be called the Storied Rhine; for there is not one step
along its banks which has not its history; and from the ages of the
Roman domination, down to the "Now," when the stranger stands beside
it, there is scarcely a year in the wide course of time, which has not
marked the Rhine by some great event. He, indeed, must have become
dead to life, or never have been alive to half the wonderful things
that life presents, who can wander by the side of that mighty river,
without giving himself up to dreams of the past--ay, and perchance of
the future.

Morley Ernstein was neither; and though the tone of his own feelings,
of course, gave a colouring to all his thoughts, yet his meditations
on the things around him soon became deep and long, and in those
meditations he himself found relief.

Thus passed the next four days, but, as he went from inn to inn, he
perseveringly strove to trace the road that Juliet Carr had taken.
Once only, however, he met with the name of Lord Clavering, with the
words, "and party," attached to it; and he knew not why, but a painful
feeling that Juliet Carr should be included in the party of another
passed across his mind. He strove to banish it instantly; he asked
himself, with a sort of scornful smile, if he were jealous of Lord
Clavering; but still the idea continued painful; and now, convinced
that Juliet had taken the same road which he was following, he simply
pointed out the name of the party to his courier, and directed him to
search for it in the inn-books, and let him know when he found it
again.

CHAPTER XLVI.

When the fall of Napoleon Buonaparte had opened the gates of Europe to
the little body of islanders who had been knocking at them for so many
years in vain, the first that rushed in to see all the wonders of the
great continental fair, were, of course, the great and the wealthy,
having every means at hand to satisfy to the full the expectant
innkeepers and postilions, who were well prepared to make the purses
of our good countrymen pay for the sights which and been so long
forbidden. But in the rear of these, only by a very short distance,
came a number of very respectable people of an inferior class, who
were firmly resolved to have their holiday also, and that it should be
spent on the Continent. The means of locomotion, indeed, were not so
plentiful then as now; no steam-boats bridged over the Straits of
Dover; no railroads saved one the trouble of seeing anything in Europe
without depriving one of the pleasant consciousness of making a tour.
People set out actually to travel in those times; and many a worthy
citizen of London contemplated the journey to Paris with as much wild
excitement, and strong sense of personal enterprise and merit in
braving danger, as did Le Valliant, or Bruce, or Cook, or any other
traveller of past days.

To facilitate them in their undertaking, however, there was
established, at a house on the eastern side of the Haymarket, what may
be called a dépôt of _voituriers_, where a man was almost always to be
found or heard of, ready, for a specified sum, to carry any lady,
gentleman, or child, who might be locomotively disposed, from one part
of Europe to another. In truth, the manner of travelling was not at
all an unpleasant one, and being then in its first freshness, fewer
tricks were played upon the traveller, more conveniences provided for
him, and the rogues and vagabonds with which Europe is superabundantly
supplied, had not then fully discovered that the trade of _voiturier_
was one which afforded them great facilities for the exercise of their
talent.

It was one day, then, in the month of September, a short time after
various events had taken place, which have been related in this true
history, that a Swiss _voiturier_, ready, for any man's money, to go
to any part of the civilized world, was standing in the shop in
question, having left his horses and carriage in the good town of
Calais and come over to England, for the express purpose of seeing
what the English could be about, that nobody had hired him up to that
late period of the year. The master of the house expressed himself not
a little grieved that such was the case, but assured him that he had
not had one single application, and was in the very act of counselling
him to go back to Switzerland empty, when a tall, powerful, and
good-looking man, dressed in black, and with a very pretty and
lady-like young woman leaning upon his arm, entered the shop, and made
some enquiries, which instantly caused the Swiss to raise his ears,
and listen with great attention.

His knowledge of the English language was certainly very limited, but
at the same time he understood the meaning of the word carriage, and
was well aware that the word Naples, though somewhat different from
the Italian name of the place, was applied by us Englishmen to the
City of the Syren. Be soon found, then, that the gentleman was
bargaining to be carried, lodged, and boarded by the way, from the
town of Calais to that of Naples. He, moreover, understood, that two
ladies and a child were to be of the party, so that four places, out
of the six which his vehicle afforded, might be speedily secured. He
perceived, likewise, that the gentleman made his bargain shrewdly and
strictly--in fact, as a man accustomed to deal with a world which has
rogues in it; and as he thought he saw an inclination on the part of
the master of the shop to risk losing a customer by demanding too
much, he hastened to join in to the best of his abilities, and make
his bargain for himself. His next discovery was, that the gentleman in
black could not speak a word of any language but his own; and that the
lady who was with him could only converse in French of a certain sort;
but after about three-quarters of an hour's discussion, the whole
matter was arranged satisfactorily, and the Swiss set off again for
Calais, to prepare for a journey to Naples, to which city he was to
convey the party of travellers, upon terms set down in a written
agreement.

When all had been settled, the two future travellers took their way
through the streets of London to one of the small houses, which,
placed in the neighbourhood of the more fashionable parts of the town,
afford to the younger and poorer branches of distinguished families
many a convenient residence at no great expense.

"No. 15, did you not say, Jane?" said the gentleman, addressing the
lady on his arm. "It seems a wonderfully nice house; I wonder how that
is kept up."

Knocking as he spoke, he asked the servant who appeared--a man in
mourning livery--if Miss Barham were at home. But even while he was
putting the question, the door of what seemed a dining-room opened,
and a distinguished looking elderly man, apparently not in the best
health, came out, saying, to some persons within--"Well, gentlemen,
all I can say is, that he shall hear the whole particulars. You have
dealt candidly with me, in shewing me the deeds, and, without giving
an opinion on the case, I will promise you to communicate the whole
facts fairly."

As he came forth the door was closed, and the servant who was in the
passage drew back to give him egress.

"That is Mr. Hamilton, the famous banker," observed the gentleman in
black, in a whisper, to his fair companion--"a very good man, they
say."

At the same moment the servant replied, that Miss Barham was at home,
and ushered the two up to the drawing-room, while a great deal of loud
talking, with evident haste and eagerness, was heard from the chamber
which they passed on the right.

"What name shall I give, sir?" demanded the servant at the
drawing-room door.

"Martin," replied the stranger; and the moment after Mr. and Mrs.
Martin were announced, in a loud tone.

In an elegant, though somewhat small drawing-room, with everything
which could contribute to comfort and convenience around her, sat
Helen Barham, not less beautiful than ever, though with a deep shade
of melancholy hanging upon her fair brow, and a colour, almost too
delicately lovely, in her cheek. She raised her eyes as the man threw
open the door, and then started up with a look almost of alarm,
paused, and hesitated till the servant was gone, and then, with one of
her radiant smiles, chasing away the cloud, like the sun at noon, she
pointed to a chair, saying--"I am glad to see you--pray sit down. I
know not what startled me, but the name brought back painful
memories."

"I do not wonder at it, ma'am," answered Harry Martin--"though, after
all, I think, if I were you, it would bring up the proudest and
happiest memories that could come into my heart. Memories of having
done, Miss Barham, what there are not two people in all Europe would
do--ay, not only of having saved a fellow-creature from death, but of
having saved him from perhaps worse destructions. I have come to thank
you, ma'am--and my poor wife, too; and the first name we shall teach
our baby to pray for is yours--isn't it, Jane?"

Jane Martin went round the table, and dropping upon her knees beside
Helen Barham, kissed her hand, and bathed it with tears.

"Oh, no, no!" cried Helen, trying to raise her. "Pray do not do
so!--you agitate--you distress me. I did but keep the promise I had
made."

"Ay, ma'am, and nobly," replied Harry Martin; "give me those that _do_
keep their word in this world of promise-breakers. But Jane has got
something to tell you, she will say it better than I can, for such
words are so new in my mouth that they come rather awkwardly."

Helen turned an inquiring look towards Jane Martin, who had now risen,
and was standing by her side, wiping away the tears that the sweet
feelings of gratitude had drawn forth. "He means me to tell you,
madam," said the latter, "something that I am sure, if I judge you
rightly, will repay you for all you did, and all you suffered on that
terrible day at York. He has determined, madam, more out of gratitude
to you and one other, who has befriended us, too, in our time of need,
to change his way of life altogether. We are going to a far country,
ma'am, as far from England as we can get, without going out of Europe;
I mean to Naples, where I had once an uncle, who is, I believe, living
still. There we may do honestly and industriously, and, if possible,
in time, will pay back everything that is not rightly ours."

"Oh, do so!--do so!" cried Helen, gladly; "the blessing which that
very thought will give you, will be worth any other kind of
happiness."

"I begin to think so too, Miss Barham," replied Harry Martin; "and one
thing more I will say, which is, that I know what will make me the
happiest man alive."

"What is that?" said Helen; "I am sure if it be possible for me to
help you I will. I cannot forget that, besides sparing my life when
many other people would have taken it, you aided to deliver my brother
from the power of those who would have most basely used the means of
injuring him which they possessed. Tell me what it is; I am far more
capable of doing something to show my gratitude now, than I have ever
been before, and if money--"

"No, no!" exclaimed Harry Martin, "it is not money that I want, Miss
Barham! All I wish for is an opportunity of serving you. But do you
know, Miss Barham," he added, after a moment's pause, "I am almost
sorry to hear you have money to spare."

"Why so?" said Helen, in some surprise.

"Why, I don't know well how to tell you what I mean," replied Harry
Martin; "but it's this, you see, Miss Barham from what I know, I don't
see how you or your brother can have much money to spare, if he gets
it in a way that may not some time or another bring you into a worse
scrape than the last."

Helen Barham's habit of blushing had not been lost, even in all the
painful scenes she had lately gone through, and the blood came warm
into her cheek at the man's words, though she knew that they were not
intended to offend or pain her. There was something in them, however,
which caused her mind instantly to refer to her late position--to the
position of danger and temptation in which she had been placed when
first she was presented to the reader's eyes--and the very thought
made the true modesty of her young and candid heart shrink as if from
contamination.

"You are mistaken, in this instance," she said, mildly; "a great
change has taken place in our situation. I cannot tell you all the
particulars, for I do not know them; and, indeed, I believe on some
account I have been purposely kept in the dark--but it has been
discovered that a large property rightly belonging to my brother has
been kept from him. It was old Mr. Carr who first told me of the
facts; since then, the matter has been referred to several London
lawyers, who are so perfectly convinced the property cannot be
withheld any longer, that the solicitor is quite willing to advance my
brother any money that he needs--more so, indeed, than I could
wish--for William is yet too young to use it rightly."

"He'll never be old enough," replied Harry Martin; "but, however,
whatever is for your good is a blessing; and, I trust, notwithstanding,
though God may give you, young lady, the fortune you well deserve, I
shall some day be able to show you my gratitude. I wont ask to see your
brother, Miss Barham, for the meeting would not be very pleasant to him
or to me, but I can tell him one thing, if he would have health or
happiness either, he must live a very different life from that which he
was following when I knew him. Why, we ourselves, who did not stick at
a trifle, as you may well suppose, used to get sick of his way of
going on."

Helen Barham cast down her eyes, and for a moment or two made no
reply. It was painful enough for her to think that her brother should
ever have been the companion of the man who stood before her; but to
bear that even the profligates, the lawless, and the reckless, were
outdone by the son of her own mother, was terrible indeed. Her
silence, however, arose from other sensations, likewise produced in
her bosom by the words of Harry Martin. The stores of the past, the
things that have been--ay, and the things that are--are often garnered
up in our hearts like the inflammable substances of a magazine,
apparently cold and lifeless, but requiring only a spark to blaze
forth. That spark is frequently a mere accidental word; a look, a tone
will sometimes communicate the flame. There had been a deep anxiety
preying upon Helen Barham for some weeks, a new anxiety, a fresh
grief, which mingled with all the others painful feelings in her
bosom, and produced a sort of dread, which cast an additional gloom
over every prospect. She had remarked in her brother a bright red spot
in the pale cheek, increasing towards nightfall, an eye full of
unnatural lustre, a hurried and fluttering respiration, a slight but
frequent cough--all of which she had seen once before in another, a
few months previous to the time when the turf was laid upon her
mother's head. She had questioned him eagerly and often; she had
endeavoured to prevent him from committing excess in various ways, but
he had always insisted that he was quite well, and any attempt to
restrain his inclinations seemed but to irritate him, and to drive him
to wild extremes. Lately she had tried hard, and successfully, to shut
out his state of health from her mind: she had kept the truth at a
distance; but the words of Harry Martin not only opened her eyes, and
showed her that her brother was hurrying on towards death, but that it
was his own deed.

"I fear," she said, in reply--"I fear that his health has suffered
very much! Indeed, he is anything but well; and I trust, when all this
business is settled, to induce him to try a better climate."

"Induce him, Miss Barham," said Harry Martin--"induce him--"

He was going to add--"to try a better life," but he gazed in the fair
face of Helen Barham, saw the deep melancholy that overspread it, and
felt afraid that he might add one drop more of bitter to the lot of
her, who, born with every endowment of person and mind which the
prodigal hand of nature could bestow upon a favourite child, had been
placed in circumstances where beauty was peril, where excellence was
trial, and where tenderness was anguish. He would not add another
word, but paused in the midst of what he was saying, and then turned
abruptly to his wife, exclaiming--"Come, Jane, let us go, we are only
keeping Miss Barham. God bless you, madam, and protect you. May you
find kind friends wherever you go, and may every one be as honest to
you as you have been to me. God bless you, I say, and make you happy,
and give me some opportunity of helping you when you need it."

Thus speaking, he turned away and left the room, followed by his wife;
and Helen, bidding them adieu, resumed her occupations.

They had not been long gone, however, when her brother came in, with
his face flushed and excited, and a look of triumph in his
countenance. "I have him," he said--"I'll do for him, Helen! We have
got hold of the only admission that was wanting. I'll make a beggar of
him before I have done with him!"

"I hope not, William," answered Helen, reproachfully. "I hope you will
make a beggar of no one upon the earth. You, of all people, William,
ought to know how terrible a thing it is to be a beggar. But who is it
you are talking of?"

"Ay! that I sha'n't tell you, Helen," replied William Barham, with a
laugh. "I know you'd be for interfering, and that wouldn't do. The
business is my own, and I'll manage it myself. You shall know nothing
about it till it's all done; and who can tell if the matter may not be
more for your advantage than you think?"

"Well, William," rejoined Helen, with a sigh, "as I said to you
yesterday, if you do not tell me more, tell me nothing. But listen to
what I have to say to you. The man, Harry Martin, who was tried at
York, has been here to thank me. You know very well that he took, and
destroyed, those papers which were so dangerous to you. Now, I think,
as you say you have money to spare, you ought to send him some
immediately."

"Not I," cried William Barham, though his face for a moment had become
very pale. "You say he destroyed the papers. He can't do anything
against me, then--I shall send him no money. You were a fool for not
letting him be hanged," and he turned sullenly from her, and left the
room.

Helen Barham leaned her head upon her hand, pressed her handkerchief
upon her eyes, and wept bitterly.

CHAPTER XLVII.

THE night was dark and tempestuous, the rain beat violently against
the windows of the carriage, the wind blew so vehemently as to shake
it upon the springs, and the hollow moanings of the gale, as it swept
down the valley of Treisam, sounded like the screams of souls in
torture. Once or twice, but once or twice only, the features of the
scene around were displayed for an instant by a sudden flash of
lightning, and rock, and chasm, and rushing stream, swelled into a
torrent by the deluge that was pouring down, started out from the
darkness and instantly disappeared again. The effect was fine, but
awful; and for the sake of postilions and servants, Morley Ernstein
would have willingly turned back, but that the storm did not commence
till Freiburg was left far behind, and had not reached its height till
the carriage was nearly half way through the pass, known by the gloomy
name of the Valley of Hell. To go on, then, was a matter of necessity,
and Morley contented himself with calling old Adam Gray into the
inside of the carriage, to shelter his white hair from the storm of
night. The journey, indeed, was not without danger, for the pit of
Acheron was certainly never darker than the Höllen-Thal, in the
intervals of the lightning; and the windings of the road, amongst
rocks and streams, are conducted with a greater regard to brevity than
to the traveller's neck.

"It is a dreadful night, indeed, sir," said good old Adam Gray, with a
shudder, "and it seems to be a terribly wild country. Why, the
carriage can scarcely get on, and I believe will be broken in pieces
before we get to the end of the stage."

"Oh, no!" replied Morley; "it is too well built for that, Adam; and
the darkness makes you think every jolt worse than it is. Through this
very valley General Moreau made his famous retreat, bringing with him
his baggage and artillery, so it is impossible that it can be so very
bad."

"It's bad enough, sir, any way!" exclaimed Adam Gray, as the carriage
passed over an immense stone, producing a jolt that nearly knocked the
heads of the travellers against the top of the vehicle. "I would
almost sooner be a cannon than a Christian to go through here--at
least in this dark night!"

"I certainly should have waited till to-morrow," replied Morley, "if I
had known we should have such a storm, but now it is not to be helped,
and the stage, I believe, is not a very long one. We must sleep where
we can for to-night, as there is no use of attempting to go on to
Schaffhausen."

The way, however, seemed to Adam Gray interminably long, for the
German drivers, with very proper caution, proceeded at a rate
certainly somewhat slower than that with which an English
broad-wheeled waggon wends its way along the drawing-room roads of our
own favoured land. At the end of about an hour the storm decreased,
the sharp gusts of wind ceased almost entirely, the lightning no
longer illuminated the valley from time to time with its fierce glare,
and the rain itself subsided into a thin and drizzling mist, through
which the lamps of the carriage poured a red and confused light,
occasionally catching upon some wild rock, or bringing forth from the
darkness the large boll of some old tree, but generally showing
nothing but the dim expanse of vapour which wrapped the harsh features
of the valley in a foggy shroud.

How long they had thus gone on through that tempestuous night, Morley
Ernstein did not know, but he judged by guess that the next post-house
could not be far off, when the sound of what seemed a distant call met
his ear, and, turning to old Adam Gray, he said--"Well, Adam, your
rough journey will soon be over; we must be coming near Steig, for I
hear voices, and some persons shouting."

"Perhaps some one has got hurt in this terrible night," replied Adam
Gray. "God send us well out of this horrid place!"

Morley Ernstein listened eagerly, for the old man's words brought
suddenly into his mind the very probable case of some accident having
happened in such a storm and such a scene; and, letting down the
window, he put his head out, gazing round to see if he could descry
anything, but in vain.

A moment or two after, however, a loud shout from the right, and at no
great distance, showed that the lamps of the carriage, though of no
great service either to the travellers or the postilions attached to
it, had sent their glare far enough into the gloom of the valley to
reach the eyes of some person in distress. The shout was repeated
again and again, and Morley thought that he distinguished an English
tone and English words, though let it be remembered that such sounds
may very well be heard in Germany, without the speakers being
Englishmen or knowing one syllable of our native tongue. This Morley
recollected, but, nevertheless, he was just as anxious to give
assistance as if he had been quite sure that the persons calling for
aid were his fellow-countrymen.

The postilions, although they must have heard the cry fully as well as
those within the carriage, did not seem in the slightest degree
disposed to stop, but went on with the same indifferent jog-trot,
which probably they would have continued if the father of each of them
had been drowning in the stream below. Three times did Morley himself
call to them before they condescended to pay any attention. They at
length brought up, however, and quietly asked what was the matter.
Without waiting to inform them, but bidding the servants get down to
aid him, Morley sprang out of the vehicle, drew one of the lanterns
with his own hands from the socket, and called aloud, in very good
German, to ascertain where were the personages who had been so
vociferously appealing for help.

The reply left him no doubt as to its being an Englishman who now
spoke, for the very first sentence was adorned with one of those oaths
which unhappily are but too often in the mouths of our countrymen.
"Holloa hoy!" cried the voice. "D--n you, if you don't make haste you
will be too late! This way, I say--this way!"

It was not without some difficulty, however, that any means were found
of reaching the spot from whence the voice proceeded. The bank was
steep and rugged, large masses of rock and stone obstructed the way,
and the darkness of the night, increased by the mist, prevented Morley
Ernstein and his servant from seeing more than a few yards even by the
aid of the lantern, which the young gentleman himself carried. All
this delayed them much, but still they advanced, guided by several
voices talking rapidly and eagerly together; and bad French and bad
English were to be heard spoken in sharp and sometimes angry tones,
between people who seemed to have a very great difficulty in making
themselves mutually understood.

At length, however, the exact place where all this was going on became
more distinct; and the forms of two men, two or three women, a child,
four horses, and an overturned coach, were seen against a back ground
of white spray and foam, occasioned by the stream--now swelled, as I
have before said, into a torrent, and dashing in angry fury amidst the
crags and rocky fragments which encumbered the valley. The men and
most of the women were all gathered closely round the carriage, and
seemed to be holding on thereby as if endeavouring to move it, while
one of the group was giving eager orders to another, in a somewhat
extraordinary compound of English and French, to attach the horses to
the overthrown vehicle in a particular manner, and endeavour to pull
it up; while the man to whom he spoke seemed to have taken the wise
resolution, in the first place, of not understanding him, and in the
next place, of not doing what he was told when he did.

Such was the state of things when Morley Ernstein approached within a
few yards of the carriage, and perceived that the vehicle, and
whatever it might contain, was certainly in a very dangerous position,
being balanced as nicely as can be conceived, upon the edge of a
second bank, and apparently only kept from falling over into the
stream by the weight of the persons who held it down. Such was the
first fact that presented itself to Morley's mind; but there was
another point which struck him nearly at the same time--namely, that
the figures of two, at least, out of the personages in the group, were
quite familiar to him; and the combination of the voice which he had
heard, with the appearance of the people now before him, instantly
brought to his recollection our old acquaintance Harry Martin, and his
wife. The latter, it would seem, instantly recognised the young
Baronet in the person who now came to their aid, for at the very
moment that Morley recognised her husband, she exclaimed--"Oh, how
fortunate! It is Sir Morley, Harry--it is Sir Morley Ernstein!"

"That is luck, indeed!" cried Harry Martin. "We shall now have
somebody to help us."

The matter was soon explained; the Swiss driver of the vehicle in
which Martin had engaged a certain number of places for himself and
his family, had, in the darkness of the night, mistaken a small
cart-road on the right, for the highway to Steig, had soon become
embarrassed amongst the rocks, and had ended by overturning the
carriage in the most dangerous part of the valley.

"The worst part of the whole job, is," said Harry Martin, "that the
old woman is a good deal hurt, I am afraid; and we couldn't get her
out the carriage, as it lies there. I had nobody to help me but this
d--d fellow, and he will not help at all."

With the aid of Morley and his servants, the vehicle was soon freed
from the dangerous situation in which it hung, and drawn back into the
bad cart-road from which it had strayed. The jolting, however, was so
terrible to poor old Mrs. More--who had, as her son-in-law declared,
received considerable injuries--that she now very willingly agreed to
do that which she had at first refused, and quit the rough and
ill-hung coach for Morley's more comfortable conveyance.

Finding that the distance to the post-house was not more than an
English mile, the young Baronet determined to go the rest of the way
on foot, sending only one servant with his carriage, and giving the
places thus left vacant to the women, whom he had found in such a
deplorable situation in the valley. Harry Martin's wife and the little
boy took their seats beside old Mrs. More, in the inside. There was
room for another behind, but there were still two persons to be
provided for, both foreigners--one seeming the mistress, and the other
the maid. The lady, however, insisted that her attendant should go,
saying--"You are bruised, Marguerite, and I am not; I can walk very
well."

The attendant needed no great pressing, but took her place at once,
and Morley Ernstein, offering his arm to her mistress, gave directions
to his courier to remain with the Swiss, in order to aid him in
getting his carriage safely back into the main road, and then
proceeded, with Harry Martin on his right hand, talking sometimes to
one of his companions, sometimes to the other. The lady spoke very
little English, but French she understood thoroughly, although her
accent betrayed the tones of a southern land; and, now that the danger
was over, she laughed with light-hearted gaiety at the misadventures
of the night, though a tone of sadness mingled every now and then with
her merriment, when she mentioned the situation of the poor old lady,
Mrs. More. The impression produced by her conversation upon the mind
of Morley Ernstein was altogether agreeable; and indeed it must be a
hard case, where a young and graceful woman and a young and
accomplished man, finding their way on together along a road they do
not know, in a dull and drizzly night, dislike each other very much in
the end.

The mind of Harry Martin seemed, for the time, wholly taken up with
the accident which had happened to Mrs. More, for whom he apparently
entertained as much affection as if he had been her son. Although he
in no degree affected to have forgotten Morley Ernstein, and spoke to
him in a tone of respect--perhaps one might say, of gratitude--yet he
referred, not even by a word, to the circumstances of their previous
acquaintance. Morley himself kept aloof from any such topic also, on
account of the proximity of his servants' ears, though he determined,
if occasion served, to enquire into all which had lately occurred to
his companion, and to ascertain by what train of events he now found
him in a remote part of Germany, with his wife and family. The
opportunity was soon given to him. On their arrival at Steig, they
found the little post-house full of bustle and confusion. Poor Mrs.
More had been taken out of the carriage, and removed to bed, it having
been found that her leg was broken in two places. Her daughter was in
the room, attending upon her, with no little distress of mind; and the
fair Italian, who had accompanied Morley Ernstein--though there was
evidently a little struggle in her breast as to whether she should
stay below in the hall, and pass the evening with the young English
gentleman, or go up and give what assistance she could to the sufferer
up stairs--decided, at length, in favour of the more amiable, though
less pleasant occupation. Bidding Morley a graceful good night, she
left him and Harry Martin in possession of the great, odd-shaped room,
which is almost always to be found on the lower story of a German inn,
and proceeded to the chamber of Mrs. More, where, we may as well add,
in passing, she shewed much good humour, and benevolent attention,
aiding Jane in putting her child to bed, and soothing and tending her
mother.

In the meantime, Morley Ernstein's servants busied themselves in
preparing their master's room, taking care of the carriage, and
removing a part of the contents to the house; while the courier paid
the postilion within a few florins of the sum he intended to charge
his master, ordered the best of everything for his own supper, and the
next best for that of Sir Morley, and looked into the saloon three
times to see what the young gentleman was about, and to prove that he
was very attentive.

On the part of Sir Morley Ernstein, the first proceeding was to send
for the post-master, and to enquire where a surgeon could be procured.
No good one was to be heard of nearer than Freiburg; and, accordingly,
a man on horseback was sent off by Sir Morley's directions, to bring
the best bone-setter that the capital of the Breisgau could afford.
Then--after various enquiries as to the real situation of the old
woman, after some going to and fro between her chamber and the saloon,
and all the little bustles, orders and counter-orders, enquiries and
replies, examinations and discoveries, precautions, preparations, and
annoyances, which attend the first arrival at an out-of-the-way inn,
on a dark and rainy night, after a journey of adventures and
mishaps--after all this was concluded Harry Martin stood upon the
other, with his arms crossed upon his broad, bull-like chest.

"You see, Sir Morley," said the latter, at length, as if in
explanation of his feelings towards Mrs. More--"you see, that I am
very anxious about this old woman, for she has been kind to me ever
since I first knew her, and ended by saving my life. She was
the first one, sir, that ever made me think--love being out of the
question--that any one could care about me for myself, and she has
always kept tight to the same way of acting by me; though, God knows,
little was the good I ever did her or hers! However, I am sure I ought
to be well contented with the world, for when I was at the hardest
pinch that ever man was at, I found people to be generous to me,
people to be true to me, and people to be zealous for me, which,
altogether, was what saved my life, when I as much deserved to be
hanged as any man that ever was born."

"How was that?" demanded Morley Ernstein, not doubting, indeed, the
truth of Harry Martin's confession, but merely desirous of hearing
something more of his history: "I left you in a fair way of making
your escape, I thought."

"Ay, sir, so you did," replied his companion, "but I was fool enough
to put my foot in a trap, and was caught. I should have been hanged,
too, if it hadn't been for that noble girl Miss Helen Barham, who
should be a queen if I had my will. She kept her word with me in spite
of all that any one could say, and she'll go to heaven for it, if it
was for nothing else, for she's given me time to think and to change
my life altogether, and that's what the law would not have done. My
wife was reading me the Bible, the other day, where it says--'There's
joy in heaven over one sinner that repents;' and if it be so,
which I don't pretend to doubt, she must have made the place very
happy--which, indeed, I suppose it was before--for certainly I was as
bad as I could be, but now I have repented a good deal, and mean to do
so a great deal more. It would not have been the case, sir, if it
happened any other way at all; if they had hanged me, I should have
died game; and if I had got off by some trick of the lawyers, some
flaw in the indictment, or something of that kind, I should have been
at the old work again in a week; but to see that beautiful girl sit
there, badgered by the judge and all the lawyers, and quietly make up
her mind to go to prison sooner than to break her word with a man like
me,--why, sir, it changed my whole heart in a moment; and I thought to
myself, if I get off this time I will lead a different life altogether
for your sake, you angel, just to shew you that I'm not altogether so
bad as people think!"

By degrees, Morley Ernstein obtained a general idea of all that
occurred to Harry Martin, since he left him in the north of England.
It was not with little interest that the young Englishman questioned
him concerning Helen Barham, and we need hardly say that it was with
pleasure he heard, not only her praises from the man beside him, but
an account of the actions which had called forth his gratitude. It was
with great satisfaction, too, he learnt that a change had taken place
in her pecuniary affairs and that competence, if not wealth, was at
all events assured to her; for though he had written to Mr. Hamilton
about her before he left England, and placed her future fate beyond
doubt, he was not a little pleased to find that she would be dependant
upon no one. The relative situation into which they had been thrown,
the high qualities of her mind, the compassion that he had felt for
her--ay, the very temptation which had at one moment assailed him, had
left a tenderness in his feelings towards Helen Barham, which was
certainly not love, and yet was something more than friendship, It was
a sensation, strange, complicated, difficult to be defined even to his
own mind; it was the blending of many memories and many sweet
impressions into something like the affection of a father for a child,
something like the love of a brother for a sister, and yet differing
from both, inasmuch as there was nothing conventional in it, inasmuch
as there was no bond or tie of duty, inasmuch as it differed from the
common forms and modes into which the rules of society shape our
feelings as well as our actions.

The presence of such sensations in his bosom was rendered more
sensible to him by the conversation taking place at that moment, than
it had ever been before, and he paused for some short time thinking
that it was all very strange, and enquiring into the nature of the
things within him. The man Martin, in the meantime, remained beside
him, with his keen, intelligent eyes fixed upon his countenance,
apparently reading, or attempting to read, the thoughts that were busy
in his breast.

At length he said--"Well, Sir Morley, I am going to bid you good
night, and I thank you very heartily for all the kindness you have
shewn me. There's one thing I can't help saying, however--and you must
not think me impudent or meddling for saying it, though I must not
mention any names--but I can't help thinking, sir, that you have
thrown away your own happiness, and quitted the good, and the true,
and the beautiful, to follow one that you'll find out some day,
perhaps when hope, and comfort, and peace are all ruined together.
Forgive me for saying it, sir, but I owe it to one who has been kind
to me to give him a warning. I wish you good night, sir!"

"Stay, stay!" cried Morley; "explain what you mean, at least, before
you go."

"No, no, I can't say any more," replied Harry Martin, moving steadily
towards the door, "I have said all that I have a right to say; and I
only add, that if you watch you will see, and if you enquire you will
find out. You will be convinced, at last, although I should think that
you had had enough to convince you already."

Without waiting for further question he turned and quitted the room,
and Morley remained bewildered and surprised, applying the words just
spoken to Juliet Carr, although they referred to quite a different
object; and asking himself how the man who had just left him could
have gained such a knowledge of his affairs. Surprise was certainly
the first feeling, but suspicion is a guest that finds but too easy
admission into the human heart.

"Peace, and comfort, and happiness are indeed gone already," he said,
"and gone by her act--must I call it by her fault? Can this be
trifling?--Love, they say, is blind.--Can it be coquetry? Can she be
sporting with my misery?"

But, as he put the question to his own heart, the idea of Juliet Carr,
in all her beauty, in all her frank simplicity, in all that
openhearted candour which gave the crowning grace to her demeanour,
rose up before his sight, and he became not only angry with himself
for having given credit to one word against her; but angry also and
indignant, with the man who had uttered aught that could raise a doubt
of her sincerity in his mind.

CHAPTER XLVIII.

Early on the following morning the carriage of Morley Ernstein stood
prepared for departure before the little inn at Steig. He had sent to
ask after the health of the old woman who had suffered from the
accident of the preceding night, and had heard, certainly with
pleasure, that the surgeon made a favourable report of her situation,
though he at once pronounced that she must remain for many weeks in
the room to which she had been carried. For Martin himself the young
gentleman had not asked; nor did he speak more than a few words to him
when he met him at the bottom of the stairs, in descending to go into
his carriage. Although convinced that the man intended well, he was
still angry, to say the truth, at the words which the other had
addressed to him on the preceding evening; the more angry, perhaps,
because he felt irritated with himself on account of the shade of
doubt which lingered in his own mind, which he had combated during the
whole night without being able to conquer it, which had fled but to
return, and which still raised its head against reason and
argument--ay, and even conviction itself.

With one of the party which he had encountered the night before,
however, he did stop to speak for some minutes. It was with the
Italian lady, who had been his companion on foot from the place where
the accident had occurred to the inn; and he now perceived clearly--a
fact of which he had only a faint notion from his glance during the
preceding evening--namely, that she was a young and very pretty woman;
not exactly beautiful, for there was not a feature in her face which
deserved that often misapplied epithet, if we except the eyes. They,
indeed, were remarkably fine, as most Italian eyes are--bright,
sparkling, and full of merry light, but chastened withal by a frequent
look of feeling and thoughtful meditation. To behold them, and to
watch their expression for any length of time, reminded one of a
sunshiny prospect with an occasional cloud floating over it and
varying by its soft shadows the sparkling brightness of the scene.

With her, then, Morley stopped to speak for some time, enquiring after
her health, and hoping that she had not suffered from the accidents of
the night before. She replied, gaily, that she had nothing to complain
of, except that she was stopped on her journey, which, indeed, was not
only an annoyance, but a misfortune. It would be two or three days,
she said, before the carriage would be able to proceed, and delay
would be most inconvenient to her, as she had engagements in Milan and
Venice, on account of which she had determined on going by the
Brenner, as the pass most certain to be open. If she could but reach
Constance, she would soon be able to find a conveyance for the rest of
the journey which was not to be done at Steig.

Morley hesitated; English prudence came in the way--the question which
every Englishman first puts to himself, "What will people say,"
instantly suggested itself; and it took him a minute, which under such
circumstances is a long time, ere he could make up his mind to do that
to which good-nature prompted him. How often is it that good feelings
are panders to bad actions! Alas! too frequently do they lead us so
near the door of evil places, that we are tempted to go in. Morley
Ernstein took his resolution at length, and replied, that if she were
not bound by any means to go in the same conveyance which had brought
her so far, a seat in his carriage was much at her service.

Many persons may, perhaps, enquire whether her sparkling dark eyes had
anything to do with Morley's civility. I can conscientiously
reply--"Nothing in the world." He would have made the same proposal if
she had been as ugly as Cerberus perhaps more readily; and the only
part that her bright eyes could take in the business, was to make her
even a more dangerous companion than that three headed gentleman
himself.

She did not refuse the young Baronet's proposal, but laughed with an
arch look as she accepted it, saying--"You are afraid of your
reputation. Is it not so? All Englishmen are so prudent and careful!
We Italians have much more confidence in virtue, bad as they call us;
but I am not the least afraid, though my reputation is much more
likely to be endangered than yours--for I, too, have a reputation to
lose."

She spoke the last words somewhat proudly, and there was a frankness
in her whole demeanour which pleased Morley Ernstein, and set him more
at ease. The carriage was ordered to wait for half-an-hour, the
voiturier was easily settled with, the trunks and packages were
removed to Morley Ernstein's chariot, and the young Englishman
followed the fair Italian into the vehicle, a third place being taken
therein by her maid. Good Adam Gray looked grave; and although his
brow was somewhat cleared when he saw that his master and the strange
lady were not to be without a companion, yet, to say sooth, the old
man was not well satisfied. Whether it was experience or nature taught
him that, for a young man like Morley to sit side by side, during a
somewhat long journey, with a gay and pretty Italian girl was a
dangerous sort of proximity, matters very little; but Adam Gray could
not help fancying that the matter might end ill, having no great faith
in the virtue of any lady born beyond the precincts of the four seas,
and, perhaps, not quite so much confidence in his master's powers of
resisting the impetuous fire of his own nature as Morley really
deserved.

Now might I, dear reader, trace the journey of the young Englishman
and his fair companion, tell all that took place between them, and
point out how she gradually won upon Morley Ernstein--amused, pleased,
interested him. I might dilate upon all the little incidents of the
road, all the attentions which he thought himself bound to pay her,
all those small and accidental circumstances which occasionally lead
people on, to use Shakspeare's expression, upon "The primrose way to
the everlasting bonfire." There were many of those things took
place--there was the flash of similar thought, there was the
admiration of similar objects, there were the slight differences that
give variety, there were the touches of feeling which, like the
cabalistic words pronounced by the magician, in the tales of eastern
lands, open the heart, however firmly it may be locked against
intrusion. But we must pause upon very few of these matters, and will
only notice two little incidents, and one brief part of their
conversation.

At the moment they set out, Morley made up his mind not to stay at
Schaffhausen, but to go on to Constance at once; it must be admitted
that he took this resolution from an unacknowledged conviction that he
was not doing the most prudent thing in the world, in travelling with
the fair Italian at all. In fact, he wished not to make more than one
day of the journey. It was somewhat later, however, than he had
calculated upon when they arrived at Schaffhausen, the hour of the
table-d'hôte was over, dinner could not be obtained for an hour, and
the host enquired, as if it were a thing absolutely necessary to be
done, at what time they would like to see the falls. The lady looked
in Morley's face, and left him to answer. It seemed to him that there
would be a rudeness in not giving her a choice; and the consequence
was, they went to see the falls together, by the light of a fine
afternoon, and returning to Schaffhausen remained there that night.

In the saloon to which they were shown there was a piano; and Morley's
companion, in one of the unoccupied moments--of which there are more
in inns than in any other places, perhaps, in the world--walked up to
the instrument, ran her fingers over the keys, with a touch of
complete mastery, and hummed, rather than sang, a few bars of a
popular opera; but it was done in a manner which left Morley in no
doubt that her voice itself had been cultivated with the utmost care.
It may easily be supposed, then, that the evening did not pass without
music--without that enjoyment, which, whether we may consider it an
entity or not, is in all its forms one of the greatest blessings that
ever was bestowed on man.

Music--what is it? How can one say what it really is? Substantial it
is certainly not, or rather, I should say, material. Where is it to be
found? Is it not in the spirit itself? Is it not, in fact, one of the
highest and holiest qualities of the soul; a perception of that
harmony which we may well believe to be an attribute of God, from
finding it in all his works--from seeing it in all his revelations of
himself. In what part of creation is it that the heart of man may not
find music, if he will? Sweet sounds may, indeed, by the ear produce
the impression most distinctly; but sights presented to the eye will
raise exactly the same sensations in the spirit; and sounds, and
sights, and sense, all link themselves together in memory, shewing
their near affinity to each other and their reference to one
harmonious whole. Nevertheless, on this earth the grand expression of
that innate music, which--as fire is latent in every existing material
thing--lies hid in every object of the spirit's action, is still to be
found in the union of sweet tones; and as the reader may easily
imagine, from all we have said of his character, no one was ever more
deeply moved by the power of harmony than Morley Ernstein. He
listened, then, entranced to the singing of the fair Italian, perfect
as it was in every respect, for nature had given her, in her rich
Italian voice, an instrument such as no art could fabricate; and
science and long study had taught her to wield all its powers with
unrivalled effect. Taste, too, and, apparently, deep feeling were not
wanting; and when she had sung something exquisitely beautiful, and
then looked up in Morley's face to see the effect it had produced on
him, there was as much music in her eyes as on her lips.

These, reader, are the two incidents which I promised to relate; and
now for the conversation. Their second day's journey was verging to a
close; a sort of soft languor had come over the fair Italian--a touch
of melancholy, such as almost every one must feel in drawing nigh the
moment of parting from one with whom we have held sweet intercourse
even for a few short hours. They had glances of the Rhine as they
rolled along; they caught the distant towers of Constance, to which
they were rapidly approaching; gleams of far mountains; and, once, a
sight of the wide lake met their eyes as they advanced; and all told
them that the time of separation was coming. The maid was apparently
asleep; and, at all events, Morley and his companion, were speaking
French, which she did not understand. The sights before their eyes,
the yellow evening tint that was spreading over the sky, not only led
their thoughts to that moment of parting, but brought the conversation
suddenly to it also. The lady looked up, from the reverie of a minute
or two, with a smile, in which there was a touch of the sadness of
which I have spoken.

"Well," she said, "we are now drawing near our journey's end. I have
to thank you much for your kindness. It will prove of great service to
me, and, I trust, be of no disservice to you. You see we have passed
along our way without meeting any one, so that neither your reputation
nor mine can have suffered."

"I know it is very foolish," answered Morley, in his usual frank
manner; "but I do not deny that I may feel the prejudices of my
country in these respects, though not sufficiently, I hope, to prevent
me from doing what is courteous and right. But still, I do think it
would be a dangerous practice, generally speaking, for young and
pretty ladies, such as yourself, to travel alone with any man unallied
to them in blood."

"Why?" demanded the Italian lady, simply.

It was rather a difficult question to answer with sincerity; and,
after hesitating for a moment, Morley Ernstein said--"Why, nobody can
tell where they go to--how they spend their time. In short, they throw
off that sort of responsibility that they owe to society--the eyes of
the world are no longer upon them."

"And is it only the eyes of the world which keep people from doing
wrong?" asked the lady.

Morley laughed, and, wishing to change the subject, he answered--"Many
other inconveniences might happen, you know--they might fall in love
with each other, or do a thousand things of that kind."

"Oh, then I am quite safe!" replied the lady--"for I never yet saw the
man whom I felt the least inclination to fall in love with in my
life."

"Perhaps you are incapable of love," said Morley. "There are some
women so happily constituted by nature, that they never know what it
is to be touched by any but the more tranquil affections."

"Perhaps such is the case," she rejoined quite seriously, "or perhaps,
what is more likely, I may spend all my feelings upon matters of
imagination. A song, a piece of music, a scene in a play, will move me
in a degree that I cannot describe. I have generally remarked, and am
inclined to believe it is an invariable rule, that people of a strong
imagination are very seldom troubled with strong affections."

Her observation threw Morley into a reverie. He asked himself whether
it were true, and paused in doubt, not having sufficient experience to
solve the question at once by his own knowledge, and plunging into
those metaphysical deductions, which lead as often to what is false as
to what is true.

The lady went on to say--"I hope--indeed I am sure, that such is the
case with myself; for I would not for the world feel such passions as
I see depicted and hear told. Thus I know myself to be perfectly safe,
and can trust myself in any situation without fear."

"And yet," rejoined Morley, with a meaning smile, "you are an
Italian."

"True," she answered, with one of her sparkling looks; "but perhaps
the very fact of the existence of such strong passions amongst my
countrywomen, as you would insinuate, may have been my warning and
safeguard."

"Where there is no danger, there is no need of a safeguard," said
Morley. "You acknowledge, then, that it is by reason, and not by
nature, that you are guided."

"You must not press me too hard," exclaimed the lady, laughing--"you
know we women never understand how to argue. All I know is, that I
never did love, and never shall love any man--not even you, fair sir,"
she added, laughing--"though you have certainly been much more kind
and courteous than most of your countrymen; and the only way I can
repay you is, by asking you to come and see me, should you visit
Venice, or, at least, should you be there some two months hence. I may
then be enabled to return your courtesy in some shape, and perhaps may
procure you the means of seeing more of the city of the waves than
foreigners usually do see."

"I will certainly avail myself of your invitation," replied Morley;
"but you forget that, owing to the strange way in which our
acquaintance commenced, I am ignorant, up to the present moment, even
of your name."

"Oh, that omission will soon be remedied," answered the lady--"my name
is Veronica Pratesi. You will easily find me in Venice."

Thus ended the conversation to which we wished to refer. The lady and
Morley spent the evening together at Constance, and part of the next
morning. A carriage was easily procured to convey her on her way, and
Morley placed her in it, and bade her adieu with feelings of regret.

Her sparkling manner, too, was somewhat overshadowed by passing
clouds. At one moment, she was gay and bright as ever; at the next,
fell into deep thought. She bade him farewell however, with all the
levity of a Frenchwoman; but as soon as the adieu was spoken, and
while something was doing to the interminable harness, she gazed down
into the bottom of the vehicle, as if to prevent herself from having
any more last words. The moment the driver's whip cracked for
departure she turned round to look at Morley again; and her face was
then overclouded.

CHAPTER XLIX.

"Hi! ha!" said Lieberg, as he sat at breakfast with Morley Ernstein,
in the Golden Stag, at Munich--"so you met with the cold and fair
Veronica, and actually travelled with her in your own carriage. I
trust, Morley, you did not fall in love with her, for there is no hope
there. When she first appeared at the opera at Naples--"

"What! she is an actress, then?" demanded Morley Ernstein.

"A singer--a singer," replied Lieberg--"the famous cantatrice. But, as
I was saying, when first she appeared at Naples, all the dissolute old
nobles of that kingdom, and half-a-dozen others of your own, Morley,
thought no expense would be too great to add this fair linnet to their
aviary. Various were the proposals made to her, more flattering to her
avarice than her virtue; but to every offer of the kind Veronica
returned but one answer--that of silent contempt. Then came the young,
and the gay, and the fascinating; and many a woman, Morley, as you
well know, surrenders to the wordy siege of a penniless young
libertine, who has resisted the golden bombardment of his grandfather.
But it was all in vain: Veronica gave them to understand that she
objected to young fools just as much as to old ones. Some were driven
into the despair of matrimony, and made what they called honourable
proposals, after having made what, by a plain inference, she was bound
to consider the reverse. But Veronica answered that whatever she
thought of their former offers, she thought still worse of these,
adding, that whatever folly she did commit, it should not at least be
the folly of marriage. Every one then said that she would make her own
choice, and would select some one, either for his rank, his person, or
his mind. But four years and more have since passed; all ranks,
classes, conditions, and degrees, have been at her feet, and Veronica
has continued to shew herself exactly the same piece of ice which she
from the first declared herself to be."

"In fact," said Morley, "a cold coquette."

"No," answered Lieberg gravely--"no. I was at Naples the time the
thing first began, and I must do her the justice to say, she gave no
encouragement to any one. People always will seek what is difficult to
be had; and that quality, together with her singing, her fine eyes,
and her beautiful figure, were the great attractions. She sets up for
a sort of Corinne, too, writes poetry, goes about and sees the world,
makes an immense deal by her singing, and is a person very much
_recherchée_ in Venice, I can assure you."

"Is she a Venetian?" demanded Morley.

"No," replied Lieberg--"she is a Milanese, but she lives principally
in Venice, because, as she says truly, it is a city without noise, and
there is nothing she abhors so much as the rolling of carriage-wheels,
except the plaudits of a theatre."

"Then the fact simply is," said Morley, "she is a woman without
passions, and whose vanity takes a high tone."

"In the last, you are right," answered Lieberg--"with regard to the
first, I doubt. There is something in the flashing of her eye, in the
brightness of her smile, and, occasionally, in the impetuous torrent
of her song, that gives the lie to her whole conduct. But as I do not
know her in private life, and never intend to know her either, I
cannot say, with any certainty, what is really beneath the appearance
of coldness. I never put myself in a situation to fall in love with a
woman with whom I am not likely to succeed; and if you will take my
advice, Morley, you will keep out of the way of Veronica Pratesi,
especially as you are very fond of music."

"I am not at all afraid," replied Morley; "there is not the least
chance of my ever falling in love with a barrel organ, let the tunes
be ever so pretty."

Lieberg smiled, well pleased to see that a bitterness not natural to
his young companion still held possession of him, so far as to affect
even his speech upon ordinary occasions. The conversation dropped
there, and at the end of about ten days, once more in full
companionship, their carriages were rolling down into the valley of
the Inn.

I forget who it is that has said, that there is consolation in all
things. Perhaps he meant _for all things_; but I believe that the
observation were more just when taken in the most apparent
sense--namely, that from all things that do surround us, we may
extract consolation if we will. I have dwelt upon this topic already
perhaps at too great length; and what I have said respecting the
scenery on the Rhine, and its effect upon the mind of Morley Ernstein,
need be repeated here in regard to the scenery of the Tyrol: only, as
the objects around him were here grander and wilder, so the
impressions conveyed were more strong, more elevating, and also more
permanent.

It would seem to me impossible, did I not know that it is frequently
done, for any man to stand in the presence of gigantic mountains, or
dwell long amidst the snowy peaks, and cloud-mantled summits of the
Alps, without finding his heart enlarged and his spirit raised by the
sublime aspect of the world around him. It is possible, however--but
too possible; and, although such was not the case with Morley
Ernstein--although he felt his bosom expand, as it were, to take in
the sensations produced by such majestic sights--the mind of his
companion remained unchanged, whatever was the scenery through which
he passed. And yet, let me not be mistaken; perhaps his mind also did
undergo some alteration, not in its nature, not in its character, but
in its capacity. The evil spirit might, in its own dark purposes,
assume a loftier range, but without the slightest difference in the
ends proposed, without a change even in the means employed. The
sensation of joy and satisfaction at any progress made, of dark
malevolence and angry impatience when aught obstructed its course.
might become more energetic, more grand, more awful, though all the
rest remained the same. There is a sublime in bad as well as in good,
and the feelings of Lieberg, it would appear, were in intensity, as
much influenced by the sights which presented themselves hourly to his
eye in the Tyrol, as even that of his companion.

One thing, however, is to be remarked, the country in which they now
were was quite new to Morley, but not so to Lieberg. He had seen it
often before, and the freshness of first impressions was at an end.
Nevertheless he gladly took part with his fellow traveller, in all his
wanderings through that bright scenery; he climbed the peaks of the
mountains with him; he gazed down into the valleys; he trod the wide
tracks of snow; he accompanied him through the deep woods of pines; he
stood upon the edge of the beetling precipice, or gazed over the wild
dark lake; and it must be said, that his companionship gave additional
charms to the expedition. Untiring in mind and in body, seeming never
to know weariness for a moment, always well pleased at whatever course
was taken, and always deriving a fresh current of thoughts, equally
new and striking, from every change of scene that presented itself,
Lieberg kept the thoughts of Morley Ernstein in a continual state of
excitement, pleasing, though too strong. Occasionally, indeed, some of
those strange observations, or perverted trains of reasoning, to which
I have already adverted more than once, would burst forth, as it were,
irrepressibly; and dark and awful words, betokening a spirit angry
with, and rebellious to the will of God, would startle Morley at the
very moment when his own heart felt inclined to raise itself in praise
and adoration.

It was thus one day, after climbing nearly to the summit of a high
peak, that they stood with their feet among the fresh fallen snow of
the preceding night. There was a bright blue sky above them, and a
light cloud rolled round the edge of the mountain, about half way
down, while, beyond it--bursting forth in strong relief of light and
shade--appeared one of those splendid valleys, surrounded on every
side by Alps, and a thousand lesser hills rising up from the bottom of
the depth, and bearing high their ancient castles to catch the
noon-day sun. Morley gazed round with feelings of love and gratitude
towards that Being who has robed the earth in splendour, and cast a
mantle of beauty over all his works. But then, even then, as their
eyes rested upon an infinite multitude of things, varying through
every form of loveliness, and running up in magnificent harmony, from
the fair delicate flower on the edge of the snow, to the stupendous
sublimity of the icy crags above their head--it was then, even then,
that Lieberg, after several minutes of dark thought, exclaimed, "Where
shall man flee from God, from him, who has pronounced himself a God of
vengeance--from him whose will is death and destruction--who has
allotted a portion of sorrow to every being he has created, and cast
the miserable insects he has formed into a sea of wretchedness, and
strife, and mutual destruction? Where shall man flee from this fierce
God? If he go into the cities, the pestilence and the sword, the
midnight robber, the slow disease, the poisoned cup, the faithless
paramour, disappointed hopes, agonized limbs, pangs, and death, meet
him there; he can scarcely breathe the air without drawing in some
calamity; he can scarcely lay himself down to rest without finding an
asp upon his pillow. If he climb to the top of the mountains, and take
refuge in the solitude of these eternal hills, the lightning and the
rending fragment, the false footing and the thundering avalanche
follow him there, and crush the writhing object of tyrannical power,
as man himself sets his foot upon the worm."

Morley turned round, and gazed at him with sensations of wonder and
horror; but after a moment's pause, the awful cloud which had hung
upon Lieberg's fine brow, passed away, and noticing the expression of
his companion's countenance with a smile, he added--"You are
surprised, Morley, to find such gloomy feelings in one so gay as I am;
but, perhaps, it may be the conviction of all life's many miseries
that teaches me so eagerly to drain its scanty joys."

"No, Lieberg, no," answered Morley, somewhat sternly; "I was not
surprised at finding such gloomy feelings; but I was surprised at
finding such impious thoughts, and hearing such blasphemous words."

"But are they not true ones?" demanded Lieberg, with his eye flashing.
"For what did God make man, but to curse him?"

"Man is his own curse," replied Morley. "We see it in everything. Are
not his luxuries and his vices the cause of his diseases? Are not his
strife and contention the effect of his own pampered passions? Are not
almost all the evils that beset him, in a civilized state, the work of
his own refractory will, opposed to the declared will of God? You may
say that God formed him with those passions, and therefore that still
the curse was his; but God gave them to him for good, not for evil;
and not only with beneficent generosity left him to choose the good or
evil course, according to his own volition, but guarded him against
the one by warning and exhortation, and persuaded him to the other by
every inducement, and every reward. Man is his own curse, Lieberg; man
is his own curse, and if, as we daily see, he brings two-thirds, at
least, of the misery that exists upon his own head, by his own act,
we may very well conclude, that the rest of the load also was
purchased in times past by errors and disobedience of the same kind."

"By eating an apple in a garden," said Lieberg, with a sneer, turning
on his heel to descend the mountain.

"By rebellion against God, in some shape!" replied Morley.

Lieberg paused suddenly upon the verge of the crag, with his eye
flashing fiercely, as if from personal offence, and for an instant the
same demon-like expression came over his whole face, and even form,
which had once caught the eye of Helen Barham. As he stood there, with
his fine limbs thrown into strong action while balancing himself
proudly upon the very edge of the precipice, and with the dark shadow
on his haughty features, he certainly looked like one of the fallen
spirits come down to hold dangerous communion with mortal men. The
passion which moved him, however, passed away in a moment, and,
without saying another word, he proceeded in his descent.

Though nothing that could be called a dispute had taken place, yet
this conversation cast a shadow both upon Morley and Lieberg, during
the rest of the day. They proceeded in the afternoon to Meran, and put
up at the little inn, where stories of Hofer, and thoughts of past
times, served, like the evening sun, to clear the clouds away, and
they rose for their journey the following morning in a more cheerful
mood.

I have said this book is not a road-book--I wish to Heaven it were,
for there are few things more pleasant than journeying lightly along,
taking the reader as one's companion, and discussing with him, in a
quiet, easy kind of way, sometimes the bright and beautiful things of
nature, sometimes the follies and absurdities of man; telling a story
here, gleaning an anecdote there; moralizing on the strange destinies
of states and individuals; looking into the domestic home of the
peasant in one place, sitting down with the statesman in his
retirement in another; sometimes listening to the thunders of
eloquence, sometimes to the music of the shepherd's pipe. But all this
must not be, and we must hurry upon our way with Morley and his
companion passing along by the side of the clear and sparkling Adige,
and issuing forth into the plains of Lombardy; but, strange to say,
with far different feelings from those which are described by
universal tourists in the language of conventional admiration for the
land of song and ancient arts.

The weather in the Tyrol had been fine and warm, for the season of the
year. The days had been clear, the nights fine, as if summer had come
back in the train of autumn, to usurp, for a time, possession of the
earth in despite of winter. The scenery had thus appeared to the
highest advantage, and the Lombard plains seemed flat and meaningless
to the eyes of Morley Ernstein, as they bent their way towards Verona.

After sleeping in that fine old city, seeing all the curious monuments
Which it contains, Juliet's apocryphal tomb, and that splendid
amphitheatre which first wakes up in the mind of the traveller the
images of the mighty past, that Rome is destined to call forth still
more vividly, it became a question whether they should proceed on
their way southward, while the weather was yet fine and clear, or turn
aside to visit Venice, and other places of interest on that side of
Italy.

Lieberg seemed somewhat anxious to go on, but Morley had dreams about
Venice which he wished to realize. It was to him a place of greater
interest than Rome itself. He had few sympathies with the Cæsars, but
with "_The Rialto, Shylock, and the Moor_," he had a thousand, and
easily induced his companion to give up his own opinion, and accompany
him, by Vicenza and Padua, to the City of the Sea, proposing, as they
returned, to pass by Mantua and Modena, on their way to Naples.

Venice is certainly a place of enchantment--the only town I ever saw
which leaves fancy far behind. Morley Ernstein yielded to the magic
influence of the place, as he had yielded to the effect of every other
beautiful thing along the road. The buildings, the pictures, the air,
the Adriatic, the moonlight walks in the Piazzetta, the solemn
mysterious gloom of the jewel-fretted dome of St. Mark's,--all excited
his imagination to a pitch which he had thought scarcely possible; he
lived as if in another world; he felt as if his Spirit were refreshed
and renewed. The powers of enjoyment came fully back upon him, and the
vein of melancholy, of unfading and unfaded regret, that mingled with
every pleasure, seemed now to elevate and not to lower the tone of his
sensations.

Such was his state of mind when, one day as he was waiting for Lieberg
on the Sclavonian quay, and gazing thoughtfully over towards the
ghost-like church of the _Salute_, a lady crossed him, dressed, as is
very common there, in black, and gliding along with a quick but
graceful pace, her head bent down, and her veil closely drawn around
her face. She had passed him before she seemed to take any notice; but
then she suddenly stopped, and turning round, as if she partially
recognised him, and wished to make herself sure, she raised her veil,
shewing him the countenance of his fair companion Veronica.

Morley sprang forward with real pleasure, for the effect of Lieberg's
description of her character and conduct was yet strong upon his mind,
but she looked at him reproachfully, though she held out her hand,
saying--"You had forgotten your promise. I have heard of your being in
Venice these five days."

"I had not forgotten, indeed," replied Morley; "but, if you recollect,
you gave me to understand that you would not be here so soon."

"True--true," she said; "but I did not stay in Milan as long as I
expected--I wanted to get back; and now I am mortified, because I dare
say you have seen almost all that is worth seeing here without me. I
wanted to shew you everything myself, and to see your enthusiasm, to
call it forth, to force it into action. My countrymen, and almost
every other nation upon earth, make a mistake about you English; they
say you have no enthusiasm, but I believe that England is the only
country where true enthusiasm is to be found. The difference is, that
with us there is the gilding upon the surface--with you the gold is in
the heart; with most nations it is a painted shrine having little
inside, but with you it is the oaken casket, and the jewels within;
now, you have deprived me of the pleasure of seeing these jewels--I
mean, making you display your enthusiasm; and therefore I am very
angry with you."

"You shall not be angry with me long," said Morley--"for I have not
yet seen one half there is to see, and my enthusiasm is in such a
state of excitement, that I could run wild upon almost any subject
connected with Venice."

"That is right--that is right," she tried; "and you must let me shew
you all. Where are you going now? My gondola is at the end of the
quay; but who is this coming here, as if to join you? Oh, I
remember!--that dark, terrible man Lieberg; I have seen him in Naples
in days of old. I never loved that man: there is something fearful
about him. You are travelling with him, I hear. Beware--beware!"

Almost as she spoke, Lieberg came up, bowing low to the fair Italian,
but without addressing her, and Morley could evidently see that he was
not well pleased to find him in her society.

"I am sorry," he said, addressing his friend--"that I shall not be
able to accompany you as I intended, for I find letters at the
banker's this morning, which require an immediate answer."

Veronica's features sparkled with pleasure, which she took not the
slightest pains to conceal. "You shall come with me, then," she said,
"and we will row across to one of the islands, go to the Armenian
convent, or to Murano--No, that is too far--we will go down the Grand
Canal, and see some of the pictures. There are pictures here that make
one live three hundred years ago, and speak with people that have been
long in their graves."