Two days elapsed, and on the third morning Lady Malcolm was sitting in
her drawing-room alone, when the servant threw open the door, and
announced "Colonel Lieberg." Her visitor upon the present occasion was
personally known to her, so far as a mere bow went, when they met in
society. But this was the first time that he had ever presented
himself at her house; and Lady Malcolm, therefore, as she well might,
looked somewhat surprised when she received him. Her demeanour,
however, was perfectly courteous, though somewhat distant withal, and
after begging him to be seated, she enquired what fortunate
circumstance procured her the honour of his visit.
"I beg your ladyship's pardon," said Lieberg, "for intruding upon you,
especially at this hour of the morning; but, in truth, though I asked
for you--thinking it would be more proper so to do--my visit is
intended for a young lady, who is, I find, under your kind care and
protection, and to whom I have some intelligence to communicate, which
may, perhaps, give her pleasure."
Lady Malcolm, however, had lived long enough in the great world to
have the faculty of misunderstanding, when she thought proper; and she
therefore replied--"I am really very sorry, Count, but Miss Carr is
out, and probably will not return till the evening."
"Your ladyship is under a mistake," replied Lieberg; "my visit was not
intended for the lady you mention, but for Miss Barham, who, her
brother informs me, is residing at your house."
"He is quite in error," replied Lady Malcolm; "Miss Barham did,
indeed, do me the favour of passing a few days with me, but she left
me yesterday morning."
Lieberg's cheek grew hot; and though he still maintained the
appearance of the utmost suavity, there was a certain degree of
sharpness in his tone, which shewed how mortified and disappointed he
was.
"Then, of course," he said, "your ladyship can favour me with her
address."
"No, indeed," replied Lady Malcolm, "I cannot. All I can tell you is,
that she is gone into the country."
"May I humbly enquire," rejoined Lieberg, "whether your difficulty, in
regard to telling me her address, is voluntary, or from ignorance of
where she is?--beg pardon," he added, in a softer tone "if I am
asking anything extraordinary; but as I have matters of importance to
communicate to Miss Barham, it is very necessary that I should learn
her address by some means, in order to write to her speedily."
"To answer you candidly, Count Lieberg," replied Lady Malcolm, "and as
you put the question so distinctly, I must acknowledge that I do not
give you the information you wish for, partly because I have not the
exact address, and partly because Miss Barham requested me not to say
where she is gone to any one."
"But I should certainly think she would make an exception in my
favour," said Lieberg, earnestly, "considering that business of the
greatest importance, affecting her brother in the highest degree, is
left entirely in my hands. I say, therefore, Lady Malcolm," he added,
as that lady remained perfectly silent--"I say, therefore, that I
should think she must have made an exception in my favour."
"She did not," answered Lady Malcolm, drily; "she never hinted at any
exception at all; and such being the case, I cannot take upon myself
to make one."
"Really, this is very extraordinary," exclaimed Lieberg; "and allow me
to say, very mortifying also. Nor can I think that Miss Barham will be
at all obliged to those who prevent her from receiving intelligence
which it is necessary she should be made acquainted with directly."
"Indeed," said Lady Malcolm, "I feel it to be a very painful and
disagreeable position; but you must see clearly, my dear Count, that I
have only one course to pursue."
"No, indeed," replied Lieberg, "I cannot say that I agree with you. I
cannot but think that, under, present circumstances, and considering
my character and station in life, you might, without hesitation or
apprehension of the consequences, make that exception in my favour
which I am perfectly certain Miss Barham would have done had she
thought of it."
"Ay," replied Lady Malcolm, with a sly smile, "but you men are so bold
and resolute, Count Lieberg, and I am but a poor timid woman, always
afraid of doing wrong. You must forgive me, indeed, if I do not act as
you wish; and besides, as I say, I have not got her exact address. She
is to write to me in a few days, and then if she tells me to give you
her address, I can send it. If not, I will write to her, and ask. This
is all I can do."
The tone in which she spoke was firm and determined; and Lieberg,
seeing that it was vain to press the matter further, made a virtue of
necessity, saying--"Well, my dear Lady Malcolm, you judge for the
best, I am sure; but believe me it may cause great inconvenience,
especially as I myself much want to go out of town. What a beautiful
little picture that is! That must be a Correggio!"
"It is generally esteemed so," replied Lady Malcolm. And Lieberg,
before he took his leave, examined the various pictures which the room
contained, praising several with that degree of discrimination which
took from his commendation every appearance of flattery to the taste
of the lady who had selected the paintings, though in reality he was
skilfully smoothing down all the feelings of irritation which he
feared his own irritation might have produced. He succeeded so far as
to make Lady Malcolm say to herself, after he left her, "Well; he is a
very pleasant person, certainly.--But Morley is right," she added, "I
would not trust him in matters such as this."
Whatever were Lady Malcolm's motives, the story which she had told
Count Lieberg was perfectly true. Miss Barham had left her on the
preceding day, and had gone down into the country. Juliet Carr, as she
had promised when Morley first mentioned the situation of his poor
protégée, had written at once to her father, asking if he would
receive Helen as her companion and friend, when she herself came down,
and hinting at those pecuniary arrangements which she knew would have
weight with her somewhat too covetous parent.
To her surprise, however, she had received a letter by return of post,
making no reference whatsoever to money matters, but "begging Juliet
to ask only one question of her fair companion--namely, whether she
was or was not the daughter of the Rev. Mr. Barham, the curate of
Elmes, in Cumberland, and if both her father and mother were dead. If
so, he said, he would have the greatest pleasure in receiving her, as
he had been an intimate acquaintance of her grandfather, and done what
he could to prevent him from spending his fine property. He added,
moreover, that if from the circumstances at which Juliet had hinted,
it was more pleasant for Miss Barham to come down at once, without
waiting for his daughter, he begged she would do so, and remain as
long as she liked, when he would treat her in every respect as his
child."
The whole letter was so unlike her father, that unless Juliet had seen
the handwriting she could scarcely have believed it was his
composition. That fact, however, was not to be doubted, and she
accordingly shewed the epistle to Helen, who immediately replied that
she was the daughter of the Mr. Barham mentioned, and she had some
faint idea of having heard him once or twice speak of Mr. Carr. Juliet
then proposed to write back to her father and inform him that, such
being the case, Helen would accompany her to Yelverly in a fortnight.
But Helen laid her fair hand upon her companion's arm, and gazing
earnestly in her face, replied, "I would rather go at once, if
possible."
"But why so, dear Helen?" said Juliet. "Lady Malcolm wishes you to
stay, and go with us to some watering-place for a time, and Morley has
promised----"
"I would rather go at once," said Helen, with that sad shake of the
head which speaks that the heart is faint and weary within us,--"I
would rather go at once, dear Juliet--there is much that I would
willingly avoid here, in London."
Juliet understood her in a moment, and opposed her no farther; and it
was settled, at Helen's own desire, that she and her maid should
proceed part of the way to Yelverly on the following morning. This
plan was put in execution, and Helen herself seemed more than ever
anxious to fly from the scenes that surrounded her. She was to visit
for one day, as she went, the house of the friend to whom she had
previously written, and whose prolonged silence she did not
understand; after which, she was to go on to the house of Juliet's
father, and to write immediately on her arrival. Thus, Lady Malcolm
could safely say that she did not absolutely know where she was,
though Juliet Carr could not have done so with as much sincerity had
she been present, for Helen left the address of the friend she was
about to visit with her.
We will not enquire into the feelings of Lieberg as he returned to his
own home, suffice it that he immediately sent for the youth, William
Barham, with whom he held a long conference. At the end of their
disquisition of ways and means, he despatched the lad to seek for
Morley Ernstein in Berkeley-square, but that gentleman was not at
home, and Lieberg himself, in riding through the park a few hours
afterwards, met him walking with Lady Malcolm and a young lady, whose
dazzling beauty of face and symmetry of form at once let Lieberg into
the secret of a part, at least, of his friend's conduct. "Ha, this is,
good!" he said to himself, as he rode on after bowing to Lady Malcolm,
and nodding familiarly to Morley. "This is good! However, Sir Morley,
you shall not frustrate me."
Lieberg did not attempt to stop; nor appear to take any further notice
of Juliet Carr; and Morley walked on by her side with very little
restraint upon their feelings from the presence of Lady Malcolm.
Whatever restraint did exist was, perhaps, not altogether unpleasant.
It is strange to say, that the fact of being prevented from doing what
we could wish to do, can ever be agreeable; and yet, though the lover
may long to be altogether alone with her he loves, there is a sweet
excitement in expressing all the warm and glowing feelings in the
heart, by shadowy figures, half veiling, half exposing, the thoughts
and the sensations that we should have told openly had there not been
an indifferent ear to listen.
Good Lady Malcolm, indeed, was by no means indifferent; and though her
presence, as I have said, was some restraint, yet that restraint was
too small ever to be painful. The marriage of Morley Ernstein and of
Juliet Carr, was a thing that she had long set her heart upon; and
that they would fall in love with each other as soon as they met, was
one of those facts which she had predetermined, with that peculiar
sort of vaticination which many elderly ladies experience in regard to
affairs of the heart. When they did meet, then, and did fall in love
with each other, she received it more as a compliment to her
prophetical powers than anything else; and, well pleased with them and
herself, she left them to settle the rest as much to their own
satisfaction as possible.
Having used the words, "when they did meet, and did fall in love with
each other," I must dwell for a minute or two upon the process of that
act, as, in the hurry of tale-telling, I could not pause upon it
sufficiently to explain some part of the mystery at the exact period
when it might be most proper to do so. I have shown, indeed, how it
took place with Morley Ernstein, that in his case it was, in fact,
_love at first sight_--a thing much more common, by the way, with
eager and impetuous hearts and quick imaginations, than is generally
supposed. It was, literally, love at first sight; for though there
might be some vague boyish impressions of what he had loved and liked
in childhood still remaining undefined in his mind, and making his
heart spring to Juliet Carr as soon as he saw her, yet they were too
indefinite to be taken into the account; and it was, simply and truly,
admiration of her dazzling beauty, and the translation of that
loveliness into a guarantee, under the hand of nature, that the heart,
and mind, and spirit within were of the brightest kind, which made
Morley Ernstein love Juliet Carr from the first moment he beheld her.
With her, the matter was very different. Woman's love is nursed with
more visionary food than man's; and, in our cold climate at least, is
of slower but more solid growth than his. Circumscribed in her sphere
of action, even from her childhood, her feelings and her thoughts are
more concentrated within her own bosom, and fix more firmly upon the
great master topic of her whole existence--love. Juliet, the reader
has remarked, had recollected the early days she had passed with
Morley Ernstein, better than he had done. The reason was, that she was
a woman; and from a very early period, all the affections are matters
of more importance to a woman than a man. She had recollected those
early days, not only as a passing dream, but as a definite existence;
there was scarcely a sport or a pastime which they had enjoyed
together, that she could not call up before the eye of memory. The
voice of Morley Ernstein, in all the soft tones of boyish attachment,
had often rung in her ears as she grew towards womanhood. His young,
bright face often presented itself in her waking and her sleeping
hours, and sometimes she would try to picture the changes that must
have come over him, and would ask herself, "What the boy would be, now
he was become a man!"
Her annual visit to Lady Malcolm too--her father allowed her to make
an annual visit--called Morley frequently back to her mind, for that
good friend would often talk of him in the manner which the little
scheme he had established, in her own mind, suggested; and by one
means or another, Juliet's imagination was supplied with plenty of
food for nursing up young affection into full-grown love. Thus was it,
then, that the germ of the future passion went on in her heart; so
that when she saw Morley Ernstein again under the wall of his own
park, it was with no slight emotion that she recognised the companion
of her early days; that she beheld him far surpassing, in personal
appearance, all which she had herself anticipated; that she heard the
tones of the same voice, which still echoed in her ear from the
pleasant places of her childhood, and that she beheld--although it was
evident that he did not know her--his eyes filled with admiration, and
with the promise of love. She dreamt upon that meeting for many a long
day, and dreamt joyfully, though the interview itself had been mingled
with some pain, in consequence of her father's harsh and rude repulse
of Morley's apology for the accident which had occurred.
And now what were her feelings? Reader, she had given herself entirely
to the passion that had taken its place in her heart. Everything which
she had seen of Morley Ernstein was so noble, so generous, so kind,
that reason confirmed all that the voice of love prompted, and told
her that she might well, and without hesitation, acknowledge her
choice in the eyes of all the world. She felt that the glow of pride
would mingle with the blush of modesty on her cheek, as she avowed her
affection for one so well worthy of attachment, and she could not see
in the whole range of probability, one objection that any one could
urge against her union with him whom she had chosen. The eye of
avarice itself, greedy as it is, might be dazzled with the splendour
of his fortune. His attainments, his character, his connexions, were
all high, and such as might well satisfy a far nobler race than hers.
He was master, too, of himself, and of his own choice, so that there
did not appear the slightest chance of any obstacle to their union.
Indeed, between Morley Ernstein and Juliet Carr, difficulties were
never thought of--objections were never anticipated. Morley had never
asked her to wed him. He had told her of his love; he had painted it
with all the fire and eagerness that he felt; he had seen that he was
loved in return, and, not satisfied with that, he had drawn from her,
by questions, and entreaties, and all the arts of passion, an
acknowledgment that it was so. More than one day had passed in all the
pleasant visions of the future, in all the words, and looks, and
caresses which form that bright and rapturous dream in which the hours
of young affection fleet by. Rarely, very rarely, do lovers think much
of difficulties, and certainly if there ever was a case were it seemed
needless to do so, it was that of Morley Ernstein and Juliet Carr.
While they were together--and it must be admitted that they were so
during the greater part of each day--the minutes flew by like
lightning; and had their whole lives been destined to pass in the same
manner, life and death would have seemed but two points with an
instant of joy between them.
There were times, however, when the ordinary proprieties of society,
or the particular arrangements of Lady Malcolm, kept them apart, and
in those hours Lieberg was almost always with Morley Ernstein. Now,
let not the reader suppose that Morley was very foolish, or very weak,
for putting any trust in one who was so little trust-worthy, or in
associating with a man, whose views, thoughts, and principles, were so
different from his own. The reader, it is true, knows what were
Lieberg's views, thoughts, and principles. For the eyes of the world
we have drawn back the veil, and exposed his heart; but such was not
the case with Morley Ernstein. No hand had laid bare for him the
objects and the views of his travelling companion--no one had shewn
him Lieberg's dealings with William Barham--no one had told the
purposes he nourished against Helen with but the more eagerness and
determination from the opposition that he had met with. On all these
points Morley was in the dark. He only knew Lieberg as the most
fascinating person that he had ever met with; as a man full of talent,
information, and taste; as one who possessed that sort of candour,
which, far from concealing opinions when opposed either to the views
and prejudices of others, or to the general feelings of society,
rather exaggerates and aggravates them, and makes them appear worse
than they really are. He knew him, besides, as one capable of doing
generous actions, and at the same time denying all merit in performing
them; as one, who was even at that moment sacrificing a large sum,
rather than proceed to the destruction of a fellow-creature; as one
who had saved his own life, and who had attended him through a long
and painful sickness with the care and tenderness of a brother.
Such was the light in which Morley had alone a right to regard Count
Lieberg, although his friend's openly-avowed principles, in regard to
some points of morality, might well cause him to avoid as far as
possible placing the fate of a young and lovely being, like Helen
Barham, in any degree at his disposal. Nor did the least point appear
in Lieberg's present conduct, which could excite Morley's suspicions.
He entered warmly into his views for hastening the departure of
William Barham from England; he drove with Morley down to the docks,
for the purpose of seeking a vessel to bear the youth to a foreign
land. He aided eagerly in obtaining the promise of a small place of
considerable labour, but no great trust, for Helen's brother, and in
every respect he seemed almost to have forgotten herself. So at least
it appeared, though, indeed, if there was anything which should have
excited Morley's suspicion, it was the fact of Lieberg's total silence
in regard to an object which had once seemed to interest him so
deeply. But Morley was not of a suspicious nature, and he judged that
Lieberg, a man of the world, and a man of pleasure, had looked upon
poor Helen Barham as a beautiful picture, which he had seen and
perhaps desired, but had forgotten very soon. Thus he was well pleased
to enjoy Lieberg's society, whenever he was obliged to be absent from
Juliet Carr. Yet, if the truth must be told, Morley did feel that his
companion's conversation was not calculated to improve him, though it
might be to instruct and to amuse. Nevertheless he did not bring the
conviction home to his own heart so far as to prevent him from
accompanying Lieberg to various places of entertainment, and enjoying
the comments of his friend fully as much as that which he went to see
or to hear.
Once, and only once, during their rambles about London, Lieberg jested
with him slightly upon the subject of Juliet Carr, and claimed a right
to be present at the marriage, saying--
"Pray tell the fair lady, Morley, that I pulled you out of the water
just in time to fulfil your country's vulgar proverb, about the
propensity to hanging counteracting the risk of a watery death."
"Oh, you shall be present," replied Morley, gaily, "but recollect,
Lieberg, you have been wrong once in regard to your calculation of my
proceedings, and you may be mistaken, even now."
Lieberg looked at him with a quiet smile, but made no reply, and the
conversation dropped there. As usually happens in London, two or three
gay _fêtes_ took place, as if to close the season brilliantly, and,
whenever it was possible, Lieberg induced his young friend to go to
these parties, and introduced him to a number of the persons present.
Although, by this time, all Morley's plans and purposes, in regard to
the study of society, had been burnt up, like old acts of parliament,
in the fire of passion, he was not sorry to see such scenes, and to
know such people. But if Lieberg thought that Morley was likely to
plunge into the vortex of dissipated life, to have his attention
distracted, and his eyes blinded, by the gay scenes and bright objects
around him, so as to forget his purposes in regard to Helen Barham,
and to leave her to her fate, even for a short period, Lieberg was
mistaken.
Had Morley not known Juliet Carr, he might have drunk of the cup of
pleasure to intoxication; for there were many beautiful, and
sparkling, and brilliant, who were right willing to lead him into
paths more flowery than safe, and to assail him on all sides, with
arms very difficult for a young man to resist. But Morley was defended
now with that highest and noblest of armours, love for a pure and
beautiful being. His life, in short, was in Juliet Carr, and all the
rest around him was but a pageant or a dream.