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.