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.