"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."
"A pleasant employment, madam, for a dull morning," said Lieberg.
"Sometimes the dead are as pleasant, and less dangerous companions
than the living," answered the lady, in a marked manner. Lieberg bowed
low, with bitter emphasis, replying--"Undoubtedly!"
Veronica could not but feel his meaning, and her eyes flashed for a
moment angrily, but the next instant the look of irritation passed
away, and giving her hand gaily to Morley Ernstein, she said--"Come!
your friend is not an Englishman, and therefore we can expect no
enthusiasms from him."
In a minute or two after, however, as they were walking on together,
she said, in a low voice--"Has he been slandering me? Has he dared to
say aught against my name?"
"No, indeed," answered Morley Ernstein; "nothing of the kind, I assure
you. He told me he had seen you at Naples some years ago--"
"But his words implied something," she exclaimed, hastily--"he spoke
as if he wished to give you a warning, and evidently alluded to some
existing danger. What was it? Tell me, my friend, if you are frank, as
I believe you. Did he, or did he not, mean to imply that I was like
some of our light women of the theatres, who seek for men, such as you
are, to plunder and deceive them?"
"Not in the least," replied Morley; "he thought, on the contrary, that
you might captivate but to make me unhappy; in fact, that you might
sport with love after having excited it."
"I seek not to excite it," said the lady in a grave tone; "I never
have sought, and I have warned you fully."
"You have," answered Morley, "and I have no fear. My heart is cased in
iron, fair lady, as hard as your own, and there is no danger of my
deriving aught but pleasure from your society."
The lady looked up in his face with a gay smile, conscious of grace
and powers of captivation, perhaps doubting a little her companion's
capabilities of resistance, and half inclined to try them, if but to
shake his too great confidence. In short, dear reader--for in truth I
must be short--Morley Ernstein and Veronica Pratesi were in as
dangerous a situation as ever two people were in this wide world; both
of them a good deal too confident of their own powers, and trusting
themselves too far in every way.
At the end of the quay was the lady's own gondola, and in it, half
sitting, half lying, as is the case in those luxurious contrivances,
Morley Ernstein skimmed along over the waves of the lagune during the
rest of the day. That in itself was dangerous enough, but the
conversation of his fair companion, the sights they met with, the
feelings, the thoughts, the enthusiasms which those sights called
forth, the excitement of the scene and the circumstances, all rendered
even that first day very perilous indeed. Darkness at length fell, and
Veronica insisted that Morley should dine with her, and spend the rest
of the day at her house. It was a small but beautiful dwelling, with a
delicately carved marble staircase, leading down to one of the
principal canals; and as Morley found that he could not leave Lieberg
without some explanation, he obtained her permission to return to the
inn on the promise of being back with her again immediately. Her
gondola conveyed him to Danielli's, and waited for him while he went
up and told Lieberg of his engagement.
His companion gazed in his face with a look of some astonishment, and
then exclaimed, laughing--"On my life, Morley, either this woman is a
coquette, which is a name she never bore, or else she is in love with
you."
"Neither, my good friend," replied Morley. "If I did not feel sure
that she was neither one nor the other, my conduct would be very
different."
"Well, go on, Morley--go on," said Lieberg, shaking him by the hand;
"if you win Veronica Pratesi, you will indeed be an extraordinary
person. But you will not win her; so take care you don't get yourself
into a scrape."
To some it may seem, that Lieberg was very kind in his apprehensions
for his young friend, but with others it will be doubted whether his
warnings were likely to deter him from, or lead him on upon the path
which he was pursuing. We will not take the pains of solving the
problem, but will only tell what was the real effect which his words
did produce. They instantly suggested to Morley's mind the
question--"Is it possible to win Veronica--to call that fascinating
creature my own--to accomplish that in which so many had failed?"
There were three distinct sources of temptation in those three ways of
putting the question. Passion, fancy, vanity--all raised their sweet
voices together; and although Morley, like Ulysses, tried to stop
his ears against the song of the Sirens--or, in other words;
turned away his mind from the idea--yet, throughout the whole of his
after-communication with Veronica, that question came like a vague
sound, heard, though he would not listen to it--"Is it possible to win
her?"
The devil never miscalculates in his dealings with human nature, and
in choosing his word, he always selects the right one for his own
purposes.
He found Veronica alone, standing in one of those beautiful halls
which have seen the fair and the bright of other days, and seem in
their very atmosphere to bear the memories of more poetical times,
even in the steam and rail-road age in which we live. She was
arranging flowers in a large antique vase, and the classic lines of
her beautiful figure accorded well with every object that the room
contained, while an air of intense thought, all too deep for the light
employment in which she was engaged, harmonized the whole--like the
low tones of some fine instrument in the bass, pervading with its
solemn sounds a fine and complicated piece of music.
Veronica looked up from the flowers as Morley entered, but seemed
scarcely to see him for a moment or two, so intense was the fit of
musing into which she was plunged. Then, with a graceful wave of the
head, and a smile at her own abstractedness, she gave him her hand,
saying--"You have been long; and, as I always do when left alone, I
had fallen into a reverie."
"A sweet or a bitter one?" demanded Morley.
"Mixed," she replied, "as all things on earth are. But come, dinner
will be ready in a few minutes, and in the meanwhile I will sing you a
song, which has never been heard by any ears but yours. It is by a
young composer, named Bellini, who will one day be a great man."
The reader may imagine how the evening passed--music, and poetry, and
deep thought, and bright fancies,--Wit, and Imagination and Feeling,
sporting like three sweet children on the carpet, while the good old
nurses, Judgment and Prudence, were kept at the back of the door.
Twice a fit of musing fell upon Veronica. Was the cause of it fear?
Did she doubt herself? Did she doubt her companion? Who shall say? One
thing is certain--she and Morley Ernstein were equally resolved not to
fear anything, which is, in general, a strong sign of being afraid. It
was late when they parted, and both started when they found how late,
for the minutes had gone so rapidly that each thought the night was
not far spent. They only left each other to meet again the following
morning early, Veronica exacting a promise that Morley would see
nothing more in Venice without her.
"I cannot refuse your friend's company," she said, "if it needs must
be so; but I shall never like him, even if he were to call me an
angel."
Lieberg, however, refused to be of the party, saying, with a
sneer--"The housemaids in England, Morley, have a proverb which sets
forth the inconveniences attending upon the number, three; at least,
in reference to social things. Now, what is good for a housemaid is
good for a king or a count, and therefore I will not render your party
of the obnoxious number. So fare you well, and success attend you,
though I am quite willing to take you a bet of five thousand pounds
this moment that you do not succeed."
"I shall succeed in all I seek for," replied Morley, "for I shall seek
for nothing that is not very easily obtained."
Once more the gondola skimmed along the canals, and once more Morley
and Veronica, side by side, were borne over the bright Adriatic
waters, throughout a world of beautiful things, and indulging their
fancies to the utmost. Veronica told Morley again all that she had
told him before about the coldness of her nature, and the
impossibility of her ever loving any one; and Morley laughed, and
assured her that the warning was unnecessary; and then they both
smiled and continued the subject of love, till, landing at a palace on
the Grand Canal, they walked thoughtfully into the vacant rooms hung
with pictures beautiful and inestimable in themselves, but falling
into sad decay. The first thing that their eyes rested upon was a
small but exquisite painting of the marriage of St. Catherine, by Paul
Veronese, and before it they paused for several minutes without
uttering a word.
"It is strange," said Veronica, at length, "that such things should
exist."
"As love, do you mean?" demanded Morley, with some surprise.
"No, no, no," replied his fair companion with playful vehemence; "I can
easily conceive love, though I never felt it, and can conceive its
leading one to anything, to excess of every kind, jealousy, revenge,
sacrifices of all kinds--everything, in short, but marriage. Why any
man, because he is attached to a woman, should wish her to make
herself a slave, I cannot understand; but still less, how any woman
can consent to such a folly. She would love him ten times better if
she were not bound by a hard oath; and he would not so soon cease to
love her, as men usually do, if he did not first make her a slave."
Morley did not reply, but went on musing, and Veronica once more
brought back the conversation to the subject of love, uttered a few
gay and saucy sentences in defiance of the great power, and then fell
into a more pensive train, ending in a fresh reverie.
Thus passed the day; and when they once more reached the steps of her
own house, she said--"I will not ask you to stay with me to-day, for I
must go to the theatre. You may come and see me there if you like. You
will not often have the opportunity, for I have to-day taken a
resolution to give up the stage for ever. I require it no longer as a
resource, and my feelings are changed towards that profession in which
I once found triumph and delight. I used to imagine that there is
something glorious in embodying a great writer's conceptions, or in
giving voice to the melodious visions of some great composer; but now,
I know not why, I feel sick of it altogether, so I shall only sing the
five nights for which I am engaged, and once more for the poor of the
city. Come and hear me then!--But do not applaud. I would not for one
half of Europe see you clap your hands with the vulgar crowd; I should
not be able to sing a note afterwards."
Had Morley Ernstein been experienced in love, he would have known the
invariable maxim that the moment a woman separates one particular man
from the rest of the world in her feelings towards him--whatever
seeming those feelings may put on--the gates of the heart are thrown
open for love to ride in triumphant.
Morley was not experienced, however; he went to the theatre, and he
saw Veronica in one of those tragic operas where song gives intenser
voice to passion. He obeyed her instructions to the letter, for the
deep and breathless interest that he took in the scene, the thrilling
delight that the full, rich, exquisite tones of her voice produced,
left no room for that critical approbation from which springs
applause. He was near enough for her to see him as well as he saw her,
and for a moment, when their eyes first met, her voice sank and
wavered; but then it burst forth again with power only increased, and
the rapturous plaudits of all who were there present, showed that she
had that night excelled all which she had ever done before.
Morley waited for her coming out, and offered her his hand to lead her
to her boat. She seemed pale and fatigued; he uttered not a word of
praise or admiration, but led her on almost in silence.
"You must not come to-night," she said; "I am tired and exhausted, so
I will go to bed and sleep. Come early to-morrow, we will see sights
all day, and in the evening I will have some people to meet you at
dinner whom you will like to see. Canova is here, and--"
"Pray do not have any one," said Morley, "unless you yourself wish it.
I would rather spend the evening as we spent the last."
She looked in his face by the moonlight for a moment as they stood by
the edge of the canal, and then answered, in a voice tremulous and
almost mournful, "It shall be as you like."
What will you have, reader? Two, three, four, five days passed away,
and passed in the same manner. Veronica became pale and thoughtful,
Morley Ernstein agitated and apprehensive.
Lieberg no longer sneered, but sometimes looked in Morley's face, and
once laid his hand on his arm, saying--"In my course through life,
Morley, I have seen more men render themselves miserable by throwing
away happiness that was offered to them, because their vanity was
engaged in the pursuit of that which they never could obtain, than by
any other means. Morley, you know your own business best; but, I
beseech you, let no such vanity affect you, for happiness is never
offered to a man twice in life."
Morley made no reply, but gazed steadfastly forth upon the blue waters
before him.