On, how often in life, when struggling with temptation, in the
darkness of error and of wrong!--oh, how often would we give the best
jewel we possess, for one ray of light to guide us back to the bright
path that we have forsaken. That light, indeed, is always to be found,
till life itself is at an end, though with more difficulty at every
step that we take onward in the darkness; for the hand of a beneficent
God has planted beacons all across the stormy sea of life, to guide us
into port, if we would look for them. But besides these--these
steadfast lights, which mark out the right track, and should keep us
ever from deviating--there are a thousand circumstances arising,
apparently, by the merest accident, which cross our course, like
wandering boats, to hail us as they sail, and tell us we have gone
astray. It is for some of these that we long when we first find
ourselves chartless, amidst the waves of error. We look not for the
beacons that guide us back, but too often gaze afar for some distant
sail to follow her in hope of help and guidance.
Morley Ernstein leaned his head upon his hand on the morning after his
conversation with Lieberg, and, with his brain all in confusion, his
heart full of contention, he would have given all he possessed for any
little accident which would have forced him away from Venice. He was
ashamed of his own irresolution--he felt that he was hurrying on to
the destruction of a life of hopes--he felt that he could never love
but one--that his love for her--his pure, high, holy love--even in
agony and disappointment, was better, far better, than the fiery cup
of mere passion; and that though he might know delirious joys and
feverish happiness with another, yet the sorrowful memory of Juliet
Carr was worth a world of such enjoyments. But he was fascinated, the
magic spell was over him--like the glamour, which the Scotch, of old,
attributed to the gipsies,--compelling him to follow wheresoever the
charmer would. Poor Morley, however, had not to contend against his
own passions only, there were obstacles thrown in his way by others;
and though on that very morning he took the same resolution which he
had followed in Paris, to quit the place at once, yet he was prevented
from acting upon it.
"Lieberg," he said, going down to the saloon, where breakfast waited
him, "you will think me eccentric and capricious; but I much wish to
leave Venice to-day."
"Nay," said Lieberg, in reply, "that is scarcely possible, for me, at
least; and I think, Morley, you will not, a second time, deal so
brusquely with me, as you did in the French capital. Wait for me, only
till the day after to-morrow; and then, however wrong I may think you,
I will accompany you at once."
"Why do you think me wrong?" demanded Morley, sharply.
"If I must speak the plain truth, Morley," answered Lieberg, "I think
you wrong, because I know all that has happened to you. I am aware
that you have been trifled with, deceived, made a sport of, by one who
was not worthy of you, and whose conduct you will one day see in its
proper light; and I am sure, also, that you have now within your grasp
a treasure, which would make you the envy of one half of Europe, and
that you will not take it, out of weak regard for a woman who has
parted with you, in the most cruel manner. I say you are wrong,
Morley, in point of justice to yourself, and equally so to Veronica,
for she is not one to exact from you any ties, but those of love; and
it would be less painful far to part at an after period, if you find
that you cannot be happy together, than to leave her now, when you
have taught her to fancy you everything that she has dreamt of as
forming the being for whom she could regard the whole of the rest of
the world with coldness. But you would be happy! She is too
enthusiastic and devoted, ever to lose that dream; and you would find
in her that love which alone can give you felicity, and that endless
variety which would keep up the charm to the last hour of life.
However, to-day you cannot go, for you forget you left your carriage
at Mestre, with a broken spring, and it cannot be repaired before
to-morrow."
Strange, that a broken spring should have an effect which no argument
could have! Morley had hardened himself against Lieberg's persuasions;
but the broken spring gave him an excuse for staying, which was valid
to himself; and though it could hold good but for one day, that was
all Lieberg wanted. It was enough to let his words have their effect
in silence.
"That is unfortunate!" replied Morley; and, retiring to his own
chamber, he sent the courier to have the carriage repaired at once;
but in the meanwhile he thought of all that Lieberg had said, and
dressed himself hastily, to go to the house of Veronica.
There was one point rested on his mind, more than all the rest of
Lieberg's persuasions. He had alluded to the conduct of Juliet Carr,
almost in the same terms which had been used by Harry Martin. Indeed
the latter had never mentioned Juliet's name; but an eager and
impetuous character, like that of Morley Ernstein, always applies what
others say vaguely, to the subject most interesting to itself at the
time.
On this point, then, he paused, and pondered with exactly the same
train of thought which Lieberg could have desired, asking himself--"Is
it, then, true? Is it, then, self-evident to everybody but myself,
that my feelings have been sported with, my heart trampled upon, my
love despised, and rejected without reason, without cause? And shall I
cast away my chance of happiness with another, on the account of one
who so treats me?" But then, again, came the question--had he that
chance of happiness with another? Did that fascinating being really
love him? Was he not deceiving himself, in reading all that was
strange and peculiar in her manner as marks of a growing feeling new
to her heart?
With confusion of mind and thought hardly describable, Morley buried
his eyes in his hands, as if to let the troubled current of ideas work
itself clear. But it was in vain he did so, and finishing his toilette
hastily, he snatched up his hat, and issued forth. In a few minutes
the gondola glided up to the steps of Veronica's house, the door
opened to admit him, the servant did not even go on to announce him.
All spoke as plainly as signs can speak, that he was regarded in that
dwelling as no other person was regarded; that he was one and alone in
the favour of its mistress, and that her feelings spread themselves
around to her dependents.
He went on up the stairs, then, with a quick step, and a beating
heart; but as he did so, in passing the window of an ante-room, that
overhung one of the canals, there was the gliding rush of a gondola
through the water below, and voices speaking as the boat was pushed
along. It was Italian they were talking; but one sweet voice was very
like that of Juliet Carr, and Morley paused, and trembled. Reader,
though he was fascinated and attracted, though admiration and
regard--ay, and passion, had each its share, Morley Ernstein did not
love Veronica--he could think of another at a moment like that, and he
did not love Veronica!
He heard her move in the next chamber, however, and went on. She was
paler than usual, but her paleness was not a defect, but rather the
contrary. She looked beautiful, though she was not beautiful, and her
dark resplendent eyes were full of soul and life; while over the whole
of the rest of her face, and of her exquisite figure, there was an air
of languor that contrasted strangely, but finely, with the light and
fire of those dark orbs.
"You have been long this morning," she said, in a voice, every tone of
which was music. "Why have you come so late?--You are agitated, too;"
and she gazed in his face for a moment, while similar and still
greater agitation took possession of her whole frame. Her eyes
gradually sank to the ground, her cheek became crimson, her hand
trembled in his, her whole form shook in every limb. Morley felt that
she was sinking, and, catching her in his arms, he supported her to
the sofa, at the other side of the room.
"Veronica!" he said--"Veronica! what is this?"
"Ask me not--ask me not!" she replied, putting away his hand, and
covering her own eyes. "Ask me nothing, Morley. Tear not away the veil
from my own sight. Make me not own that I have deceived you--that I
have deceived myself. Oh! leave me, leave me, and forget me!"
Morley tried to soothe her, but it was in vain; Veronica burst into a
passion of tears, and though she left her hand in his, when he took it
she answered him not.
Thus it continued for some time; Morley remained more than an hour
with her, and it were useless to attempt to describe all that took
place, impossible to detail all that was said. Neither of them knew
what they had uttered when they parted, but the method of their
parting was somewhat strange. Veronica had become calmer, she had even
given to Morley Ernstein the first caress of affection that her lips
had ever bestowed upon mortal man. But whether it was that remorse and
regret even then, like a serpent only half hidden by the roses,
suffered itself, in some vague and shadowy manner, to appear in word,
or look, or action, I cannot tell; Veronica suddenly started away, and
clasped her hands together, exclaiming--"I thought you long, but you
are come too soon! I thought you were here seldom, but you have been
here too often!--Oh, Morley, Morley! leave me now, I beseech you.
Leave me to thought, leave me to reflection!--I will write to you--I
will send to you. Fear not!" she continued seeing a look of pain come
over his countenance; "I will never make you unhappy; but I would only
have time for thought--I would only act calmly--it shall be at your
own choice. Everything shall be at your will; but if you come to me
again, you come for ever.--Leave, leave me, now;--if I say more, I
shall die."
Morley left her, and strange and great was the agitation in his heart,
as he cast himself again into the gondola, and the boat rowed away.
It was gliding rapidly up the great canal, when suddenly it passed one
of those large boats, used by the Venetian government to carry
strangers to and from Venice, in communication with the post-houses of
Mestre and Fusina. It was filled with people, and rowed by several
men. There were English liveries, and English faces in it, and in the
principal part appeared a group, which, at any other time, would have
attracted Morley's attention instantly. As it was, it was only when
the boat was shooting fast past his own, that the countenance of
Juliet Carr burst upon his sight, and was gone again in a moment.
"Stop, stop!" he cried to his own boatman. "Where is that boat going?
Follow it quick!"
"It is going to Mestre, sir," replied the man. "We can never catch it.
They are going to join the post-horses, and will be gone before we
arrive."
"Ten sequins, if you come up in time!" said Morley; and away the boat
flew over the waters, like a bird.
The moments seemed dreadfully long; but what is there that gold will
not do? Mestre was at length in sight, Morley's foot was upon the
shore, and darting at once to the inn--which so many readers will
recollect as a mere hotel for empty carriages--he gazed round for the
party, which must have arrived only a few minutes before him. There
were two chariots standing before the door, with horses attached to
them, ready for departure, and servants lingering round, as if all
were concluded in the way of packing, and nothing remained but for
their masters to appear, ere the vehicles rolled away. Before Morley
could enter the inn there were voices on the stairs, and the face of
Juliet Carr herself appeared, with several others, in the doorway. It
was as beautiful as ever, but somewhat pale, and there was a listless
sadness in the expression, which spoke to Morley's heart, and told him
that the spirit within could find no satisfaction in sporting with the
feelings of him who loved her. Morley strove to be calm, to collect
his thoughts, to tranquillize his demeanour; but every one must know
how vain are such efforts at such a moment.
He advanced straight towards her, however, and took her hand, while
the first expression that passed over her countenance, was that of
pleasure, succeeded suddenly by that painful shadow which their mutual
situation naturally produced.
"I must speak with you, for a few minutes, Juliet," he said, heeding
nobody, seeing nobody but her. "You must not refuse me; for there is
much at stake."
"I will not," replied Juliet, in a low and agitated tone; "I will
never refuse you that which you have every right to ask, and I know
you will never ask anything but what is right. Wait one moment. Let me
speak a word to Lord Clavering, and I will be back."
She took a step or two forward, to the group of persons who apparently
had gone on in order not to interrupt a conversation which all must
have seen was one of no slight interest; and for about a minute Morley
remained, gazing down upon the ground, with thoughts and feelings
agitated almost to madness. He now learned, with agony, how different
is love and passion, as his heart was torn between the ties that
chained him to Veronica, and the higher attachment that bound him to
Juliet Carr. He might have stood there for an hour, swallowed up in
his own sensations, had not Juliet returned, saying, in a low and
tender voice--"Now, Morley--now!"
She led the way, and he followed, to the saloon upon the first floor,
where her party had been waiting till the carriages were ready, and
there she paused, supporting herself with her hand upon one of the
tables, and gazing with her tender, speaking eyes, upon Morley's face.
with a look almost approaching to apprehension.
"Juliet!" he said, after a moment's hesitation--"Juliet! you owe me
some explanation. Let me know whether you are sporting with a heart
that loves you, for your own gratification, or at the dictates of
others?"
"Oh, Morley!" she exclaimed, her eyes filling with tears; "do I hear
such words from you? Are you not sure--do you not see, that I am as
wretched as you can be?"
"Then why, Juliet--why?" he demanded; "what is the obstacle? What is
the motive that should make you not only cast away your happiness, but
mine--mine, which was trusted entirely to your keeping, with the most
boundless confidence? If you can assign no motive, I claim you as my
own, by every tie, by every right--"
"Nay, nay," she said--"not so, Morley! I conceal not that I love you
deeply, truly; but it must be told--I am bound, Morley, by an oath, I
am bound, by a promise which I cannot, which I dare not break, and
must fulfil to the letter, though it condemns me to sorrow and despair
through life!"
"Juliet," replied her lover, in a tone now calm, but calm with
despair--"I one time fancied that you would be my guardian angel; that
you would form my blessing; that you would be the light of my home,
the guide of my footsteps; would cure me of all that was weak or wrong
in my nature; would prove at once my safeguard and my happiness. How
have I deceived myself! You have taken from me peace; you have
deprived me of hope; you leave me without object or expectation in
life; you withdraw from me all motive for virtue; you plunge me into
degradation and vice!"
Juliet had turned very pale, and trembled as Morley spoke; but as he
went on to tell her too truly the state of mind to which he was
reduced, and the peril in which he stood, agitation overcame all
habits; she sank upon her knees before him, and clasped his hand
eagerly.
"Oh, no!" she cried, "oh, no!--I am very, very miserable! Morley, save
me from that despair--save me from the dreadful thought that I have
debased as fine a spirit as ever God sent for trial on this earth.
Morley--dear Morley, believe that I am not in fault; and oh, in pity,
if ever you loved Juliet Carr, yield not to evil, but conquer it, as
we are told to do, with good!--Have compassion upon me, Morley, and do
not, in addition to all the wretchedness that has fallen upon my
head--in addition to the bitter, the everlasting disappointment of my
first and only affections--do not give me the undying agony of
thinking that he whom I have ever loved has cast away his fair name,
and blasted his heart and spirit with evil, on account of this our
sorrow. Promise me, Morley--promise me, at least, to try--promise to
resist to the utmost. Nay, nay, I will kneel here till you do promise;
I will kneel--I will die, Morley, at your feet, sooner than that you
should leave me with such thoughts and purposes as you but now
entertained. Will you--will you promise me? When this poor heart is
broken, you will then believe and understand all that I feel--nay,
strive not to raise me, unless you give me that promise."
"Well, Juliet--well, I do," said Morley Ernstein; "but you know not
how I am beset."
"Oh! if you would but forget me," replied Juliet, "happiness might yet
be yours;--every happiness that you have dreamt of with me might be
yours with another. I know it, Morley--I am sure of it; and Juliet
Carr would bless the woman who, as the wife of Morley Ernstein, would
fulfil that vision of peace, and goodness, and delight, in which she
herself must not share. Oh, that I might say all I know and all I
think!--but I must not. Yet the time will, I trust, come ere long,
when your own eyes will be opened to qualities far superior to any
that I possess, and that you will at length find peace and affection
with one upon whom there is no restraint, who can and will--perhaps
_does_ love you, even now."
Morley shook his head sadly, but without reply. After a moment's
pause, there was a voice calling from below for Juliet.
"Do not go!" he exclaimed, catching her hand--"do not go!"
But she withdrew herself gently from him, saying--"I have your
promise! Oh, forget not that you have given your promise!" and with
those words she left him.
In about an hour, Morley Ernstein came down slowly to the courtyard of
the inn; but during the interval he had hardily heard one of all the
many sounds in that abode of noise, or seen any object but the forms
of his own imagination, though several persons had come in and out of
the room while he was there. His face when he descended was pale and
stern, but there was no longer that absent air about him with which he
had remained standing so long in the midst of the saloon above. He
looked round the court as he came down the stairs, and amongst the
first persons on whom his eye rested, was his own courier, and his old
servant, Adam Gray; the one examining his carriage with a blacksmith,
the other gazing up towards the windows of the inn, with a face
anxious and sorrowful. After speaking a few words, and giving some
directions to both, Morley re-entered his boat, and was rowed slowly
back to Venice. A slight wind curled the waters of the lagune, and the
undulating motion of the boat seemed to soothe him, and to
tranquillize thoughts that were in themselves but too turbulent.
But his brief conversation with Juliet Carr had produced the effect it
always had upon his mind. There was a magic in the soft melody of her
voice, in the pure, spirit-like light of her eyes, in the grace that
pervaded her every gesture which his heart could never resist; and
there was still greater power over him, in that tone of high truth and
deep sincerity which was felt in all her words and looks. He might
think others beautiful when she was not near; but their beauty faded
away like stars before the sun, as soon as he saw her. He might doubt
others, but when he heard her speak, he could as soon have doubted
truth itself as Juliet Carr.
As soon as the first terrible agitation was over, although he felt
more strongly than ever that the flower of happiness was utterly
blighted, that, root and branch, it was withered away, yet her
presence and her words had awakened the higher and the holier spirit
in his heart once more, even in the midst of sorrow and despair. The
passions of earth lost their light and their importance in his eyes;
mere material things, and the joys that they bring with them, became
at once to his sight the ephemera that they really are, and principles
and feelings assumed their place, as the only imperishable possessions
of man. It was as if, for a brief space, he had passed the grave, and
had been enabled to see and judge all that this world contains, as,
perhaps, we may see and judge it hereafter.
Dark and sad had indeed become his sensations, but the purpose of
right was strong within him, and he now turned his mind to consider
what he ought to do, how he ought to act. He had a duty to Veronica to
perform as well as to himself, and steadfastly he resolved to execute
it. It is true that she had aided to deceive him, as to what her own
feelings might be, and that he also had deceived himself; but he could
not wholly exculpate himself of all that had ensued. He had gone on
after he felt the danger to himself and her; he had proceeded when he
knew that it was wrong to proceed, and he prepared to bear the
consequences, whatever those consequences might be, provided they
implied no guilt or dishonour. It took him long to think of all these
matters, reader; but as the boat slowly wended its way back to
Danielli's, he had time for thought, and when he entered the door of
the inn, his mind was fully made up as to his future conduct. He would
be true and honest; he would deal with Veronica without a concealment,
without reserve; he would tell her all, and leave her to decide his
fate and her own. Already, he thought, that fate might be sealed; she
had promised to write to him, and the letter might be now waiting
which would determine all. On enquiry, he found that such was not the
case, and he at once sat down to take that step on which his future
destiny hung.