MORLEY ERNSTEIN TO VERONICA PLATESI.
"You promised to write to me, and you have not done it. Had you
written, ere this time, your fate and mine would have been decided for
life. But you have hesitated, and it is evident that there is a
struggle in your mind as well as in my own. I therefore take the task
upon myself of opening to you my heart's inmost feelings, and shewing
you what must be the future, as far as my eyes can discover it. We
have both, I fear, Veronica, deceived ourselves, and unconsciously may
have deceived each other. You were confident in the impunity which you
have hitherto enjoyed, and thought that love could never assail you. I
felt equally secure in the memory of a deep and permanent, though
disappointed passion, and believed that I could never be sufficiently
attracted towards any woman, to seek or to win her affection. You
thought I was sufficiently warned by the words you have more than once
spoken, and I believed you to be steeled against love, or incapable of
feeling. Let us first forgive each other for having mutually deceived
one another, and then let me offer you all that I have to offer, and
ask if it can make you happy. I have heard you speak rash words in
regard to marriage, but I will believe that they were spoken more in
sport than earnest, and put them aside altogether, for you must be
mine by ties we can both respect, or not at all. I offer you, then, my
hand and my name; I offer you the tenderest affection; and I promise
you that, as my wife, you shall never have to call yourself 'a slave.'
But at the same time, dear Veronica, I cannot but tell you that the
first freshness of my heart has been given to another--that I have
loved as man only loves once. I leave it to you to decide whether you
can be satisfied with less. Every devotion, every tenderness, every
affection, shall be yours, that it is possible for my heart to feel;
but still I have loved deeply, passionately, entirely, and though the
dream is gone for ever, its memory will always endure. It is for your
voice to pronounce upon our fate. If you do not like to write at
length, tell me to come to you, and I will conceive your answer given.
At all events, trust to me as a man of honour, that if you become my
wife, my whole days thenceforward shall be devoted to forget all
others, and make you happy.
"MORLEY ERNSTEIN."
He sealed the letter and sent it; and then, burying his face in his
hands, remained for some time in deep and anxious thought. Hour after
hour passed, and there was no answer, till, as night drew nigh, he
became apprehensive, and went to the well-known dwelling where he had
spent so many hours of excitement and temptation. The door no longer
opened as if to a master, and the servant, in answer to his questions,
said that his mistress was unwell. Morley sent in his name, but
Veronica's answer was, that she would write to him. It was not till
the following morning that the letter arrived.
FROM VERONICA PRATESI TO MORLEY ERNSTEIN.
"No man ever understands a woman's heart. It never has been, and never
will be. The language written in that book is unknown to you all, and
you attempt to read it in vain. I did not write to you, my friend--not
because there was any struggle in my bosom, for the struggle was
over--but I was impeded by feelings you cannot comprehend, for man can
never understand what it is to woman to own that she loves for the
first time. Such was the task before me if I had written before your
letter reached me, and it seemed then a terrible one, when I fancied
that a life of joy and happiness was to follow. Such is the task
before me still, even now that I know all your feelings, and see the
wide extent of misery into which I have plunged. And yet, strange to
say, it is less difficult to confess that I do love, when, coupled
with that acknowledgment, I have to bid you quit me for ever.
"When your letter first reached me, Morley, disappointment and agony
of mind made me unjust. I was angry with you who have in no way
offended, rather than with myself on whom the whole blame must justly
rest. I called your words cold, unfeeling, base. But I soon
recollected what might have been the result if you had really been
base and unfeeling--if, instead of offering me your hand while you
nobly confessed the state of your heart, you had taken advantage of my
passions and my prejudices, made me the paramour of a few months or
years, and then cast me away like a worn garment. My mind soon did you
justice, and owned that you were generous, true, sincere--all that it
is proud to love, and agony to part with. But, Morley, then came the
greatest temptation of all. Weak, weak woman that I am! A voice within
me whispered--Accept his offer, use every means of pleasing, put
forth every effort, twine yourself round his heart with every binding
tie, make yourself necessary to the joy of every hour--become a
wife--Oh, Heaven! perhaps become a mother!--and honour, and virtue,
and gratitude, will all combine to win for you that love which is now
necessary to your existence! Oh, Morley, what a terrible temptation
was there! How vanity flattered, and passion persuaded, and
selfishness deceived! But I conquered at length. I love you--and yet
will never see you more. Never, unless--yes, there is yet one hope
left me!--I cannot, I will not share one thought of your heart--one
remembrance with any woman, on the face of earth; but with the dead I
am not so miserly. If the grave have closed over this affection--if
your memoried love be with some saint in heaven, come to me--come to
me, dear Morley! I will soothe, I will comfort, I will console you! We
will weep together over the tomb of her who is gone, and when I strive
to cheer each hour of your existence, I will think of her and redouble
every effort. But if the air of this earth be still breathed by her
who has taken your love from me, adieu, for ever!
"VERONICA."
MORLEY ERNSTEIN TO VERONICA PRATESI.
"Alas, Veronica, that I should add pain to pain! Had my heart been
with the dead I would have told you so at once. But still I must not
deceive you; it is not so. She whom I have so deeply loved still
lives, and her own will is the only barrier between us. Such is the
plain truth.
"MORLEY ERNSTEIN."
Morley was not kept long in the faint suspense that still remained
after he had written the last sentences. Ere half an hour was over, a
note was brought him containing those few sad words, "Adieu, for
ever!"
In two hours more, he and Lieberg were once more rolling on upon their
way towards Bologna, Morley bearing with him some regret and much
grief; but so far happy that he could lay his hand upon his heart, and
say--"Though I may have erred in the commencement of this sad affair,
in the end I have done right."