Pale, haggard, and sick at heart, Morley Ernstein rose from his
sleepless bed, and made preparations of various kinds for that speedy
departure, which all the varied trains of thought that had visited his
mind during the night, had but shewn him to be the more necessary. The
next thing to be done, was to announce his determination to Lieberg,
and for that purpose he proceeded to the saloon, where his companion
was already seated at breakfast. There was a sparkling sort of smile
upon Lieberg's countenance which Morley was never very fond of. He had
often seen it precede conversations that ended or went on in a painful
manner; but it was Lieberg's general plan never to commence any
subject himself, except of an ordinary kind, and on this occasion, as
usual, he suffered Morley to speak first, merely giving him the common
salutation of the morning. Now, as we have shewn, the character of
Morley Ernstein was _intimately mixed of good and evil_, but he had
one invariable quality, which was, frankness; at times carried too
far, perhaps--too far, at least, for his own earthly interest: truth
can never be carried too far for Heaven. In the present case, he not
only told Lieberg his purpose, but he told him why; he acknowledged
that he feared him; that their views on the subject which they had
discussed on the preceding night, were as different as light from
darkness; but that he dreaded lest, under strong temptation, he might
yield, and never cease to regret that he had so given way.
"I believe, Lieberg," he said, "that you wish me well, and would
direct me to what you conceive to be happiness. My view of that not to
be found jewel, however, can never be the same as yours; and though I
thank you much for your good wishes, yet I must pursue my own plan."
Morley paid no great attention to his companion's countenance while he
spoke, and yet it was worth observing. There was once or twice a look
of displeasure, and once or twice a look of triumph, especially when
the young Englishman owned that he feared his influence. A scornful
smile marked his lip, too, when Morley spoke of proceeding at once;
but the whole settled down into an expression of calm, well-satisfied
pride, and he replied, attaching himself, in the first place, to the
words, "My view of happiness can never be the same as yours,"--"You
must come to it, Morley," he said--"You must come to it. The time will
be, believe me, when you will find such happiness as mine the only
happiness to be procured. However, be it as you will! Take your own
way! Go to Naples at once, and wait for me there till I come. I will
not be long after you; and then, as I shall have nothing to tempt you
with, you may pursue your journey with me in safety, through the sunny
land of Greece, and perhaps to the brighter and more ardent skies of
Syria. There we shall see whether even your cold blood may not be
warmed into a flame. But where go you after breakfast? Let us, at
least, spend this last day of your stay in Rome together."
"I fear that cannot be," replied Morley; "I have various things to do,
and have an engagement at eleven; but after two I am at your command."
Lieberg bit his lip, but made no reply, and Morley had finished his
breakfast as soon as he left the saloon, and proceeded to his own
chamber. It happened, by the merest accident in the world, that after
he had taken his hat and gloves, and give some additional orders to
Adam Gray, he went out of his room by another door, on the side
opposite to that which opened into the common vestibule, and issued
forth from the hotel by a small staircase which he had only used twice
before. It is true that, although he believed Helen Barham to be now
placed by fortune far above Lieberg's pursuit, yet he felt no
inclination to speak of her being in Rome at all; but still, in going
out by the back way, he acted without premeditation, and without ever
dreaming that he would be watched.
Had he gone through the anteroom, however, he would have seen that
Lieberg's valet was waiting there; and there the man continued to sit,
till Adam Gray came out of Morley's room, when a few words were
interchanged between the two servants. The valet seemed surprised, and
immediately went in to speak with his master; after which the old
man's ear caught a furious imprecation, followed by a sound, as if the
Count in his anger had struck the table a violent blow with his
clenched fist.
In the meanwhile, Morley Ernstein walked on to the inn where Helen
Barham was to be found, and, on asking for her, was immediately
admitted. She rose as soon as she saw him, a little fluttered and
agitated, but with the mounting colour in her cheeks, the slight
quivering of her beautiful lip, and the dancing light in her dark
eyes, all adding to that loveliness which in itself was incomparable.
She strove hard to be calm and placid, and indeed would sooner have
become somewhat cold than otherwise, but it was a difficult thing for
Helen Barham to be so. I have heard people called creatures of
impulse, but she was a creature of emotions--tender, fine, high,
noble, but still trembling, like a finely-balanced lever, at the
lightest touch. She could not restrain her feelings; and as Morley met
her, she looked so happy with her resplendent beauty, with all her
wild grace, with light, and soul, and tenderness in her eyes--she
seemed to possess so much of everything that God can give to content
the utmost expectations of a human creature, that Morley was forced to
ask himself again why it was the old man had called her "Poor thing!"
Morley fell into a very common error notwithstanding all his own
experience. It is, that we always make a mistake as to the source of
happiness. It springs from within, and not from without. It is the
water that gushes from the rock of our own hearts, not the rain that
dimples the stream, adding but a few drops to the current.
"I am most delighted to see you," said Morley, taking the hand she
offered; "and though I know you must feel the loss of your brother
deeply, yet I must still congratulate you on your accession to the
fortune you now possess. I was always sure, my dear Miss Barham, that
you would do honour to high station and extensive means, and I thank
God that I see you now possessed of them!"
"If I had had either voice or choice in the matter," replied Helen,
earnestly, "I never would have become possessed of them in such a way.
A very small portion would have contented me; and the superabundance
which I do possess is rather a burden than otherwise, especially as I
feel that, to have taken it from you, is to have turned our heel
against our benefactor."
"Not at all," answered Morley Ernstein. "It was perfectly your
brother's right; and as soon as I became convinced that it was so, I
could not have held the estate for a single hour. Neither did your
brother behave at all unhandsomely in any of the proceedings regarding
it--"
"Nay--nay," said Helen, holding up her hand--"though he did not, Sir
Morley; and I believe would ultimately have done what was right, yet
his lawyers did behave unhandsomely in his name; but I have
immediately taken means to remedy what was amiss."
"I do not know what you have done, my dear Miss Barham," said Morley,
with a smile; "but I trust and hope that your kind and generous
feelings have not induced you to undo anything that has been settled.
What the law gives you, is yours; and as far as I am concerned in the
matter, I cannot consent to your making any sacrifice--honour and
common honesty forbid me; and now, having said this, let me enquire
what it is that you have done?"
Helen was sitting beside him on the sofa, and for a moment she raised
her bright eyes to his, with a look of internal satisfaction mingled
with regard, which, if Morley had chosen to translate it, might have
been read--"I have done that which gives me the highest delight,
because you must and will approve it." But she did not answer exactly
in those words, and withdrew her eyes again immediately, with a sigh,
and a look of sadness, as if she saw something in Morley's
countenance, which she had not remarked before.
"What I have done," she said "is only what is just and right. There
has been no generosity--no flights of what people call fine feeling in
it, and I think you will confess at once that it is so, and not give
me the greatest pain, by refusing to accede to that which your own
heart will tell you is just, merely because it is proposed to you by a
person whom you have already loaded with benefits. I think," she
added, in a lower, but not less eager tone, "you would not willingly
make me very unhappy."
"God forbid!" replied Morley, warmly. "What is there that I, would not
do to make you happy?"
Helen's cheek became a little pale, and, for a moment, she did not
answer; but finding that he paused also, she said--"The fact is,
simply, this: the property which my brother claimed, and recovered was
bought from my grandfather, who, I am told, was the most careless and
thoughtless of men. He did not, I am sure, intend to defraud your
father, and acted without consideration. But, at all events, your
father paid ninety-three thousand pounds for the estate; and the
lawyers tell me, that if my grandfather had been still living, you
could have claimed and recovered that sum from him. It is but just,
then, that I should pay it back to you, and I have told the people in
London, to place it immediately in the hands of your friend,
Mr. Hamilton.--Nay, now," she added, "do not look grave and
thoughtful--your heart tells you that what I propose is right."
"But--" said Morley Ernstein.
"Nay, nay," interrupted Helen, playfully; "I will have no buts. Tell
me, Sir Morley, in former days--to remember which, connected with your
kindness, will always be most delightful to me--did I not ever do what
you told me, as soon as I was convinced that it was right?"
"You did, indeed," said Morley, with a smile; "but I wish first to be
sure whether this is really right?"
"What would you do if you were in my place?" demanded Helen.
"As you have done," answered Morley.
"Ay, and perhaps more," said Helen. "You would do all that I should
wish to do, but dare not offer, because I know you would reject it
angrily."
"Not angrily--not angrily, with you," exclaimed Morley; "but firmly.
You have already done as much, and more, than the most generous
feeling could dictate; and as I believe it is a pleasure to you to do
it, I will not refuse to accept what you propose, though I see that
you do not know the whole circumstances. Let me tell you, then, my
dear Miss Barham, what they are, in some degree; for if you feel a
pleasure in doing a generous act, the satisfaction will be doubled
when you know that act relieves one who has the greatest regard for
you from a severe embarrassment."
He then explained to her, that the only means he had found of paying
the large claims against him, were, to assign the rents of almost all
his landed property, to dismiss his servants, to curtail his
expenditure, and to live upon an income comparatively small and
pitiful. Helen's cheek first grew pale, and then burned with the hue
of crimson; and as he went on she burst into a bitter flood of tears,
exclaiming--"And we have done this!--we have done this!"
Morley took her hand, and pressed his lips upon it, saying--"Others
have done it, and were not to blame. You have remedied it all, and how
am I to thank you?"
"Oh, no, no!" she exclaimed--"I have not remedied it all; I fear that
I still am robbing you--robbing you of that fortune which you used so
nobly; and that, too, when I owe you everything--life, and more than
life; for in the state I was when you found me, I could not have lived
long, and should not only have died, but have died with shame and
misery!--Ah! you cannot tell, Sir Morley," she continued, "how much
sooner I would be a pensioner upon your bounty for a small pittance to
supply my daily wants, than take from my benefactor that property
which I cannot but feel of right is his."
"Not so, indeed!" answered Morley Ernstein; "it is not mine, Helen. It
was of right your brother's, and is yours. I scarcely know, indeed,
whether I am justified in not following out the plan that I had first
proposed, and paying you all. But as you wish it, I will not insist
upon that point; and now, tell me how you are, and let me hear all
that has happened to you, since we met."
"Why, I am well," replied Helen, wiping away the tears which still
felt inclined to flow; "well, and yet not quite well. But speak of
yourself--I scarcely dare to ask how you are, for I see that you are
ill, Sir Morley."
"I must not have you call me by that name," said Morley Ernstein;
"after the strange way in which our fate has been linked together, we
can but look upon each other as brother and sister; and if you will
let me, Helen, I will be a brother to you instead of him that you have
lost."
"You have been a better brother already," replied Helen; "but you do
not say, if you are ill; and yet I am sure you are, for you are so
changed."
"I have had much to pain me, Helen," answered Morley Ernstein; "very
much."
"I know it--I know it," said Helen; "and it has been our
doing--Morley."
The last word she pronounced after a moment's hesitation, and in so
low a tone that he scarcely heard it; but yet the blood came up into
her cheek, as if she had told him that she loved him.
"It was not on that account, Helen, that I have grieved," he replied.
"Fortune could never disturb my night's repose; but there have been
many other things pressing heavily upon my mind."
Helen cast down her eyes, and replied not; but the paleness that crept
over her countenance might well shew that there were some emotions
busy at her heart. Morley Ernstein was silent, too, for there was a
light breaking upon him, to which he would have fain been blind. At
length, Helen spoke, saying, with an effort--"I was in hopes I should
have heard of your being very happy."
"It is quite the reverse, Helen," he answered. "Those bright days,
which you once saw me enjoy, are past away for ever, and I have
nothing left but to fly from myself, and from her who might have made
my happiness, and has made me miserable."
"Oh, no, no!" cried Helen; "do not say so."
"Yes, indeed!" replied Morley Ernstein. "It is on that account I quit
Rome to-morrow. Are you aware that she is in this city?"
"Who?--Juliet Carr?" exclaimed Helen.
"She, who was Juliet Carr," replied Morley, bitterly; "now, Countess
of Clavering."
Helen started from her seat, and clasping her hands, gazed wildly in
Morley's countenance. "It is impossible!" she cried; and then sinking
down upon the sofa again, she buried her face in her hands, murmuring
some words that Morley did not hear, while the crimson was seen dying
her temples, and her fine small ear. What were the mingled emotions
that at that moment possessed her?--Who can say? She herself was not
aware; so strange, so complicated, so contending were they.
The first thing that roused her, was Morley's voice: "You say it is
impossible, Helen," he replied. "I begin to think all things possible.
When those whom we love best, and to whom, of all the world, we have
given least cause to treat us ill, destroy our peace, betray our
trust, cast away our love, and even sacrifice themselves for sordid
motives, what may we not believe next?"
"O, you wrong her--you wrong her!" cried Helen Barham, raising her
head, and speaking with enthusiastic eagerness. "You wrong her,
Morley, most assuredly. There is something in this that you do not
know--some cause she has for her conduct which will justify it, I am
sure; or, at least, will palliate it. She may never be yours, but you
must not cease to esteem her. I will take upon me to say, that she has
not acted thus without some powerful, some overpowering motive."
"You judge her by your own heart, Helen," replied Morley. "No coronet
would tempt you to such a union as this."
Helen would not be ungenerous, even by remaining silent, and she
replied, eagerly, "You are wrong--you are wrong. She does love
you,--she has ever loved you. She loves you still, whatever duty may
say; and, though she may struggle to forget you, bound as she is to
another, yet the struggle will be in vain, and will be more than a
sufficient punishment for any weakness she may have shewn."
Poor Helen Barham knew not that whilst she fancied she was but doing
justice to Juliet, and soothing the agonized feelings of Juliet's
lover, she was by every word giving force and vigour to the most
terrible temptation which Morley had ever undergone. There seemed to
be something peculiar in Lieberg's evil suggestions--a something which
made them resemble those of Satan himself. Every accidental
circumstance gave them additional venom, and even words which were the
most repugnant to all that is wrong, stirred them up in greater
virulence and power than ever. Morley put his hands over his eyes, as
if to shut out the temptation; but after a moment's pause, he rose,
saying--"Helen, I must leave you. I will set out for Naples this very
day, if it be possible. I take it for granted, that your steps will
soon be bent thither also. You must let me know when you arrive, for I
believe the only society from which I could derive comfort and
consolation, would be yours."
As he spoke he took Helen's hand, bidding her adieu, and she left it
in his, gazing with an anxious and sympathizing look in his
countenance, and thinking more of his sorrow than of the sweet and
gratifying words that he addressed to herself.
"I will see Juliet," she said, "before I come. I believe that I can
induce her to tell me all. You shall hear her motives as she gives
them to me, for I would fain restore to her your esteem."
"Let it be as it is, Helen," replied Morley, solemnly; "for it is less
dangerous for me to despise her than to love her still."
Thus saying he left her, and was hurrying home, with his thoughts so
agitated that he scarcely remarked a man who stood in his way at the
bottom of the stairs, till Harry Martin stopped him, by pronouncing
his name.
"I am afraid, Sir Morley," he said, as soon as the other paused--"I am
afraid I gave you some offence by what I said to you in Germany, about
some one that you trust. Now I--"
"You did, my good friend!" replied Morley; "but I was wrong, and you
were right. All that is over--my eyes are opened, and I trust no
more."
"That's right--that's right!" cried Harry Martin. "All may go well,
then, and you may be as happy as the day is long; for if ever man was
loved by an angel, you are, by one not very far from here."
"Hush!" Cried Morley; "hush! You are mistaken altogether;" and,
turning away, he hurried back as fast as possible to his own hotel,
and quitted Rome ere the day was many hours older.