Lieberg had not said true when he declared that the evening sky was
beginning to turn grey. It was purple that it grew, that intense deep
purple which is only to be seen in southern skies, where the sunshine
seems to infuse a tint of gold into the azure of the heaven, rendering
it like the lazuli stone in which the sparks of the metal may be seen
through the fine hue of the gem. More and more red was every moment
mingled with the blue, till the western horizon, where it lay upon the
waters, glowed as if with intense fire, which seemed to catch the
waves themselves and all the distant sea was in a flame. The splendour
of the hour, however, was unseen by the eyes of Morley Ernstein--but I
use, perhaps, a wrong expression, it was not altogether unseen; and,
though I am so near the end of my history, where events press for
attention rather than scenes or sensations, I must still pause for a
moment to show how he saw without seeing, and felt without perceiving.
When Lieberg had left him, and his orders had been given, he went
forth from the house with his heart full of strong emotions. He stood
upon the promontory over the cave, and gazed, or seemed to gaze,
across the wide world of waters, lighted by the setting sun. Though he
had heard many things that day to interest and occupy him--though he
had learned that Veronica had abandoned the world and taken the veil,
and that Juliet was once more drawing near,--his mind was fixed upon
himself, and upon the act he had just done, an act as great and
important to him and to his future fate as if he had conquered a
kingdom. He had broken a tie, bound round him by circumstances with
such close and intimate folds, that it had appeared as if it could
never be totally dissevered. He had cast off a fatal companionship for
ever, which had endured already too long. By a strong effort of
determination, he had repudiated a society which seemed destined to
corrupt all the pure current of his blood, like the envenomed garment
of Alcides, though happily for himself he had thrown it from him
before it had entered into his flesh.
He stood, then, upon that promontory with his head erect, and his arms
folded on his broad chest; feeling that he had done a right and a
great act, that he had executed a strong and high determination, and
deriving from the very fact the conscious dignity which the powerful
performance of a wise resolution always imparts to the human mind. He
marked not the sunset and its splendour--he marked not the illuminated
ocean, or the classic shores in their purple shadows--he marked not
the fire of the western sky, or the clouds glowing into a blaze above,
but the whole sank into his spirit through the eye, and seemed to
elevate his own sensations more and more by the harmonious tone of
every thing around. He felt that it was in such a scene, in such a
climate, in such an hour, that man might well do deeds worthy of his
immortal soul. That under the eye of Heaven, and with the brightest of
Heaven's works on every side, he might well purify his heart of its
dross, and cast from him every baser thing. It was not unseen, then,
all the loveliness that surrounded him; it was not unfelt; but in the
busy turmoil of his own thoughts, it was unmarked.
Ere the sun had quite gone down, however, his mind became more calm,
he recollected where he stood, he ran his eye along the line of coast,
he raised it to the sky above, he gazed pensively at the sea below his
feet, and marked the long, bow-like sails that skimmed across the
waters towards the resting-place for the night.
The whole bay and the sea beyond it were alive with boats, and Morley
Ernstein thought: "Amongst all those is probably one that bears to the
same shore with myself; her who, I once believed was to be my leading
star to every high act and noble purpose; but who has left me in
darkness and despair. Over those waters, her bark is steering, and,
perhaps, her mind, no longer with the eye of memory, sees him whom she
once loved any more than her corporeal eye beholds me here. How calm
everything is, how tranquil; and that small cloud, catching the last
rays of the sun, glows like the conscious cheek of love. I wonder why
all the boats are hurrying into Naples. This seems to me the very hour
for lingering on the sea. I will go out and sail again;" and as he
thus thought, he beckoned one of his boatmen, whom he saw on the beach
below, to come up by the steps in the rock and speak with him. Ere the
man could reach him, however, a change had come over the whole scene.
The waves in the bay became crested with white foam--a sudden rushing
sound was heard. Then came a light breath of air; and then a number of
orange trees and large oleanders, which were ranged upon the terrace
of the villa, were levelled with the ground in a moment by a violent
gust of wind. Morley himself, strong and powerful as he was, was
obliged to catch at a great ilex for support.[2] Leaves and branches
were torn up and whirled away, and a thin, dusty film was carried
suddenly over sea and land, not sufficient to intercept the sight, but
to render all the lately glowing features of the scene grey and sad.
Whistling and screaming through the branches of the trees, over the
rocks and stones; and through the windows and porticos the storm
rushed on, and the Neapolitan servants ran hither and thither, closing
the windows and increasing the din and confusion by their shouts, and
outcries, and gesticulations. As soon as he had somewhat recovered
himself, Morley placed his back against the tree, the large branches
of which were waving to and fro like reeds, and gazed out upon the
sea. When he had last looked in that direction he had seen a vessel,
apparently steering from Capri, and sailing gallantly on towards
Sorrento. He had then regarded it with that indefinite feeling of
interest which often attaches to one particular thing amongst many
similar ones, we cannot tell why or wherefore. Perhaps it was a
thought which casually struck him that Juliet might be on board of
that polacca, which caused him to look at the vessel I have mentioned
more intently than any of the rest. But whatever it might be she had
formed a beautiful object in the view, with all sails set, and the
last red light of the sun dying her canvas with bright crimson. When
he turned his eyes towards her again, however, now that the squall was
raging with such fury; he could hardly believe she was the same ship.
One of her masts was gone, and seemed to lay over the side, only
attached to the vessel by the cordage. It was evident that the crew
were taking in sail, and endeavouring to ease her in every way; but
while Morley still gazed, the other mast went overboard, and she lay a
complete log on the water, with the gale still blowing tremendously
and dead upon the shore and the night coming rapidly on.
Climbing slowly up the stairs in the rock, the boatman, to whom Morley
had beckoned, now approached him with difficulty, and the young
Englishman, pointing to the vessel in distress, asked if he knew what
she was. He replied that she was some Sicilian polacca, and that he
had seen her lying off Capri while they were out sailing in the
morning.
"She'll not see another day rise," added the man. "Many a poor sinner
has gone to purgatory already to-night. Did you see that felucca upset
and go down, sir, just as she was getting round the point?"
"No," answered Morley, "no; but we must not leave that ship to perish.
You must get out the boat--I will go off to her."
The man laughed at the very idea. It is true, the wind was blowing
dead upon the land, the sea running tremendously high, the gale
scarcely abated at all of its fury, and the night coming on dark and
stormy, the heavens looking totally unlike the pure, clear, starlit
skies that had hung above them for the last six weeks. While he was
still arguing with his master, however, a faint, distant flash, and
the booming roar of a gun from the polacca, appealed to the heart of
the young Englishman for help; and assuming a somewhat sterner tone,
he bade the man gather together his companions and prepare the boat,
in the language of command. He obeyed so far as collecting together
the rest of the boatmen went, but no progress was made in getting the
boat ready, and they remained drawn into a knot, talking eagerly and
gesticulating violently, screaming, shouting, grinning, laughing, and
almost weeping, in a manner that can only be seen in Italy.
Morley waited for a minute or two with some impatience, and then
approaching them, used every means that the reader may conceive to
induce them to accompany him. He succeeded so far, at length, that one
of the younger men yielded, and declared he would go, if the _padrone_
would but stay a quarter of an hour to let the wind go down. Such a
squall, he said, never lasted long, and at all events it would be more
moderate. The consent of one soon brought that of the rest, and Morley
ordered them, in the meantime, to make every preparation. Hoping
perhaps that he would change his purpose, they contrived to extend the
quarter of an hour to nearly double that time, notwithstanding all
their master's impatience and reiterated commands, while the darkness
increased, and gun after gun told the dangerous situation of the
vessel, and each showed, by the greater brightness of the flash and
loudness of the sound, that she was driving rapidly upon the rocky
coast.
At length, however, an effort was made; the boat was pushed out of the
cove, and rowed through the calmer water of the little bay. A
tremendous sea was still running beyond, although the violence of wind
had certainly somewhat diminished, and old Adam Gray, who, without a
word, had watched the proceedings of his master, knowing too well that
attempt to restrain him would be in vain, now, from the top of the
rock, gazed at the boat rushing out into the waves, and kept his eyes
upon it till it was lost to his sight amidst the dark struggling
waters. He tried to catch it again, but in vain; all was dim upon the
face of the sea; and then turning his eyes towards the spot where the
signals of distress, from time to time, showed the position of the
polacca, he remained with his grey hair floating in the wind, and his
heart full of sad and anxious apprehensions.
After a time the firing ceased, and the old man muttered to
himself--"They have either reached her, or she has gone down." Then
came the longest and most terrible space of expectation. Everything
was darkness around; the only sound that interrupted the silence was
the fierce rushing of the wind, which still continued to blow with
awful fury; the sky at the same time was covered with clouds, so that
no light fell upon the waters, and the only sight that met the eyes of
old Adam Gray, as he gazed down from above, was the white foaming tops
of the waves, which seemed boiling as in a cauldron.
"I wonder," he thought, "if I were to pile up a beacon here, whether
he would understand what it meant? At all events it would shew him the
villa and the rocks, so as to enable him to steer. I will try it at
all risks;" and calling to several of the other servants, who were
down below looking out as well as himself, he made them gather
together a quantity of old wood which had been left in a corner of the
vineyard, and with one or two decayed olive-trees, which had just been
cut down, a fire was soon lighted on the extreme verge of the rock,
and in about ten minutes spread its red glare far and wide.
Perhaps the good man expected that, besides giving light to any one
who might be wandering over the surface of the waters, it would enable
him also to see what was passing on the waves below; but in this he
was mistaken, and for a quarter of an hour longer he watched in vain.
During that time the wind subsided still more, and at length Adam Gray
thought he heard his master's voice raised loudly. A moment after, a
slight flash, like that of a pistol, was seen in the little bay, and
the rocks around echoed with the report.
"Quick! light the torches--light the torches," cried the old man; and
taking one of the flambeaux which he had brought out, he ran down the
steps through the rock, to the place where the boat was usually hauled
up. The other servants followed, but before they reached the shore the
grating sound of her keel was heard, and the first sight presented to
the eyes of Adam Gray was his master, pale and dripping, carrying
across the narrow ledge of rock the form of a lady, whose face rested
on his shoulder, while her arms were clasped tightly round him.
The blaze of the torches seemed to rouse her, or else it was
some words that Morley whispered, for she raised her head,
exclaiming--"Now, now, Morley, set me down! There are others need your
care."
"Not yet," said Morley; "not till you are under shelter. This, at
least, I have a right to do. Light us up the rocks, good Adam; the
rest stay here till you have got out the other women. Captain," he
added, speaking in Italian to a tall, athletic man, who had sprung to
the shore after him--"take care of your own people, and follow us to
the villa. Are you sure the other boat went down?"
"I saw it sink," replied the man, in a sad tone; and hurrying on up
the steps, with Juliet in his arms, Morley paused not till he had laid
her on a sofa in the saloon; then bending down his head he kissed her
cheek, saying--"Thank God!" After gazing on her for a moment, he
added--"Now I will see to your cousin. I fear she is much worse. Here,
my good women," he continued, speaking to the wife of the contadino
and her daughters, who had followed him into the house, "there is a
lady below who will much want your care. Come with me."
In a few minutes he returned, bearing Lady Malcolm in his arms,
apparently lifeless. She was soon carried to his own bedroom, and
every means were employed to restore her that the experience of any of
the party could suggest. Juliet forgot herself and all she had
suffered in her anxiety for her cousin; but ere long, she had the
happiness to hear her utter a few words of thanks to them for all they
had done.
"Now leave her with me and her woman," said the wife of the contadino,
who had shown skill as well as tenderness in her care of the sufferer;
"a few hours' sleep will do more for her than anything else. Go with
that lady, girls," she continued, speaking to her own daughters; "and
find her some clothes, for she is very wet."
Morley led Juliet forth, and then, in the same grave tone in which he
had hitherto spoken, besought her to change her dress, and take some
refreshment and repose. "I must go myself," he added, "to make sure
that there is assistance at hand, in case of any of the poor wretches
in the other boat reaching the shore. Though they abandoned you and
their companions, we must not abandon them. Farewell; then, for
to-night. Lie down to rest. We shall meet again to-morrow--Juliet."
Juliet gazed on him in silence and sadness, but made no reply, and
Morley left her.
About an hour was spent by the young Englishman in sending people with
lights along the rocks, but without any result. The boat, with which
some of the seamen had left the ship, had, as the master of the vessel
said, gone down almost immediately, and the bodies of those that it
contained were not found for several days.
With a slow and thoughtful step while the moon began to struggle with
the clouds, Morley Ernstein returned to his own dwelling, passed along
the corridor, gave some orders to Adam Gray, and entered the saloon.
To his surprise, on raising his eyes, he beheld Juliet standing as if
watching for his return. Morley paused for a moment, gazed at her with
a look full of emotions that could not be spoken; then closed the
door, and, advancing, threw his arms around her, and pressed her to
his heart. Juliet strove not to withdraw herself, but leaned her face
upon his bosom, and wept.
"Juliet," he said, in a low voice, as he felt her heart throbbing
against his--"Juliet, we must never part! It is no longer happiness or
misery with me, Juliet--it is life or death. You are mine, or no other
sun ever rises for me again. Choose, Juliet--choose! The words of fate
are upon your lips. If you love me, you are mine--if you love me not,
I am nothing!"
"I do--I do," cried Juliet, throwing her own arms around him, and
speaking with a vehemence that he had never known her use; "I do love
you, Morley--I always have loved you--I never loved any but you. Think
not you have suffered alone, Morley,--oh, I have endured more than it
is possible for human language to declare! Can you doubt that I love
you? if you do, tell me how you will have me prove my love, and I am
ready to do it, even though the breaking of my vow should break my
heart, and destroy me here, as well as bring wrath upon my head
hereafter. Speak, Morley--speak!--Love you? Oh, yes! better than any
thing on earth--better, I fear, than heaven!"
Morley clasped her closer to his heart, and pressed his lips again and
again upon her brow and cheek; they burned, as if with fire. She had
asked him what he would have her do, and now he told her, with all the
eloquent words of passion. He saw her gaze wildly upon him: he thought
that she hesitated. Then all the fell words with which Lieberg had
urged him came back to his memory, and he was about to employ their
power upon her also--from the tempted to become the tempter! But
happily--oh most happily for both, Juliet replied before he had
blasted her esteem.
"Say no more, Morley," she said--"say no more--I am yours for ever;"
and she put her hand in his. "Oh, Lord God!" she added, "if I sin in
breaking the solemn vow I made to those who first gave me life,
forgive me in thy mercy! But for him, on whose account I break it,
that life which they gave would now be at an end. His is the existence
that I henceforth possess, and surely it can be no crime to dedicate
it all to him! I will try, Morley," she continued--"I will try to
forget that vow that I have made to those who are dead, or to think
that I am now exempt from its obligation; yet I fear it will often
return to make your Juliet sad, and that my peace of mind will always
be disturbed by the thought of a parent's curse."
Morley cast down his eyes as one bewildered. He gazed thoughtfully on
the ground for several moments. He trembled at the feeling of a great
escape; and then he murmured--"Here has been some mistake--here has
been some mistake!--Tell me, Juliet, what was this vow? It cannot be
binding on you now, but yet I must hear it."
"Hear it, Morley, and decide for me," said Juliet, with a melancholy
look; "the vow is a double one. My mother, Morley, on her
death-bed--after a life of grief and sorrow for having disobeyed her
own parent--exacted from me a solemn pledge that I would never become
the wife of any man to whom my father forbade me to give my hand.
Morley, he did forbid me to unite myself to you. He demanded from me a
vow that I would not, on my duty as his child, and his last words were
the bitterest--the-most awful curse upon my head if I disobeyed."
There was a step in the room, which caused Juliet to turn her head,
while Morley, whose face was towards the door, made an impetuous sign
to the person who had entered to retire; but old Adam Gray came in
with a respectful, but a determined countenance, and Juliet, with a
glowing cheek, withdrew herself from Morley's arm.
"I beg your pardon, Sir Morley," cried the old man; "but what I have
to say must be said--I can keep it down no longer; I care not whether
it offends or not! I have loved you from a boy, sir, and will tell you
the truth, even though it make you angry. The young lady that you are
talking to--I do not mean to say anything against her--though she has
made you unhappy enough, I'm sure."
"Quit the room, Adam Gray!" exclaimed Morley sternly.
"Not till I've told you, sir," replied the old servant "I've heard
it's her father's will makes her do all this; but she is no more what
she fancies herself than I am. Your father always said, sir, that she
was not old Carr's daughter, and wished Lady Malcolm--that is, Lady
Clavering, as I ought to call her now--to try it with him. That was
the cause of the quarrel; for your father said he was a swindler; and,
you know, all Mrs. Carr's property went to Lady Malcolm, if she had
not a child; and so, when their baby died, he got this young lady up
from Sergeant More's wife, who had it to nurse; but the cheat was as
plain as possible, for this baby was six weeks old, and the other but
a day or two; but as poor Mrs. Carr was so ill that she knew nothing
about it, and the baby was brought up by hand, nobody could prove it
then, except the nurse and Mrs. More. I can prove it now, however, and
that I will, too, let come of it what may."
The old man paused to take breath, for he had spoken with all the
eager rapidity of one who, having broken through habitual respect, is
fearful lest the impulse which gave him courage to do so should fail
him. The effect produced upon Morley and Juliet, however, was very
different from what he expected. At first both seemed bewildered; but
then a look of joy and satisfaction inexpressible came upon his
master's countenance, and casting his arms round her he loved, Morley
exclaimed--"Mine--mine, Juliet!--you are mine, without a fear and
without a regret, without one cloud to shadow the sunshine of our
love!"
"Oh, is it--can it be true?" cried Juliet. "Tell me--tell me," she
continued, disengaging herself from Morley's embrace, and laying her
hand upon the old man's arm--"can you prove it?--can you shew, beyond
a doubt, that I am not his child? I would give anything--I would give
everything--but, alas!" she added, suddenly recollecting herself, "if
it be as you say, Adam Grey, I shall have nothing to give--I shall be
a beggar, Morley.--Will you value your Juliet less?"
"A thousand-fold more, dearest!" replied her lover. "There was an
internal conviction of the truth in my heart, from the very first. I
was sure that old man could not be your father--that the same blood
never ran in his veins and in yours."
"And whose then is the blood that runs in mine?" said Juliet,
thoughtfully. "It is strange, Morley--very strange!--and yet I own
that I am most thankful to God it is as it is; for amongst many
painful things that I have endured through life, one of the most
painful has been, a conviction that I was not really an affectionate
and tender daughter--that I could not love my father as natural
impulse would prompt one to do. Often have I struggled with myself,
often have I wept over my own sensations, and have thought that,
though he was unkind, and cold, and bitter towards me, if I had really
the feelings which a child ought to have, I should forget every sort
of harsh and chilling act in filial love. But, oh! I do regret my
mother--I do regret my poor mother!--she was always gentle and
affectionate, and fond of me."
"Because she _thought_ you were her child; and he _knew_ you were not
his," replied Adam Gray--"that was the cause of the difference, Miss
Juliet; and though I can't understand how you and Sir Morley have
settled matters, so as to seem very happy at what I feared might make
you otherwise, I hope you will forgive me; and as to proving it, I
have got Mrs. More's declaration myself, signed with her own hand, and
her daughter has got all the papers which the old woman left at her
death. I promised not to say a word till she was dead, and should not,
indeed, have told it now, but that I thought you were ill using my
poor master, Miss Juliet."
"I hope I have not done so," said Juliet, with a sad smile at the old
man's bluntness. "One may sometimes be obliged to make those they love
unhappy, without ill using them. Adam Gray, I think you should have
known me better. But, however, perhaps now I may have the power of
rendering him happy instead. Morley, you seem sad."
"No," answered Morley, "I am not, my beloved; but even in intense
joy itself, such as I now experience, there may be a melancholy,
Juliet--at all events a pensiveness--as there must be, indeed, as long
as man feels in his own heart that he is utterly unworthy of the
goodness and mercy of God. Together with the sensation of relief and
blessing which was given me by the tidings of this night, and the
knowledge that you are mine without one shade of regret hanging over
our union, came the recollection of how little I had merited such joy,
how I had repined and struggled, how many evil acts I had actually
been guilty of under the influence of despair, how many more I might
have been tempted to commit, how many I was upon the very eve of
plunging into. I must not tell you, Juliet--I cannot tell you all that
my words to you this very night implied, before I found what were
really the ties that bound you."
"Say not a word, dear Morley--say not a word," replied Juliet, sadly
but tenderly; "it has been bitter enough to know that I have been
making you wretched as well as myself. What would it be to think that
I had plunged you into any evil?"
"It is past, Juliet--it is past!" said Morley; "and though the last
year will ever remain upon my memory as one dark and gloomy spot, yet,
dear girl, it may be no disadvantage to me to be a humbler man for the
rest of my life, from sad experience of my own weakness.--But hark!"
he exclaimed, hearing a sound unusual in that remote place, "there is
the galloping of a horse's feet. I hope no bad news from Sorrento. Run
down and see, good Adam, and bring me word quickly."