CHAPTER L.
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.