Morley Ernstein; or, the Tenants of the Heart

by G. P. R. James

CHAPTER LVII.

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< br> 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."