CHAPTER XLIV.

At breakfast the following morning, the two travelling companions met again, and by that time a great change had come over the aspect of Morley Ernstein. A change in a very small particular, but one so remarkable that it instantly struck the eyes of Lieberg, surprised and puzzled him. Morley was grave--perhaps one might say, sad--but there was a calm, a tranquillity in his grief which had not appeared in his demeanour since his parting with Juliet Carr. There seemed none of that bitterness, that struggling against the hand of fate which had before characterized his sorrow: he was sad, as we have said, but he was no longer moody, indignant, and discontented.

Although, alas! we have no window through which to look into the breast of man, and see the springs and wheels of thought and action as they work, yet imagination may pry into the motives, and, perhaps, obtain some insight. It is but supposition, reader, yet we will try to show the causes of the change in Morley Ernstein. Previous to this period, the share of pride, which is in every human heart, had fixed itself upon his high and steadfast adherence to right; there had been in his bosom, in short, a sense of deserving; and a feeling of ill-treatment and angry repugnance to submit to the will of God had risen up when the first touch of sorrow lighted on him. He seemed to think that he had a right to happiness, and that to make him take his part in human griefs was an injustice.

Of course it must not be supposed that he acknowledged such sensations to his own mind; I paint them in the broad light as I believe they stood, without the veils with which the deceitfulness of man's heart covered them to Morley's own eyes. Had he analyzed his feelings, in truth he would have discovered that--though he might have experienced sorrow, deep poignant sorrow, at his disappointment under any circumstances--the bitterer, the more fiery part of his grief would have been absent, had he not set up a claim to deserving a better fate. He had looked round, saying, as did the apostle, but with a different feeling--"What man convinces me of sin?"

Such had been his state up to the day before, and now the change which had come over him was produced by self-abasement. He no longer stood in the same proud position in his own eyes, he felt all his weakness, all the weakness of human nature, and his spirit was bowed down in humility before the will of God. He could no longer say--"I have deserved;" and although his sadness was increased by knowing that he had himself erred, yet it was a more wholesome grief than that which he had before experienced, and bitter repentance opened his hearth, so that resignation could take the place of despair.

I have said that his demeanour puzzled Lieberg; he could not comprehend the change that he saw in Morley Ernstein; but the truth is, his own character was so different, that similar events would with him have produced the reverse result. His spirit was one neither to sorrow nor repent, and the consciousness of evil would but have made him raise his head to meet the avenger; he might bow, indeed, under the force of circumstances, but it was only for the purpose of an after-struggle. He watched his companion attentively, then, but he commented upon nothing that he saw; he took no note of their conversation on the preceding evening, or of any events which might have followed, but he began in a lighter, though not a gay tone, asking Morley how he had slept, and adding--"What a stormy night it has been."

"Indeed!" replied Morley; "I did not hear it."

"Innocence sleeps sound," said Lieberg, with a laugh--

"'Virtue, without the doctor's aid,
In the soft arms of sleep was laid;
Whilst vice, within the guilty breast,
Could not be physick'd into rest.'

"Is it so, Morley? But after all, what conventional nonsense those poets write! Well may it be said that they deal in fiction, and their morality is not a bit more real than the rest. A pretty sort of morality, truly, one finds in all these moral poets, and other righteous personages; they think no more of manufacturing a falsehood to serve the cause of truth, as they call it, than a poor, honest, wicked man like myself thinks of drinking my cup of coffee. Now what a gross lie it is--so gross, indeed, as to be quite impotent--to tell us that virtue is happiness, and that innocence always sleeps comfortably! For my part, everything that I see around me makes me believe, that, in this world at least, virtue is more akin to misery than to happiness; and how many pangs and sorrows are there that from time to time disturb the repose of innocence, and break the rest of the purest and the best!"

"That is true," replied Morley, thoughtfully. "Griefs may often break the sleep of innocence, but can vice ever repose, Lieberg? And as to the happiness or unhappiness of the good and the bad, thank God there is another world where things may be made even!"

"Your English proverb says," rejoined Lieberg, "that 'a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.' I would rather take out my stock of happiness here, my good friend."

"I have been thinking much over that subject this very morning," answered Morley, "and have made up my mind upon the matter, Lieberg."

"And to what conclusion?" asked his companion.

"That the balance even here is in favour of right," replied Morley. "Supposing that there be an equal portion of misfortunes and disappointments, successes and advantages, allotted to the virtuous and the vicious--and there is nothing either in reason or experience to show that the bad man is more favoured by fortune than the good--the very nature of the virtuous man's own mind leaves his pleasures not only more pure, but more poignant from the freshness of his heart, while his sorrows are diminished by resignation to the will of Him who sent them, and by those bright hopes which lighten half the load of life."

"I am glad to think that you have got up such a comfortable philosophy," answered Lieberg, "for of late I have certainly seen that you are very sad, Morley, and I have striven to the best of my power, though somewhat vainly, to cheer you."

"I thank you for it deeply," replied Morley, extending his hand, "and I wish I had been wise enough to get up this philosophy, as you call it, before. You would not have found it, then, so difficult to soothe me, Lieberg."

"It is an excellent good philosophy," answered his companion; "and the only part of it with which I might be inclined to quarrel, my good friend, is the actual estimation of what is right and what is wrong, what is innocent and what is vicious. I do not take for granted the dictum of every would-be philosopher--no, nor of every puritan--when he tells me that a thing which makes me very happy, and does no harm to anybody, is a vice or a wickedness;--but there is no use of talking any more about it. Ethics are a very uncertain science; what's excessively wicked in one country is highly virtuous in another--polygamy is an honoured observance in Turkey. Dwindle it down to bigamy in England, and it becomes a great crime, for which you send the poor wretch to hard labour in a penal colony, as if the fool's act would not be punishment enough if we did but compel him to abide by the consequences, and live with the two wives at once."

Lieberg laughed aloud, half drowning Morley's reply--"The Christian has always a standard of morality, Lieberg."

The former, however, wished to pursue the subject no more, for he was satisfied with the advantages he had gained, and was well inclined to leave the boundaries of vice and virtue vague and undefined.

He therefore turned the matter off with a jest, and as their breakfast concluded, demanded--"Well, Morley, what shall we do to-day?"

"For my part," answered Morley, "I shall quit Paris this very day, but I do not wish to influence your conduct, Lieberg, as you many have affairs to keep you here somewhat longer. I wish to be away from the place, and will wait for you anywhere that you like, till you rejoin me."

Lieberg's eyes flashed with an angry expression for a moment, when Morley talked of leaving the French capital so suddenly; but the latter part of his companion's speech cleared his brow again, and he replied--"Nay, nay, I will go with you. I have nothing to do here, unless it were to take leave of some of the fair girls we know; but as you are in such haste, we will do without even that. Doubtless, as the poet says--

'Fresh freres will clear the bright blue eyes
We late left swimming o'er.'"

All the arrangements were soon made, passports were signed, bills were paid, accounts were closed, horses were procured, and, ere night, Morley Ernstein and his companion were some miles on their way towards the banks of the Rhine.

It was rather late in the year for the German watering places, and about one half of the company which, during the summer, had thronged the picturesque villages of Nassau and Baden had taken its flight towards greater cities. A number still remained, however, to linger out the last fortnight of the season, and roulette and rouge-et-noire, and certain select gambling parties, went on with only the greater vigour from the want of that excitement which the more extended society of the full season brought with it. It is just at that time of year that the arrival of strangers--especially if they come with some little display of importance--creates the greatest sensation, and it may be easily believed that the two handsome English carriages, the servants and the couriers which accompanied Morley and his companion, made many a head protrude itself from the windows, and many an idler gather round the vehicles. The appearance of those within them did not diminish the interest felt, and some questions were asked of the servants as to the names of the two gentlemen, which soon circulated amongst the inhabitants of the place. The dinner at the table-d'hôte passed off pleasantly; Lieberg meeting with several persons whom he knew, and Morley being placed next to a most respectable looking old German Baroness, with her white hair beautifully arranged round her fair though wrinkled face. Notwithstanding the melancholy which still hung heavily upon Morley Ernstein, the frank and ladylike manner of his fair neighbour at the board, soon seduced him into conversation, which the society of the young and the beautiful, perhaps, might have not been able to effect.

In the evening, he strolled with Lieberg into the great hall where the company had assembled, intending but to gaze for a moment at the splendour which such a place generally displays, and then to wander out into the walks round about which had been cut with careful taste to give every attraction to the little town. Very different indeed was the scene presented from that which he had often witnessed before in a Parisian gaming-house. Roulette and rouge-et-noire, were, it is true, going on in one part of the vast hall, and card-tables were to be seen laid out in another; but besides the parties occupied with such dangerous pursuits, there were various gay and glittering groups moving here and there, or seated at various tables taking different kinds of refreshment. A band was playing in the open space before the manifold windows of the building, the night was clear and warm, for the time of year, and everything that heart could do had been done to render the scene splendid, and to banish thought by forcibly engaging the mind with a whole host of amusements.

Again Lieberg, as they moved onward, met with many acquaintances--some of them foreigners, some of them Englishmen. Indeed, in every place, and amongst every nation, he seemed to have friends, and he took care to introduce his young companion to all the most distinguished personages present; princes, and counts, and barons without number, and more than one noble lord whom Morley had often heard of as men of high repute, but had never met with before.

Not anxious for much society, Morley Ernstein, at length, disengaged himself from Lieberg, telling him that he was about to stroll out through the walks; but the moment after he was stopped by a fine-looking elderly man, of a fresh and pleasing, though somewhat melancholy countenance, who held out his hand to him as an old acquaintance. After a moment's thought, Morley recollected the old nobleman whom he had met in London, and to whom he had been introduced at the house of Mr. Hamilton. Well pleased at what he remembered of their conversation on those occasions, he returned his greeting warmly, and willingly sat down beside him for a few moments in one of the windows.

"I hope you are not in search of health, Sir Morley," said Lord Clavering. "You do not look so well as when I met you in London."

"Oh, no!" answered Morley; "my health is good; but I am seeking what most people seek, after they have found the uselessness of seeking happiness--I mean amusement. But I trust your lordship is not less fortunate in point of health, though I am afraid, from your asking me, that you yourself have been driven to these baths by some of the unpleasant ills of the flesh."

"Not exactly so," replied the old nobleman, "though I always think that mineral waters are medicines with which nature herself furnishes us for almost all diseases, if we do but apply them rightly. It is now many years ago since I myself received great benefit from these waters. I had just suffered a deep and terrible affliction which, through the mind, had preyed upon my constitution, and no one expected that I should ever recover. I was then a younger son, seeing life, as it is called, in the Austrian service. I accordingly threw up my commission, and was returning home to die in England, little cared for by anybody, and, to say the truth, caring little for anybody myself--except, indeed, one who has also been snatched from me since, by the inexplicable decrees of God. I paused, however, at this very place; and though at that time I thought life a very valueless possession, and was prepared, like Cawdor, 'To throw away the dearest thing I owed, as 'twere a careless trifle,' I remained here for six weeks, and by so doing recovered health and life."

"And have you never had to curse the waters since?" asked Morley, gloomily, "and to wish that you had not tasted them?"

"No, my young friend," replied the old lord; "though I thought at that time, as you seem to think now; yet I have since had to bless them for affording me time to judge better of many things, and to learn submission to the will of the Almighty--nay more, for having left me to the enjoyment of many blessings, the calm sunshine of health and ease, and that degree of freshness of heart--notwithstanding some bitter sorrows and deep disappointments--which enables me still to feel many endearing affections, partaking, perhaps, less of the eager passions which are the portion of youth, but more of the permanent convictions of experience. I can now love worth," he continued, with a smile, "better than beauty, and seek in the companion of my later hours the friend rather than the mistress."

"I have been wrong, my lord," said Morley, "and gave way to a bitterness of spirit which I do not wish in general to indulge----"

At that moment Lieberg came up hastily, and spoke to his young companion in a low voice, saying--"Will you do me a favour, Morley? I know you hate play of all kinds, but I know also you do not care about losing a crown or two. The old Baroness Von L----, next whom you sat at dinner, is very anxious for a quotidian game of whist. She has pressed me into the service, and there is the old Prince of Naggerstein, but we cannot get a fourth, all we can do. Come, only sit down for one rubber. I hate that dull drivelling game as much as anybody, but I could not well refuse."

Morley rose and walked slowly to the table, feeling that it was utterly impossible he could take the slightest interest in any one of all the gambler's pursuits. In his eyes, rouge-et-noir was as stupid as whist, and whist as stupid as draughts. Of all the games that were ever invented, if he had been forced to choose one, it would probably have been marbles. He sat down to play, however: the old lady was charmed with his politeness; the Prince of Naggerstein was courtesy itself. Morley soon found that the stakes were enormously high, and that the two old opponents of Lieberg and himself were a couple of thorough-paced gamblers. Lieberg seemed to discover the fact at the same moment, and gave a warning look across the table towards Morley. He himself played well and carefully, but during the first rubber the young Englishman could not bend his attention sufficiently on the game, made several mistakes, and the two companions were losers of a very considerable sum.

"For Heaven's sake, Morley, be careful!" said Lieberg. "You have lost me five hundred louis by not playing up to my lead. We must have our revenge, however, for it is impossible to rise with such a loss as that. I understand the old lady's game now; only be careful, and we shall recover."

In the evening, he strolled with Lieberg into the great hall where the company had assembled, intending but to gaze for a moment at the splendour which such a place generally displays, and then to wander out into the walks round about, which had been cut with careful taste to give every attraction to the little town. Very different indeed was the scene presented from that which he had often witnessed before in a Parisian gaming-house. Roulette and rouge-et-noir, were, it is true, going on in one part of the vast hall, and card-tables were to be seen laid out in another; but besides the parties occupied with such dangerous pursuits, there were various gay and glittering groups moving here and there, or seated at various tables taking different kinds of refreshment. A band was playing in the open space before the manifold windows of the building, the night was clear and warm, for the time of year, and everything that heart could do had been done to render the scene splendid, and to banish thought by forcibly engaging the mind with a whole host of amusements.

"I hope you are not in search of health, Sir Morley," said Lord Clavering. "You do not look so well as when I met you in London."

"Not exactly so," replied the old nobleman, "though I always think that mineral waters are medicines with which nature herself furnishes us for almost all diseases, if we do but apply them rightly. It is now many years ago since I myself received great benefit from these waters. I had just suffered a deep and terrible affliction which, through the mind, had preyed upon my constitution, and no one expected that I should ever recover. I was then a younger son, seeing life, as it is called, in the Austrian service. I accordingly threw up my commission, and was returning home to die in England, little cared for by anybody, and, to say the truth, caring little for anybody myself? except, indeed, one who has also been snatched from me since, by the inexplicable decrees of God. I paused, however, at this very place; and though at that time I thought life a very valueless possession, and was prepared, like Cawdor, 'To throw away the dearest thing I owed, as 'twere a careless trifle,' I remained here for six weeks, and by so doing recovered health and life."

"And have you never had to curse the waters since?" asked Morley, gloomily, "and to wish that you had not tasted them?"

"No, my young friend," replied the old lord; "though I thought at that time, as you seem to think now; yet I have since had to bless them for affording me time to judge better of many things, and to learn submission to the will of the Almighty--nay more, for having left me to the enjoyment of many blessings, the calm sunshine of health and ease, and that degree of freshness of heart? notwithstanding some bitter sorrows and deep disappointments? which enables me still to feel many endearing affections, partaking, perhaps, less of the eager passions which are the portion of youth, but more of the permanent convictions of experience. I can now love worth," he continued, with a smile, "better than beauty, and seek in the companion of my later hours the friend rather than the mistress."

"I have been wrong, my lord," said Morley, "and gave way to a bitterness of spirit which I do not wish in general to indulge----"

"For Heaven's sake, Morley, be careful?" said Lieberg. "You have lost me five hundred louis by not playing up to my lead. We must have our revenge, however, for it is impossible to rise with such a loss as that. I understand the old lady's game now; only be careful, and we shall recover."

He spoke in English, which language the other two did not understand, and Morley, vexed with himself, continued at the table. He did now pay attention--nay, more, he became interested, eager. The dark bright eyes of Lieberg were fixed upon him sharply from the other side of the table, and Morley fancied that he read in them anxiety to see what he was about to play. It was, on the contrary, only to mark how far the gambling spirit of the place was getting a hold upon his mind. The scheme had been well arranged, and it was so far successful, that Morley felt that dangerous degree of excitement which he had never experienced before, the first symptoms of the growing disease--of that fell and terrible disease, which, when once it has taken full possession of any human being, never leaves him till it has destroyed him--the immedicable fever of the mind.

Once he raised his eyes from the table, and saw Lord Clavering standing opposite to him with a look of melancholy interest in his face. Morley averted his glance, and went on eagerly with the game, the impetuosity of his nature affecting him in this, as in all other pursuits, and carrying him on with a vehemence which he wished to restrain without being able. As his mind was clear and rapid, and his memory good, he played well now that he paid attention; Lieberg also managed his game with admirable skill, leading Morley on almost to the very last with the expectation of winning.

The end of the rubber was again approaching; Morley Ernstein had played, the Prince of Naggerstein had just made a trick; the result of the whole depended upon Lieberg's next card, and while he paused, as if in thought, Morley again lifted his eyes. Lord Clavering was still there, but another figure now stood beside him which made the young Englishman turn, for a moment, as pale as death. The next instant the blood rushed from his heart into his face and temples, he saw and understood nothing more of what had passed at the card-table, except that Lieberg had played, and that the game was lost.

Rapidly paying what the other party had won, Morley turned away, saying, in a determined tone, that he would play no more. Lieberg marked the look, and said, in a low voice to himself, "The time will come!" But the next instant, following Morley with his eyes, he saw him standing beside one of the most lovely creatures he had ever beheld, with a degree of agitation in the manner of both, which not even all the crowd that was around them could repress. The lady was dressed in deep mourning, but Lieberg had no difficulty in recognising the same fair being whom he had once seen with Morley in the park, and with Lady Malcolm upon another occasion.

What were the sensations of Morley, as he stood beside Juliet Carr, and, with a low voice and beating heart, enquired into what had passed since he left her! Juliet was not less agitated than himself. It was evident that she was glad, not sorry to see him, though melancholy mingled with her joy, and she left the soft, fair, trembling hand in his as long as he thought fit to detain it. She told him that the cause of the mourning which he beheld was the death of her father, and those tidings, it must be owned, produced but one sensation in Morley's heart. He had respect for Juliet's grief, however, and for a moment or two bent down his eyes for fear glad hopes should sparkle up in them, and jar with her natural sorrow. In the brief pause that took place, Lord Clavering, who had stood by with Juliet's arm resting in his, watching with no slight interest, apparently, the agitation of his fair companion and her lover, disengaged himself from her, saying--"I will see if the carriage is there, Juliet. Sir Morley, will you take care of this lady till I return; I will not be long."

"Oh, Morley," said Juliet, the moment he was gone, "I have one great favour to ask of you--a favour that will make me as happy as anything can!"

"Name it, Juliet," replied Morley; "are you not sure that, to make you happy I would sacrifice life itself?"

"Never sit down again to a table like that, Morley," said Juliet. "You know not the agony of watching one that we love with a countenance full of passions which only the dark spirits of this place can impart. Promise me, Morley--promise me, if you have ever loved me. You cannot tell what I have suffered within the last five minutes."

"I do promise you, Juliet," replied Morley; "but you know not what I have suffered during many weeks. I told you, Juliet, that I could not answer for what occupations I might seek, in order to cast off the misery which your loss inflicted on me."

"That which is wrong," replied Juliet, "depend upon it can but add gall to the well of bitterness. Oh, Morley, for my sake--for Juliet's sake--strive for better consolations. To know that you are happy, were the only happiness that I could now possess; and I am sure that such a heart as yours can never find anything but wretchedness in vice."

"I will trust," said Morley, "that the state of despair which might well drive me to any source of relief is to last no longer. Where are you to be found, Juliet? I will come early to-morrow; and you must then give me up at least an hour--to myself and by myself, Juliet."

She shook her head mournfully, but replied at once--"We are at the place called the Towers. Come if you like, but it is all in vain. I would fain be with you often, Morley--I would fain be with you always, to advise--to counsel, to soothe you; but it must be as a sister. I can never be more."

"This must be explained," answered Morley; but at that moment Lord Clavering again appeared, saying--"The carriage is here;" and at the same time offering his hand to Juliet to lead her from the hall.

Morley, however, would not give up his post till the last minute, and he himself conducted Juliet to the side of the carriage. He waited with a heavy heart and frowning brow, till the old nobleman, taking his seat by Juliet in the vehicle, ordered the coachman to drive to "The Towers." Then, after pausing moodily for a moment or two before the door of the building, he looked up into the sky, and, with a deep and long-drawn sigh, turned into the paths that wound away, through the woods, up towards the summit of the hills.