CHAPTER XLVIII.
Early on the following morning the carriage of Morley Ernstein stood prepared for departure before the little inn at Steig. He had sent to ask after the health of the old woman who had suffered from the accident of the preceding night, and had heard, certainly with pleasure, that the surgeon made a favourable report of her situation, though he at once pronounced that she must remain for many weeks in the room to which she had been carried. For Martin himself the young gentleman had not asked; nor did he speak more than a few words to him when he met him at the bottom of the stairs, in descending to go into his carriage. Although convinced that the man intended well, he was still angry, to say the truth, at the words which the other had addressed to him on the preceding evening; the more angry, perhaps, because he felt irritated with himself on account of the shade of doubt which lingered in his own mind, which he had combated during the whole night without being able to conquer it, which had fled but to return, and which still raised its head against reason and argument--ay, and even conviction itself.
With one of the party which he had encountered the night before, however, he did stop to speak for some minutes. It was with the Italian lady, who had been his companion on foot from the place where the accident had occurred to the inn; and he now perceived clearly--a fact of which he had only a faint notion from his glance during the preceding evening--namely, that she was a young and very pretty woman; not exactly beautiful, for there was not a feature in her face which deserved that often misapplied epithet, if we except the eyes. They, indeed, were remarkably fine, as most Italian eyes are--bright, sparkling, and full of merry light, but chastened withal by a frequent look of feeling and thoughtful meditation. To behold them, and to watch their expression for any length of time, reminded one of a sunshiny prospect with an occasional cloud floating over it and varying by its soft shadows the sparkling brightness of the scene.
With her, then, Morley stopped to speak for some time, enquiring after her health, and hoping that she had not suffered from the accidents of the night before. She replied, gaily, that she had nothing to complain of, except that she was stopped on her journey, which, indeed, was not only an annoyance, but a misfortune. It would be two or three days, she said, before the carriage would be able to proceed, and delay would be most inconvenient to her, as she had engagements in Milan and Venice, on account of which she had determined on going by the Brenner, as the pass most certain to be open. If she could but reach Constance, she would soon be able to find a conveyance for the rest of the journey which was not to be done at Steig.
Morley hesitated; English prudence came in the way--the question which every Englishman first puts to himself, "What will people say," instantly suggested itself; and it took him a minute, which under such circumstances is a long time, ere he could make up his mind to do that to which good-nature prompted him. How often is it that good feelings are panders to bad actions! Alas! too frequently do they lead us so near the door of evil places, that we are tempted to go in. Morley Ernstein took his resolution at length, and replied, that if she were not bound by any means to go in the same conveyance which had brought her so far, a seat in his carriage was much at her service.
Many persons may, perhaps, enquire whether her sparkling dark eyes had anything to do with Morley's civility. I can conscientiously reply--"Nothing in the world." He would have made the same proposal if she had been as ugly as Cerberus perhaps more readily; and the only part that her bright eyes could take in the business, was to make her even a more dangerous companion than that three headed gentleman himself.
She did not refuse the young Baronet's proposal, but laughed with an arch look as she accepted it, saying--"You are afraid of your reputation. Is it not so? All Englishmen are so prudent and careful! We Italians have much more confidence in virtue, bad as they call us; but I am not the least afraid, though my reputation is much more likely to be endangered than yours--for I, too, have a reputation to lose."
She spoke the last words somewhat proudly, and there was a frankness in her whole demeanour which pleased Morley Ernstein, and set him more at ease. The carriage was ordered to wait for half-an-hour, the voiturier was easily settled with, the trunks and packages were removed to Morley Ernstein's chariot, and the young Englishman followed the fair Italian into the vehicle, a third place being taken therein by her maid. Good Adam Gray looked grave; and although his brow was somewhat cleared when he saw that his master and the strange lady were not to be without a companion, yet, to say sooth, the old man was not well satisfied. Whether it was experience or nature taught him that, for a young man like Morley to sit side by side, during a somewhat long journey, with a gay and pretty Italian girl was a dangerous sort of proximity, matters very little; but Adam Gray could not help fancying that the matter might end ill, having no great faith in the virtue of any lady born beyond the precincts of the four seas, and, perhaps, not quite so much confidence in his master's powers of resisting the impetuous fire of his own nature as Morley really deserved.
Now might I, dear reader, trace the journey of the young Englishman and his fair companion, tell all that took place between them, and point out how she gradually won upon Morley Ernstein--amused, pleased, interested him. I might dilate upon all the little incidents of the road, all the attentions which he thought himself bound to pay her, all those small and accidental circumstances which occasionally lead people on, to use Shakspeare's expression, upon "The primrose way to the everlasting bonfire." There were many of those things took place--there was the flash of similar thought, there was the admiration of similar objects, there were the slight differences that give variety, there were the touches of feeling which, like the cabalistic words pronounced by the magician, in the tales of eastern lands, open the heart, however firmly it may be locked against intrusion. But we must pause upon very few of these matters, and will only notice two little incidents, and one brief part of their conversation.
At the moment they set out, Morley made up his mind not to stay at Schaffhausen, but to go on to Constance at once; it must be admitted that he took this resolution from an unacknowledged conviction that he was not doing the most prudent thing in the world, in travelling with the fair Italian at all. In fact, he wished not to make more than one day of the journey. It was somewhat later, however, than he had calculated upon when they arrived at Schaffhausen, the hour of the table-d'hôte was over, dinner could not be obtained for an hour, and the host enquired, as if it were a thing absolutely necessary to be done, at what time they would like to see the falls. The lady looked in Morley's face, and left him to answer. It seemed to him that there would be a rudeness in not giving her a choice; and the consequence was, they went to see the falls together, by the light of a fine afternoon, and returning to Schaffhausen remained there that night.
In the saloon to which they were shown there was a piano; and Morley's companion, in one of the unoccupied moments--of which there are more in inns than in any other places, perhaps, in the world--walked up to the instrument, ran her fingers over the keys, with a touch of complete mastery, and hummed, rather than sang, a few bars of a popular opera; but it was done in a manner which left Morley in no doubt that her voice itself had been cultivated with the utmost care. It may easily be supposed, then, that the evening did not pass without music--without that enjoyment, which, whether we may consider it an entity or not, is in all its forms one of the greatest blessings that ever was bestowed on man.
Music--what is it? How can one say what it really is? Substantial it is certainly not, or rather, I should say, material. Where is it to be found? Is it not in the spirit itself? Is it not, in fact, one of the highest and holiest qualities of the soul; a perception of that harmony which we may well believe to be an attribute of God, from finding it in all his works--from seeing it in all his revelations of himself. In what part of creation is it that the heart of man may not find music, if he will? Sweet sounds may, indeed, by the ear produce the impression most distinctly; but sights presented to the eye will raise exactly the same sensations in the spirit; and sounds, and sights, and sense, all link themselves together in memory, shewing their near affinity to each other and their reference to one harmonious whole. Nevertheless, on this earth the grand expression of that innate music, which--as fire is latent in every existing material thing--lies hid in every object of the spirit's action, is still to be found in the union of sweet tones; and as the reader may easily imagine, from all we have said of his character, no one was ever more deeply moved by the power of harmony than Morley Ernstein. He listened, then, entranced to the singing of the fair Italian, perfect as it was in every respect, for nature had given her, in her rich Italian voice, an instrument such as no art could fabricate; and science and long study had taught her to wield all its powers with unrivalled effect. Taste, too, and, apparently, deep feeling were not wanting; and when she had sung something exquisitely beautiful, and then looked up in Morley's face to see the effect it had produced on him, there was as much music in her eyes as on her lips.
These, reader, are the two incidents which I promised to relate; and now for the conversation. Their second day's journey was verging to a close; a sort of soft languor had come over the fair Italian--a touch of melancholy, such as almost every one must feel in drawing nigh the moment of parting from one with whom we have held sweet intercourse even for a few short hours. They had glances of the Rhine as they rolled along; they caught the distant towers of Constance, to which they were rapidly approaching; gleams of far mountains; and, once, a sight of the wide lake met their eyes as they advanced; and all told them that the time of separation was coming. The maid was apparently asleep; and, at all events, Morley and his companion, were speaking French, which she did not understand. The sights before their eyes, the yellow evening tint that was spreading over the sky, not only led their thoughts to that moment of parting, but brought the conversation suddenly to it also. The lady looked up, from the reverie of a minute or two, with a smile, in which there was a touch of the sadness of which I have spoken.
"Well," she said, "we are now drawing near our journey's end. I have to thank you much for your kindness. It will prove of great service to me, and, I trust, be of no disservice to you. You see we have passed along our way without meeting any one, so that neither your reputation nor mine can have suffered."
"I know it is very foolish," answered Morley, in his usual frank manner; "but I do not deny that I may feel the prejudices of my country in these respects, though not sufficiently, I hope, to prevent me from doing what is courteous and right. But still, I do think it would be a dangerous practice, generally speaking, for young and pretty ladies, such as yourself, to travel alone with any man unallied to them in blood."
"Why?" demanded the Italian lady, simply.
It was rather a difficult question to answer with sincerity; and, after hesitating for a moment, Morley Ernstein said--"Why, nobody can tell where they go to--how they spend their time. In short, they throw off that sort of responsibility that they owe to society--the eyes of the world are no longer upon them."
"And is it only the eyes of the world which keep people from doing wrong?" asked the lady.
Morley laughed, and, wishing to change the subject, he answered--"Many other inconveniences might happen, you know--they might fall in love with each other, or do a thousand things of that kind."
"Oh, then I am quite safe!" replied the lady--"for I never yet saw the man whom I felt the least inclination to fall in love with in my life."
"Perhaps you are incapable of love," said Morley. "There are some women so happily constituted by nature, that they never know what it is to be touched by any but the more tranquil affections."
"Perhaps such is the case," she rejoined quite seriously, "or perhaps, what is more likely, I may spend all my feelings upon matters of imagination. A song, a piece of music, a scene in a play, will move me in a degree that I cannot describe. I have generally remarked, and am inclined to believe it is an invariable rule, that people of a strong imagination are very seldom troubled with strong affections."
Her observation threw Morley into a reverie. He asked himself whether it were true, and paused in doubt, not having sufficient experience to solve the question at once by his own knowledge, and plunging into those metaphysical deductions, which lead as often to what is false as to what is true.
The lady went on to say--"I hope--indeed I am sure, that such is the case with myself; for I would not for the world feel such passions as I see depicted and hear told. Thus I know myself to be perfectly safe, and can trust myself in any situation without fear."
"And yet," rejoined Morley, with a meaning smile, "you are an Italian."
"True," she answered, with one of her sparkling looks; "but perhaps the very fact of the existence of such strong passions amongst my countrywomen, as you would insinuate, may have been my warning and safeguard."
"Where there is no danger, there is no need of a safeguard," said Morley. "You acknowledge, then, that it is by reason, and not by nature, that you are guided."
"You must not press me too hard," exclaimed the lady, laughing--"you know we women never understand how to argue. All I know is, that I never did love, and never shall love any man--not even you, fair sir," she added, laughing--"though you have certainly been much more kind and courteous than most of your countrymen; and the only way I can repay you is, by asking you to come and see me, should you visit Venice, or, at least, should you be there some two months hence. I may then be enabled to return your courtesy in some shape, and perhaps may procure you the means of seeing more of the city of the waves than foreigners usually do see."
"I will certainly avail myself of your invitation," replied Morley; "but you forget that, owing to the strange way in which our acquaintance commenced, I am ignorant, up to the present moment, even of your name."
"Oh, that omission will soon be remedied," answered the lady--"my name is Veronica Pratesi. You will easily find me in Venice."
Thus ended the conversation to which we wished to refer. The lady and Morley spent the evening together at Constance, and part of the next morning. A carriage was easily procured to convey her on her way, and Morley placed her in it, and bade her adieu with feelings of regret.
Her sparkling manner, too, was somewhat overshadowed by passing clouds. At one moment, she was gay and bright as ever; at the next, fell into deep thought. She bade him farewell however, with all the levity of a Frenchwoman; but as soon as the adieu was spoken, and while something was doing to the interminable harness, she gazed down into the bottom of the vehicle, as if to prevent herself from having any more last words. The moment the driver's whip cracked for departure she turned round to look at Morley again; and her face was then overclouded.