The picture which he gave of his state of mind was adapted with infinite art to the mood which his keen and penetrating eyes saw at once was dominant with his companion. A faint, and, as it were, unwilling smile, was Morley's only reply; but he passed his arm through that of Lieberg, and as they turned back, towards the inn, the latter proceeded--"We can go, you know, across from Paris to Cologne, then ramble along the banks of the Rhine, make our way through the Tyrol into Italy, spend the cold season at Rome or Naples, and then, if you like it, 'mitescente hyeme,' return to England. Or," he continued, "if that suits you not, we can ramble still farther, plunge into Calabria, visit the blue shores of Greece, see the fairy-tale wonders of Constantinople, range through the scenes of the crusades in Syria and Palestine, and scour on fleet horses the sandy deserts of Egypt. Where need we stop, Morley? where need we stop? I have no tie to one quarter of the globe--you have none either, that I know of; the world is all before us, and the wonders, not only of a hundred countries, but a hundred ages. Where shall we not find some astounding record of the mighty past? Some of those marbles, which, in their slowly perishing grandeur; teach us the littleness of all things present, and, amongst the rest, of the cares and sorrows that we may both be suffering? Of those cares and sorrows we will speak no more; I ask you not what are yours--you question me not regarding mine. But let us onward, onward together, through all the varied scenes of earth, pausing no longer anywhere than while enjoyment is in its freshness, taking the grape while the bloom is upon it, and the flower before a leaf is shed. Once more, what say you?--shall it be so?"
There was something in the tone in which he spoke, in the picture that he presented, in the very rapid succession of objects which he proposed, that seemed addressed with careful calculation to the weaker part of Morley's character--to the rash, the impetuous, the excitement-loving spirit, which had been long kept down by the influence of the better soul within him. There was nothing in the scheme against which that better soul could raise the warning voice; there was no one thing suggested which could be branded with the name of evil. It was like offering to an eager and a fiery horse a wide and swift career, while, faint at the far extreme, appeared a goal hung with prizes, which seemed to glitter, though dim and confused from the distance at which they were placed.
Morley hesitated not, but replied, his eyes for a moment lighting up with the fire which used once to be kindled so readily in them--"I will go willingly, Lieberg. It is, in fact, the scheme I had laid out for myself, only improved and brightened by having you for my companion. I have been ill since I have been here; but to-morrow they assure me I shall be ready to continue my journey."
CHAPTER XLIII.
"Providence," says a powerful but dangerous author of another land--"has placed Disgust at the door of all bad places."
But, alas, she keeps herself behind the door as we go in, and it is only when we come out that we meet her face to face! The road to evil is undoubtedly a flowery path, smoothed down and softened with every care, so that no obstruction, no difficulty, may retard our steps, or keep us within the bounds of right. It is only when we would turn again that we discover the thorns.
Such may seem a strange homily wherewith to begin an account of the journey of Morley Ernstein and Frederick, Count Lieberg. It is nevertheless an undoubted fact, dear reader, that of all the many persons well calculated to smooth that high road to vice, of which we have just spoken, the young Baronet could have found none more dangerous than the man who, placed side by side with him, commenced, on the day following that with which we terminated our last chapter, a tour through lands where temptation is cheap, example abundant, and punishment rare--except, indeed, that silent punishment of the heart, the sentence of God's own law, to which man has sometimes added corporeal infliction, but from which he can never take away one fiery drop.
They sat side by side in Morley's carriage, turning over that of Count Lieberg to servants and baggage; for, as we have seen, Morley had no less than three men in his train--the courier, the groom, and good Adam Gray--while Lieberg was armed with a courier and a valet, so that they were plenty certainly to occupy both vehicles. The conversation between the two travelling companions was, of course, modified by the circumstances in which they were placed. It was no longer the wide, discursive, rambling play of fancy which had characterized their communications at an earlier period of their acquaintance, but it was full of deeper thoughts and feelings. It was no longer the even flow of a bright and sparkling rivulet, dancing rapidly on, uninterrupted by any obstacle, glistening over the pebbles of its bed, and whirling in murmuring eddies from the banks; but it was the mountain-torrent, amongst rocks and precipices, now pausing in deep silent pools, now dashing through stones and crags, and now plunging, in an eager cataract, over the edge of the precipitous cliff.
It might be that Lieberg's mind had itself taken a different mood from the various scenes through which he had lately gone, from the violent passions which had actuated him, from the bitter disappointment of pride, and vanity, and love. Or was it that he purposely gave to all he said that tone which made it harmonize with the mood and temper of his companion at that moment? Who shall say which? Certain it is, however, that he, as usual, led the conversation, and led it in that exact strain which bore the mind of Morley Ernstein along with him. He suffered the pauses that took place to be long; he forced not his fellow-traveller to speak; he meditated, as well as Morley, and only roused himself from his silence to cast forth some fierce and flashing sarcasm at the world and all that it contains, or to utter some deep and stern comment upon human happiness or human efforts. It was like the stillness of the storm's approach broken by the flash of the thunder. Then, if he found his companion so disposed, he would go on in a rambling and meditative manner, with a dark gloom pervading all he said, like the shadow of the cloud, remaining even when the voice of the tempest is still.
"Do you see that mother nursing her child, Morley?" he said, after a pause, as they drove through one of those small, miserable villages, to be found so frequently upon the road from Calais to Paris--"do you see yon mother nursing her child? Is it not a pretty sight?"