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."