Morley Ernstein; or, the Tenants of the Heart

by G. P. R. James

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."