"Not in the least," replied Morley; "he thought, on the contrary, that you might captivate but to make me unhappy; in fact, that you might sport with love after having excited it."
"I seek not to excite it," said the lady in a grave tone; "I never have sought, and I have warned you fully."
"You have," answered Morley, "and I have no fear. My heart is cased in iron, fair lady, as hard as your own, and there is no danger of my deriving aught but pleasure from your society."
The lady looked up in his face with a gay smile, conscious of grace and powers of captivation, perhaps doubting a little her companion's capabilities of resistance, and half inclined to try them, if but to shake his too great confidence. In short, dear reader--for in truth I must be short--Morley Ernstein and Veronica Pratesi were in as dangerous a situation as ever two people were in this wide world; both of them a good deal too confident of their own powers, and trusting themselves too far in every way.
At the end of the quay was the lady's own gondola, and in it, half sitting, half lying, as is the case in those luxurious contrivances, Morley Ernstein skimmed along over the waves of the lagune during the rest of the day. That in itself was dangerous enough, but the conversation of his fair companion, the sights they met with, the feelings, the thoughts, the enthusiasms which those sights called forth, the excitement of the scene and the circumstances, all rendered even that first day very perilous indeed. Darkness at length fell, and Veronica insisted that Morley should dine with her, and spend the rest of the day at her house. It was a small but beautiful dwelling, with a delicately carved marble staircase, leading down to one of the principal canals; and as Morley found that he could not leave Lieberg without some explanation, he obtained her permission to return to the inn on the promise of being back with her again immediately. Her gondola conveyed him to Danielli's, and waited for him while he went up and told Lieberg of his engagement.
His companion gazed in his face with a look of some astonishment, and then exclaimed, laughing--"On my life, Morley, either this woman is a coquette, which is a name she never bore, or else she is in love with you."
"Neither, my good friend," replied Morley. "If I did not feel sure that she was neither one nor the other, my conduct would be very different."
"Well, go on, Morley--go on," said Lieberg, shaking him by the hand; "if you win Veronica Pratesi, you will indeed be an extraordinary person. But you will not win her; so take care you don't get yourself into a scrape."
To some it may seem, that Lieberg was very kind in his apprehensions for his young friend, but with others it will be doubted whether his warnings were likely to deter him from, or lead him on upon the path which he was pursuing. We will not take the pains of solving the problem, but will only tell what was the real effect which his words did produce. They instantly suggested to Morley's mind the question--"Is it possible to win Veronica--to call that fascinating creature my own--to accomplish that in which so many had failed?" There were three distinct sources of temptation in those three ways of putting the question. Passion, fancy, vanity--all raised their sweet voices together; and although Morley, like Ulysses, tried to stop his ears against the song of the Sirens--or, in other words; turned away his mind from the idea--yet, throughout the whole of his after-communication with Veronica, that question came like a vague sound, heard, though he would not listen to it--"Is it possible to win her?"
The devil never miscalculates in his dealings with human nature, and in choosing his word, he always selects the right one for his own purposes.