Morley tried to soothe her, but it was in vain; Veronica burst into a passion of tears, and though she left her hand in his, when he took it she answered him not.
Thus it continued for some time; Morley remained more than an hour with her, and it were useless to attempt to describe all that took place, impossible to detail all that was said. Neither of them knew what they had uttered when they parted, but the method of their parting was somewhat strange. Veronica had become calmer, she had even given to Morley Ernstein the first caress of affection that her lips had ever bestowed upon mortal man. But whether it was that remorse and regret even then, like a serpent only half hidden by the roses, suffered itself, in some vague and shadowy manner, to appear in word, or look, or action, I cannot tell; Veronica suddenly started away, and clasped her hands together, exclaiming--"I thought you long, but you are come too soon! I thought you were here seldom, but you have been here too often!--Oh, Morley, Morley! leave me now, I beseech you. Leave me to thought, leave me to reflection!--I will write to you--I will send to you. Fear not!" she continued seeing a look of pain come over his countenance; "I will never make you unhappy; but I would only have time for thought--I would only act calmly--it shall be at your own choice. Everything shall be at your will; but if you come to me again, you come for ever.--Leave, leave me, now;--if I say more, I shall die."
Morley left her, and strange and great was the agitation in his heart, as he cast himself again into the gondola, and the boat rowed away.
It was gliding rapidly up the great canal, when suddenly it passed one of those large boats, used by the Venetian government to carry strangers to and from Venice, in communication with the post-houses of Mestre and Fusina. It was filled with people, and rowed by several men. There were English liveries, and English faces in it, and in the principal part appeared a group, which, at any other time, would have attracted Morley's attention instantly. As it was, it was only when the boat was shooting fast past his own, that the countenance of Juliet Carr burst upon his sight, and was gone again in a moment.
"Stop, stop!" he cried to his own boatman. "Where is that boat going? Follow it quick!"
"It is going to Mestre, sir," replied the man. "We can never catch it. They are going to join the post-horses, and will be gone before we arrive."
"Ten sequins, if you come up in time!" said Morley; and away the boat flew over the waters, like a bird.
The moments seemed dreadfully long; but what is there that gold will not do? Mestre was at length in sight, Morley's foot was upon the shore, and darting at once to the inn--which so many readers will recollect as a mere hotel for empty carriages--he gazed round for the party, which must have arrived only a few minutes before him. There were two chariots standing before the door, with horses attached to them, ready for departure, and servants lingering round, as if all were concluded in the way of packing, and nothing remained but for their masters to appear, ere the vehicles rolled away. Before Morley could enter the inn there were voices on the stairs, and the face of Juliet Carr herself appeared, with several others, in the doorway. It was as beautiful as ever, but somewhat pale, and there was a listless sadness in the expression, which spoke to Morley's heart, and told him that the spirit within could find no satisfaction in sporting with the feelings of him who loved her. Morley strove to be calm, to collect his thoughts, to tranquillize his demeanour; but every one must know how vain are such efforts at such a moment.
He advanced straight towards her, however, and took her hand, while the first expression that passed over her countenance, was that of pleasure, succeeded suddenly by that painful shadow which their mutual situation naturally produced.
"I must speak with you, for a few minutes, Juliet," he said, heeding nobody, seeing nobody but her. "You must not refuse me; for there is much at stake."