"She, who was Juliet Carr," replied Morley, bitterly; "now, Countess of Clavering."
Helen started from her seat, and clasping her hands, gazed wildly in Morley's countenance. "It is impossible!" she cried; and then sinking down upon the sofa again, she buried her face in her hands, murmuring some words that Morley did not hear, while the crimson was seen dying her temples, and her fine small ear. What were the mingled emotions that at that moment possessed her?--Who can say? She herself was not aware; so strange, so complicated, so contending were they.
The first thing that roused her, was Morley's voice: "You say it is impossible, Helen," he replied. "I begin to think all things possible. When those whom we love best, and to whom, of all the world, we have given least cause to treat us ill, destroy our peace, betray our trust, cast away our love, and even sacrifice themselves for sordid motives, what may we not believe next?"
"O, you wrong her--you wrong her!" cried Helen Barham, raising her head, and speaking with enthusiastic eagerness. "You wrong her, Morley, most assuredly. There is something in this that you do not know--some cause she has for her conduct which will justify it, I am sure; or, at least, will palliate it. She may never be yours, but you must not cease to esteem her. I will take upon me to say, that she has not acted thus without some powerful, some overpowering motive."
"You judge her by your own heart, Helen," replied Morley. "No coronet would tempt you to such a union as this."
Helen would not be ungenerous, even by remaining silent, and she replied, eagerly, "You are wrong--you are wrong. She does love you,--she has ever loved you. She loves you still, whatever duty may say; and, though she may struggle to forget you, bound as she is to another, yet the struggle will be in vain, and will be more than a sufficient punishment for any weakness she may have shewn."
Poor Helen Barham knew not that whilst she fancied she was but doing justice to Juliet, and soothing the agonized feelings of Juliet's lover, she was by every word giving force and vigour to the most terrible temptation which Morley had ever undergone. There seemed to be something peculiar in Lieberg's evil suggestions--a something which made them resemble those of Satan himself. Every accidental circumstance gave them additional venom, and even words which were the most repugnant to all that is wrong, stirred them up in greater virulence and power than ever. Morley put his hands over his eyes, as if to shut out the temptation; but after a moment's pause, he rose, saying--"Helen, I must leave you. I will set out for Naples this very day, if it be possible. I take it for granted, that your steps will soon be bent thither also. You must let me know when you arrive, for I believe the only society from which I could derive comfort and consolation, would be yours."
As he spoke he took Helen's hand, bidding her adieu, and she left it in his, gazing with an anxious and sympathizing look in his countenance, and thinking more of his sorrow than of the sweet and gratifying words that he addressed to herself.
"I will see Juliet," she said, "before I come. I believe that I can induce her to tell me all. You shall hear her motives as she gives them to me, for I would fain restore to her your esteem."
"Let it be as it is, Helen," replied Morley, solemnly; "for it is less dangerous for me to despise her than to love her still."