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 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."
 Thus saying he left her, and was hurrying home, with his thoughts
so agitated that he scarcely remarked a man who stood in his way at
the bottom of the stairs, till Harry Martin stopped him, by
pronouncing his name.

"I am afraid, Sir Morley," he said, as soon as the other paused--"I

am afraid I gave you some offence by what I said to you in
Germany, about some one that you trust. Now I--"

"You did, my good friend!" replied Morley; "but I was wrong, and
you were right. All that is over--my eyes are opened, and I trust no
more."

"That's right--that's right!" cried Harry Martin. "All may go well,

then, and you may be as happy as the day is long; for if ever man
was loved by an angel, you are, by one not very far from here."

"Hush!" Cried Morley; "hush! You are mistaken altogether;" and,

turning away, he hurried back as fast as possible to his own hotel,
and quitted Rome ere the day was many hours older.
 CHAPTER LVI.

A month passed in Naples, and Morley strove to drown

recollection, to drown thought, to drown the ringing echo of the
tempter's words, to quell, by any means, the struggle that still went
on in his heart--the longing, eager, ardent desire to fly to Juliet Carr,
to tell her, with all the impetuous madness of intense passion, that
he loved her still, to shew her that she had destroyed his peace for
ever, and to leave her to decide, whether he were to live with her or
to die by his own hand. He knew that it was frenzy--he knew that it
was crime. With as much courage as any ancient warrior ever strove,
he fought against the host of dark temptations that beset him, in the
vain hope that time would mitigate the intensity of his feelings; but
time brought no balm--his heart knew no relief. The gay and
gabbling crowd in the ball-room, the palace, and the theatre,
distracted not his attention for a moment. With difficulty, even for a
few minutes, did he fix his attention upon all the objects of ancient
art, which formerly would have amused his fancy. The political strife
of various parties which at that time convulsed all Europe, scarcely
roused his mind from the bitter memories that were in his heart to
give it even a thought; and Morley's sole delight soon became to sail
over the deep blue sea of the bay, gazing in melancholy listlessness
upon the waters, and longing for a quiet abode beneath the rolling
of those sunshiny waves.

It soon, however, grew a weariness and a pain to him, to be

forced, even during a part of the day, to see and hear the merry
multitudes of the siren city. The coarse and glaring vice, the utter
moral degradation of almost all classes, the miserable laziness and
destitution of the lower orders, the frivolous wickedness of the
higher, all became an offence to his eyes; and he determined, at
length, to get rid of the whole and to remove to some distance from
Naples, although there was one employment for a part of his day,
which could not be, without difficulty, obtained anywhere but in the
city. It may seem strange that this his sole occupation was the
examination of almost all the principal London journals. But there
was only one part of those journals into which he looked--only one
name that he sought for. It was the name of Lord Clavering. From
time to time, he found it amongst those of the most diligent
attendants upon parliamentary duties. Morley read no more that day
when he had once seen the name. He perused not the speech to
which it was attached, nor examined the nature of the petition which
the earl presented. He could not hate him more than he did, and he
did not wish to hate him less; but still, to know that he was afar, that
he was not in the same land with Juliet Carr, was something.

He resolved, at length, as I have said, to quit the city, and take up

his abode at such a distance that he could continually send into
Naples for intelligence, without setting his foot within the walls itself.
The generous though just act of Helen Barham having removed the
necessity for economy, Morley could indulge at ease whatever
fancies suited his humour best at the time; and, rowing along the
shores of the bay towards Sorrento, he pitched upon a solitary villa,
not far from that place, towards Castellamare as the house be
should like to hire. It was seated upon the high rocky ground, and
was visible from the sea; but on enquiring at the latter town, he
found that there was no road to it but a mule-path, and that it was
inhabited by the Italian family to whom it belonged. The latter
difficulty, however, was speedily removed; gold was an object to the
Italians, and none to Morley; and, while he had his boat, he needed
no other road but the waves.

In this new abode, then, was he soon fixed, and certainly a

lovelier scene never soothed the disappointed heart. The view over
the bay was beyond description; a deep indentation of the shore
brought the profound waters up to the very foot of the rock under
the villa, and one of those arching caves, of which there are so many
on the Sorrentine shores, admitted the sea still farther, so that a
sight of steps from the house itself, similar to those near the villa
Cocumella, led down by a subterranean passage to the verge of the
bay; and Morley's boat could be brought in under the very crag on
which his dwelling stood. A little farther on, however, a winding
path, ornamented by some tall cypresses, led down to the shore,
which was strewed at that spot with ruins of various ancient
buildings, and covered almost to the edge of the sea with all the wild
flowers and rich creeping plants of that climate, while here and there
the gigantic aloe had planted itself, giving a peculiar character to the
picture, produced by no other European plant. High hills lay up
behind; and, along the shore on both sides, appeared all that variety
of rock, and precipice, and smooth descent, and soft sloping bank,
which every one who has rounded that headland must remember.
We will not dwell farther upon a description of the place, but will
only add, that the usual drawback to all Italian scenery was found
not far off, as one approached Sorrento, in numerous stone walls
and narrow roads, forming a sort of labyrinth, which required some
degree of knowledge and experience to escape from, in the attempt
to find freer space upon the mountain tops beyond.

Here Morley dwelt in comparative peace for about a fortnight,

with his establishment restored to its former scale, and moreover
increased by six rowers for his boat, to whom one of the cottages in
the vineyard was assigned as an abode. Although so grave and sad,
he had contrived to make himself loved even by the light-hearted
Neapolitans in his service. There are few people more really sensible
of dignified and graceful manners than the lower classes; and as we
have already shown, there was a peculiar charm in the young
Englishman's deportment, which only derived a greater interest from
the gloom that had fallen over him. He was kind-hearted, and
generous, too, and the only efforts that now seemed to interest him
strongly, were those tending to increase the comfort and happiness
of the people about him. He taught them to obey him promptly, to
attend, even in their lightness, to his smallest sign or word, but he
taught them also to respect, admire, and love him.

Old Adam Gray, too--though, to say sooth, he was not liking the
Italians--was a favourite amongst them, and they were always ready
to shew him his way hither and thither, keeping up with him as he
went along--partly by signs, partly by words--long conversations, of
which neither party understood one third.

It was thus one day, while his master was out sailing in the bay,
that the old man had found his way to Sorrento, accompanied by
one of the Neapolitan servants, named Giacchino, who understood
somewhat more of English than the rest. He had gazed about upon
the houses and villas, had gone down to see the remains of antiquity
that protrude in some places from the cliffs, and had bought a
basket of fruit from one of the old women of the town, when
suddenly--while he was yet counting out the interminable small
pieces of coin, which seem invented, in several of the Italian States,
for the torment of the passing traveller--he dropped a whole handful
of them, exclaiming--"Good heavens, Mrs. Martin!--is that you? What
could bring you to Italy?"

The person he addressed was a very pretty young woman,

dressed in mourning, and her reply was simple enough, that she had
followed her husband thither.

"Oh, I understand--I understand!" replied Adam Gray; "though

how he got out of York Castle I do not comprehend."

"No, you do not understand it at all," said Jane. "My husband got
out of York Castle by being pronounced innocent. But if you will
come up to the villa just upon the hill, he will tell you the whole
story himself. He came here out of Germany with dear Miss Helen,
and I think he would like to see you, for we told him how kind you
had been."
 Without more ado, Adam Gray picked up the fallen money, and
followed the young Englishwoman, leaving his Italian companion
Giacchino talking with a number of men in pointed hats, and
somewhat Calabrese attire, who had come in with the apparent
purpose of selling fruit and small birds. When Giacchino joined them,
however, they were engaged in gossiping away the time with a man
in the habit of a courier, whom Adam Gray had seen more than once
before loitering about the doors of their inn at Rome, where he had
filled the post of occasional valet de place.

We need not pause upon the interview between Adam Gray and
the party at the villa to which he was conducted; but he found that
Harry Martin was still in attendance upon Helen Barham, not being
able, he said, to make up his mind to leave her, always fancying that
some mischief would happen, if he were not near to take care of her.

"It's a strange whim of mine," he said, "but I can't get rid of it.
However, I know that Miss Helen sent a note to your master at
Naples, yesterday, and when I can see her with plenty of kind
friends about her I shall be content, and think her safe."

Adam Gray remained for a full hour at the villa, and, before he
went, begged to pay his respects to Helen herself, who sent a
message by him to Morley, telling him where she was, and adding
that she had something of importance to communicate to him, if he
could call upon her the next day.

On returning to the spot where he had left his companion, the old
man found the Neapolitan still laughing and chattering with the rest,
and they proceeded on their way homeward together, both
somewhat thoughtful, though the natural buoyancy of the Italian's
spirit would not suffer him to bear the silence quite so long as the
native of a more taciturn land.

"Those fellows will do some mischief before they are out of

Sorrento," he said; "and that devil of a courier will lead them into no
good."

"Ha!" cried Adam Gray, "do you know those people, then,
Giacchino? Pray who may they be who are so mischievously
disposed?"

"Why, that tall, good-looking fellow," replied the man, "was the
head of the banditti that used to rob about Nocera and Salerno, and
sometimes almost up to Portici on the other side. He gave it up of
his own accord when the bands were put down, and is now a very
good gardener. The rest are friends of his," he added, with a shrewd
gesticulation, which conveyed the full sense of what he meant.

"And the courier?" demanded Adam Gray. "Pray who is he?"

"Oh, he has come with some Englishman," replied Giacchino--"a

count something or another, which would break an Italian's teeth to
speak."

"There you are mistaken," exclaimed Adam Gray. "We have no

counts in England, Master Giacchino, though there are viscounts
enough in all conscience. But pray what was he doing with the
banditti?--going to sell his master to them?"

"No, no," replied Giacchino; "he said his master would like to see
them, and talk to them. It seems that he is fond of such fishes."

In such conversation they plodded on their way, till they reached

the dwelling of the young Englishman, and the old man, leaving his
companion below, proceeded through all the open doors and
corridors of an Italian house, till he reached the room where Morley
usually sat. He entered without ceremony, but was not a little
surprised to find that his master was not alone.

Morley was standing with his hand leaning on the back of a chair,
his brow knit, and his teeth closed, while Lieberg appeared within
three or four paces, with his arms folded on his chest, his head
erect, and his dark eyes flashing like a thunder-cloud. What had
previously taken place, no one ever heard, but it was clear that
angry words had already passed between them.

"Your language, Sir Morley Ernstein," said Lieberg, "is well nigh
insulting, and must not be repeated."

"I have told you, Count Lieberg," replied Morley, "the plain truth,
for which truth you pressed me. Having to thank you for some
kindness, nothing can be farther from my wish than to insult you;
but, at the same time, you must not urge me too far. Your advice I
relish not; and though I do not, as you insinuate, pretend to
anything like perfect purity of thought, word, or action--God forbid
that I should be such a hypocrite!--and though I may yield to
temptation, when it comes upon me, as weakly as any man, yet I
will never calmly and deliberately lay out a plan for seducing a
woman from that faith to which she has sworn at the altar. When I
said that I should consider myself a villain if I did so, I had a
reference to my own feelings and my own principles, in direct
opposition to which I have no right to act. You see the matter in a
different light, and I pretend not to criticise or to censure your views
or your actions. The temptation may come, and I may fall, as you
say; I fear it might be so--I am sure it might be so; but I will never
seek the temptation myself."

"You will repent;" replied Lieberg, still frowning on him--"you will

repent your language towards me this night.--I am better as a friend
than an enemy."

"You drive me, sir, to say harsh things," answered Morley sternly;
"but I fear you less as the latter than the former. One word more,
Count Lieberg, before you go," he added, as Lieberg turned towards
the door. "I have this morning received a letter from a lady, whom I
find you have seen oftener than I believed. I do not understand all
that she means; but Miss Barham places the name of Count Lieberg
so close to the term--'a man who persecutes me,' that, as we part
apparently not soon to meet again, it may be as well to say, I look
upon that lady as a sister, will protect her as such, and will treat any
man who insults or injures her, as I would one who wronged my
nearest relation."

Lieberg's lip curled with a sarcastic smile. "Your knight-errantry,

Sir Morley," he said, "may lead you into scrapes; but you are a very
wise and prudent young man, and doubtless will extricate yourself
delicately from all embarrassments. As you have added a word to
me, however, I must add one to you. It shall be a short one, for the
evening sky is beginning to turn grey, and I must seek a more
hospitable roof. It is this--do not cross my path, or I will blast you
like a withered leaf; and so, good night!"

With his usual calm, firm step, Lieberg descended the stairs, and
quitted the villa. Morley's eyes flashed; but old Adam Gray hastened
to interpose telling his master all that he had seen and heard during
that afternoon.

"This is very strange!" said Morley, musing. "Send the man,

Giacchino, to me--or, stay, ask him yourself, if the courier mentioned
was that of Count Lieberg. He may be meditating some harm to that
poor girl, and yet I must not--dare not go to Sorrento myself. Go,
good Adam, and enquire. It is all very strange!--That Juliet should
come to Sorrento, when she knows that I am so near!--It seems as
if it were my fate to be doomed to do wrong, even when I labour to
avoid it.--I will not go!"

Old Adam Gray came back in a moment, saying that Giacchino

was quite sure that the name of Count Lieberg was the one he had
heard; and Morley seriously alarmed instantly took means to warn
Helen of the vague but not unfounded apprehensions which he
entertained. He sent the peasant who farmed the estate attached to
the villa, and two of his own servants, over to Sorrento, with orders
to stay with the young lady, and give her protection during the
night; and after explaining his motives for this step, in a short note,
he added--"I would have come myself at once, but that you tell me
Juliet and her party from Sicily are about to join you this day at
Sorrento. Dear Helen, I must never see her more, for I dare not
trust myself. I am tempted in a way that you cannot divine; and I
must fly from that temptation, lest even greater misfortunes fall
upon her and me. Keep the men I send, with you till Juliet comes,
after that, her servants, added to your own, will, I trust, ensure your
safety."

"Now dispatch the people quickly, good Adam," said Morley,

giving him the note; "but, above all things, bid them keep a horse
saddled, and let me know if anything important occurs at Sorrento.
They can be over here in less than ten minutes. Have all our men
prepared for whatever may occur; and see if there be not some
more horses to be procured in the neighbourhood. If so let them be
brought in. We might have to ride over in haste."

CHAPTER LVII.

Lieberg had not said true when he declared that the evening sky
was beginning to turn grey. It was purple that it grew, that intense
deep purple which is only to be seen in southern skies, where the
sunshine seems to infuse a tint of gold into the azure of the heaven,
rendering it like the lazuli stone in which the sparks of the metal may
be seen through the fine hue of the gem. More and more red was
every moment mingled with the blue, till the western horizon, where
it lay upon the waters, glowed as if with intense fire, which seemed
to catch the waves themselves and all the distant sea was in a
flame. The splendour of the hour, however, was unseen by the eyes
of Morley Ernstein--but I use, perhaps, a wrong expression, it was
not altogether unseen; and, though I am so near the end of my
history, where events press for attention rather than scenes or
sensations, I must still pause for a moment to show how he saw
without seeing, and felt without perceiving.

When Lieberg had left him, and his orders had been given, he
went forth from the house with his heart full of strong emotions. He
stood upon the promontory over the cave, and gazed, or seemed to
gaze, across the wide world of waters, lighted by the setting sun.
Though he had heard many things that day to interest and occupy
him--though he had learned that Veronica had abandoned the world
and taken the veil, and that Juliet was once more drawing near,--his
mind was fixed upon himself, and upon the act he had just done, an
act as great and important to him and to his future fate as if he had
conquered a kingdom. He had broken a tie, bound round him by
circumstances with such close and intimate folds, that it had
appeared as if it could never be totally dissevered. He had cast off a
fatal companionship for ever, which had endured already too long.
By a strong effort of determination, he had repudiated a society
which seemed destined to corrupt all the pure current of his blood,
like the envenomed garment of Alcides, though happily for himself
he had thrown it from him before it had entered into his flesh.

He stood, then, upon that promontory with his head erect, and
his arms folded on his broad chest; feeling that he had done a right
and a great act, that he had executed a strong and high
determination, and deriving from the very fact the conscious dignity
which the powerful performance of a wise resolution always imparts
to the human mind. He marked not the sunset and its splendour--he
marked not the illuminated ocean, or the classic shores in their
purple shadows--he marked not the fire of the western sky, or the
clouds glowing into a blaze above, but the whole sank into his spirit
through the eye, and seemed to elevate his own sensations more
and more by the harmonious tone of every thing around. He felt that
it was in such a scene, in such a climate, in such an hour, that man
might well do deeds worthy of his immortal soul. That under the eye
of Heaven, and with the brightest of Heaven's works on every side,
he might well purify his heart of its dross, and cast from him every
baser thing. It was not unseen, then, all the loveliness that
surrounded him; it was not unfelt; but in the busy turmoil of his own
thoughts, it was unmarked.

Ere the sun had quite gone down, however, his mind became
more calm, he recollected where he stood, he ran his eye along the
line of coast, he raised it to the sky above, he gazed pensively at the
sea below his feet, and marked the long, bow-like sails that skimmed
across the waters towards the resting-place for the night.

The whole bay and the sea beyond it were alive with boats, and
Morley Ernstein thought: "Amongst all those is probably one that
bears to the same shore with myself; her who, I once believed was
to be my leading star to every high act and noble purpose; but who
has left me in darkness and despair. Over those waters, her bark is
steering, and, perhaps, her mind, no longer with the eye of memory,
sees him whom she once loved any more than her corporeal eye
beholds me here. How calm everything is, how tranquil; and that
small cloud, catching the last rays of the sun, glows like the
conscious cheek of love. I wonder why all the boats are hurrying into
Naples. This seems to me the very hour for lingering on the sea. I
will go out and sail again;" and as he thus thought, he beckoned one
of his boatmen, whom he saw on the beach below, to come up by
the steps in the rock and speak with him. Ere the man could reach
him, however, a change had come over the whole scene. The waves
in the bay became crested with white foam--a sudden rushing sound
was heard. Then came a light breath of air; and then a number of
orange trees and large oleanders, which were ranged upon the
terrace of the villa, were levelled with the ground in a moment by a
violent gust of wind. Morley himself, strong and powerful as he was,
was obliged to catch at a great ilex for support.[2] Leaves and
branches were torn up and whirled away, and a thin, dusty film was
carried suddenly over sea and land, not sufficient to intercept the
sight, but to render all the lately glowing features of the scene grey
and sad. Whistling and screaming through the branches of the trees,
over the rocks and stones; and through the windows and porticos
the storm rushed on, and the Neapolitan servants ran hither and
thither, closing the windows and increasing the din and confusion by
their shouts, and outcries, and gesticulations. As soon as he had
somewhat recovered himself, Morley placed his back against the
tree, the large branches of which were waving to and fro like reeds,
and gazed out upon the sea. When he had last looked in that
direction he had seen a vessel, apparently steering from Capri, and
sailing gallantly on towards Sorrento. He had then regarded it with
that indefinite feeling of interest which often attaches to one
particular thing amongst many similar ones, we cannot tell why or
wherefore. Perhaps it was a thought which casually struck him that
Juliet might be on board of that polacca, which caused him to look
at the vessel I have mentioned more intently than any of the rest.
But whatever it might be she had formed a beautiful object in the
view, with all sails set, and the last red light of the sun dying her
canvas with bright crimson. When he turned his eyes towards her
again, however, now that the squall was raging with such fury; he
could hardly believe she was the same ship. One of her masts was
gone, and seemed to lay over the side, only attached to the vessel
by the cordage. It was evident that the crew were taking in sail, and
endeavouring to ease her in every way; but while Morley still gazed,
the other mast went overboard, and she lay a complete log on the
water, with the gale still blowing tremendously and dead upon the
shore and the night coming rapidly on.

Climbing slowly up the stairs in the rock, the boatman, to whom

Morley had beckoned, now approached him with difficulty, and the
young Englishman, pointing to the vessel in distress, asked if he
knew what she was. He replied that she was some Sicilian polacca,
and that he had seen her lying off Capri while they were out sailing
in the morning.
 "She'll not see another day rise," added the man. "Many a poor
sinner has gone to purgatory already to-night. Did you see that
felucca upset and go down, sir, just as she was getting round the
point?"

"No," answered Morley, "no; but we must not leave that ship to
perish. You must get out the boat--I will go off to her."

The man laughed at the very idea. It is true, the wind was
blowing dead upon the land, the sea running tremendously high, the
gale scarcely abated at all of its fury, and the night coming on dark
and stormy, the heavens looking totally unlike the pure, clear, starlit
skies that had hung above them for the last six weeks. While he was
still arguing with his master, however, a faint, distant flash, and the
booming roar of a gun from the polacca, appealed to the heart of
the young Englishman for help; and assuming a somewhat sterner
tone, he bade the man gather together his companions and prepare
the boat, in the language of command. He obeyed so far as
collecting together the rest of the boatmen went, but no progress
was made in getting the boat ready, and they remained drawn into a
knot, talking eagerly and gesticulating violently, screaming, shouting,
grinning, laughing, and almost weeping, in a manner that can only
be seen in Italy.

Morley waited for a minute or two with some impatience, and

then approaching them, used every means that the reader may
conceive to induce them to accompany him. He succeeded so far, at
length, that one of the younger men yielded, and declared he would
go, if the padrone< br> would but stay a quarter of an hour to let
the wind go down. Such a squall, he said, never lasted long, and at
all events it would be more moderate. The consent of one soon
brought that of the rest, and Morley ordered them, in the meantime,
to make every preparation. Hoping perhaps that he would change
his purpose, they contrived to extend the quarter of an hour to
nearly double that time, notwithstanding all their master's
impatience and reiterated commands, while the darkness increased,
and gun after gun told the dangerous situation of the vessel, and
each showed, by the greater brightness of the flash and loudness of
the sound, that she was driving rapidly upon the rocky coast.

At length, however, an effort was made; the boat was pushed out
of the cove, and rowed through the calmer water of the little bay. A
tremendous sea was still running beyond, although the violence of
wind had certainly somewhat diminished, and old Adam Gray, who,
without a word, had watched the proceedings of his master, knowing
too well that attempt to restrain him would be in vain, now, from the
top of the rock, gazed at the boat rushing out into the waves, and
kept his eyes upon it till it was lost to his sight amidst the dark
struggling waters. He tried to catch it again, but in vain; all was dim
upon the face of the sea; and then turning his eyes towards the spot
where the signals of distress, from time to time, showed the position
of the polacca, he remained with his grey hair floating in the wind,
and his heart full of sad and anxious apprehensions.

After a time the firing ceased, and the old man muttered to
himself--"They have either reached her, or she has gone down."
Then came the longest and most terrible space of expectation.
Everything was darkness around; the only sound that interrupted the
silence was the fierce rushing of the wind, which still continued to
blow with awful fury; the sky at the same time was covered with
clouds, so that no light fell upon the waters, and the only sight that
met the eyes of old Adam Gray, as he gazed down from above, was
the white foaming tops of the waves, which seemed boiling as in a
cauldron.

"I wonder," he thought, "if I were to pile up a beacon here,

whether he would understand what it meant? At all events it would
shew him the villa and the rocks, so as to enable him to steer. I will
try it at all risks;" and calling to several of the other servants, who
were down below looking out as well as himself, he made them
gather together a quantity of old wood which had been left in a
corner of the vineyard, and with one or two decayed olive-trees,
which had just been cut down, a fire was soon lighted on the
extreme verge of the rock, and in about ten minutes spread its red
glare far and wide.

Perhaps the good man expected that, besides giving light to any
one who might be wandering over the surface of the waters, it
would enable him also to see what was passing on the waves below;
but in this he was mistaken, and for a quarter of an hour longer he
watched in vain. During that time the wind subsided still more, and
at length Adam Gray thought he heard his master's voice raised
loudly. A moment after, a slight flash, like that of a pistol, was seen
in the little bay, and the rocks around echoed with the report.

"Quick! light the torches--light the torches," cried the old man;
and taking one of the flambeaux which he had brought out, he ran
down the steps through the rock, to the place where the boat was
usually hauled up. The other servants followed, but before they
reached the shore the grating sound of her keel was heard, and the
first sight presented to the eyes of Adam Gray was his master, pale
and dripping, carrying across the narrow ledge of rock the form of a
lady, whose face rested on his shoulder, while her arms were clasped
tightly round him.

The blaze of the torches seemed to rouse her, or else it was some
words that Morley whispered, for she raised her head, exclaiming--
"Now, now, Morley, set me down! There are others need your care."

"Not yet," said Morley; "not till you are under shelter. This, at
least, I have a right to do. Light us up the rocks, good Adam; the
rest stay here till you have got out the other women. Captain," he
added, speaking in Italian to a tall, athletic man, who had sprung to
the shore after him--"take care of your own people, and follow us to
the villa. Are you sure the other boat went down?"

"I saw it sink," replied the man, in a sad tone; and hurrying on up
the steps, with Juliet in his arms, Morley paused not till he had laid
her on a sofa in the saloon; then bending down his head he kissed
her cheek, saying--"Thank God!" After gazing on her for a moment,
he added--"Now I will see to your cousin. I fear she is much worse.
Here, my good women," he continued, speaking to the wife of the
contadino and her daughters, who had followed him into the house,
"there is a lady below who will much want your care. Come with
me."

In a few minutes he returned, bearing Lady Malcolm in his arms,

apparently lifeless. She was soon carried to his own bedroom, and
every means were employed to restore her that the experience of
any of the party could suggest. Juliet forgot herself and all she had
suffered in her anxiety for her cousin; but ere long, she had the
happiness to hear her utter a few words of thanks to them for all
they had done.

"Now leave her with me and her woman," said the wife of the
contadino, who had shown skill as well as tenderness in her care of
the sufferer; "a few hours' sleep will do more for her than anything
else. Go with that lady, girls," she continued, speaking to her own
daughters; "and find her some clothes, for she is very wet."

Morley led Juliet forth, and then, in the same grave tone in which
he had hitherto spoken, besought her to change her dress, and take
some refreshment and repose. "I must go myself," he added, "to
make sure that there is assistance at hand, in case of any of the
poor wretches in the other boat reaching the shore. Though they
abandoned you and their companions, we must not abandon them.
Farewell; then, for to-night. Lie down to rest. We shall meet again
to-morrow--Juliet."

Juliet gazed on him in silence and sadness, but made no reply,

and Morley left her.

About an hour was spent by the young Englishman in sending

people with lights along the rocks, but without any result. The boat,
with which some of the seamen had left the ship, had, as the master
of the vessel said, gone down almost immediately, and the bodies of
those that it contained were not found for several days.

With a slow and thoughtful step while the moon began to struggle
with the clouds, Morley Ernstein returned to his own dwelling,
passed along the corridor, gave some orders to Adam Gray, and
entered the saloon. To his surprise, on raising his eyes, he beheld
Juliet standing as if watching for his return. Morley paused for a
moment, gazed at her with a look full of emotions that could not be
spoken; then closed the door, and, advancing, threw his arms
around her, and pressed her to his heart. Juliet strove not to
withdraw herself, but leaned her face upon his bosom, and wept.

"Juliet," he said, in a low voice, as he felt her heart throbbing

against his--"Juliet, we must never part! It is no longer happiness or
misery with me, Juliet--it is life or death. You are mine, or no other
sun ever rises for me again. Choose, Juliet--choose! The words of
fate are upon your lips. If you love me, you are mine--if you love me
not, I am nothing!"

"I do--I do," cried Juliet, throwing her own arms around him, and
speaking with a vehemence that he had never known her use; "I do
love you, Morley--I always have loved you--I never loved any but
you. Think not you have suffered alone, Morley,--oh, I have endured
more than it is possible for human language to declare! Can you
doubt that I love you? if you do, tell me how you will have me prove
my love, and I am ready to do it, even though the breaking of my
vow should break my heart, and destroy me here, as well as bring
wrath upon my head hereafter. Speak, Morley--speak!--Love you?
Oh, yes! better than any thing on earth--better, I fear, than heaven!"

Morley clasped her closer to his heart, and pressed his lips again
and again upon her brow and cheek; they burned, as if with fire.
She had asked him what he would have her do, and now he told her,
with all the eloquent words of passion. He saw her gaze wildly upon
him: he thought that she hesitated. Then all the fell words with
which Lieberg had urged him came back to his memory, and he was
about to employ their power upon her also--from the tempted to
become the tempter! But happily--oh most happily for both, Juliet
replied before he had blasted her esteem.

"Say no more, Morley," she said--"say no more--I am yours for

ever;" and she put her hand in his. "Oh, Lord God!" she added, "if I
sin in breaking the solemn vow I made to those who first gave me
life, forgive me in thy mercy! But for him, on whose account I break
it, that life which they gave would now be at an end. His is the
existence that I henceforth possess, and surely it can be no crime to
dedicate it all to him! I will try, Morley," she continued--"I will try to
forget that vow that I have made to those who are dead, or to think
that I am now exempt from its obligation; yet I fear it will often
return to make your Juliet sad, and that my peace of mind will
always be disturbed by the thought of a parent's curse."

Morley cast down his eyes as one bewildered. He gazed

thoughtfully on the ground for several moments. He trembled at the
feeling of a great escape; and then he murmured--"Here has been
some mistake--here has been some mistake!--Tell me, Juliet, what
was this vow? It cannot be binding on you now, but yet I must hear
it."

"Hear it, Morley, and decide for me," said Juliet, with a
melancholy look; "the vow is a double one. My mother, Morley, on
her death-bed--after a life of grief and sorrow for having disobeyed
her own parent--exacted from me a solemn pledge that I would
never become the wife of any man to whom my father forbade me
to give my hand. Morley, he did forbid me to unite myself to you. He
demanded from me a vow that I would not, on my duty as his child,
and his last words were the bitterest--the-most awful curse upon my
head if I disobeyed."
 There was a step in the room, which caused Juliet to turn her
head, while Morley, whose face was towards the door, made an
impetuous sign to the person who had entered to retire; but old
Adam Gray came in with a respectful, but a determined
countenance, and Juliet, with a glowing cheek, withdrew herself
from Morley's arm.

"I beg your pardon, Sir Morley," cried the old man; "but what I
have to say must be said--I can keep it down no longer; I care not
whether it offends or not! I have loved you from a boy, sir, and will
tell you the truth, even though it make you angry. The young lady
that you are talking to--I do not mean to say anything against her--
though she has made you unhappy enough, I'm sure."

"Quit the room, Adam Gray!" exclaimed Morley sternly.

"Not till I've told you, sir," replied the old servant "I've heard it's
her father's will makes her do all this; but she is no more what she
fancies herself than I am. Your father always said, sir, that she was
not old Carr's daughter, and wished Lady Malcolm--that is, Lady
Clavering, as I ought to call her now--to try it with him. That was the
cause of the quarrel; for your father said he was a swindler; and,
you know, all Mrs. Carr's property went to Lady Malcolm, if she had
not a child; and so, when their baby died, he got this young lady up
from Sergeant More's wife, who had it to nurse; but the cheat was
as plain as possible, for this baby was six weeks old, and the other
but a day or two; but as poor Mrs. Carr was so ill that she knew
nothing about it, and the baby was brought up by hand, nobody
could prove it then, except the nurse and Mrs. More. I can prove it
now, however, and that I will, too, let come of it what may."

The old man paused to take breath, for he had spoken with all
the eager rapidity of one who, having broken through habitual
respect, is fearful lest the impulse which gave him courage to do so
should fail him. The effect produced upon Morley and Juliet,
however, was very different from what he expected. At first both
seemed bewildered; but then a look of joy and satisfaction
inexpressible came upon his master's countenance, and casting his
arms round her he loved, Morley exclaimed--"Mine--mine, Juliet!--
you are mine, without a fear and without a regret, without one cloud
to shadow the sunshine of our love!"

"Oh, is it--can it be true?" cried Juliet. "Tell me--tell me," she

continued, disengaging herself from Morley's embrace, and laying
her hand upon the old man's arm--"can you prove it?--can you shew,
beyond a doubt, that I am not his child? I would give anything--I
would give everything--but, alas!" she added, suddenly recollecting
herself, "if it be as you say, Adam Grey, I shall have nothing to give--
I shall be a beggar, Morley.--Will you value your Juliet less?"

"A thousand-fold more, dearest!" replied her lover. "There was an

internal conviction of the truth in my heart, from the very first. I was
sure that old man could not be your father--that the same blood
never ran in his veins and in yours."

"And whose then is the blood that runs in mine?" said Juliet,
thoughtfully. "It is strange, Morley--very strange!--and yet I own that
I am most thankful to God it is as it is; for amongst many painful
things that I have endured through life, one of the most painful has
been, a conviction that I was not really an affectionate and tender
daughter--that I could not love my father as natural impulse would
prompt one to do. Often have I struggled with myself, often have I
wept over my own sensations, and have thought that, though he
was unkind, and cold, and bitter towards me, if I had really the
feelings which a child ought to have, I should forget every sort of
harsh and chilling act in filial love. But, oh! I do regret my mother--I
do regret my poor mother!--she was always gentle and affectionate,
and fond of me."

"Because she thought you were her child; and he knew you were
not his," replied Adam Gray--"that was the cause of the difference,
Miss Juliet; and though I can't understand how you and Sir Morley
have settled matters, so as to seem very happy at what I feared
might make you otherwise, I hope you will forgive me; and as to
proving it, I have got Mrs. More's declaration myself, signed with her
own hand, and her daughter has got all the papers which the old
woman left at her death. I promised not to say a word till she was
dead, and should not, indeed, have told it now, but that I thought
you were ill using my poor master, Miss Juliet."

"I hope I have not done so," said Juliet, with a sad smile at the
old man's bluntness. "One may sometimes be obliged to make those
they love unhappy, without ill using them. Adam Gray, I think you
should have known me better. But, however, perhaps now I may
have the power of rendering him happy instead. Morley, you seem
sad."

"No," answered Morley, "I am not, my beloved; but even in

intense joy itself, such as I now experience, there may be a
melancholy, Juliet--at all events a pensiveness--as there must be,
indeed, as long as man feels in his own heart that he is utterly
unworthy of the goodness and mercy of God. Together with the
sensation of relief and blessing which was given me by the tidings of
this night, and the knowledge that you are mine without one shade
of regret hanging over our union, came the recollection of how little
I had merited such joy, how I had repined and struggled, how many
evil acts I had actually been guilty of under the influence of despair,
how many more I might have been tempted to commit, how many I
was upon the very eve of plunging into. I must not tell you, Juliet--I
cannot tell you all that my words to you this very night implied,
before I found what were really the ties that bound you."

"Say not a word, dear Morley--say not a word," replied Juliet,

sadly but tenderly; "it has been bitter enough to know that I have
been making you wretched as well as myself. What would it be to
think that I had plunged you into any evil?"
 "It is past, Juliet--it is past!" said Morley; "and though the last
year will ever remain upon my memory as one dark and gloomy
spot, yet, dear girl, it may be no disadvantage to me to be a
humbler man for the rest of my life, from sad experience of my own
weakness.--But hark!" he exclaimed, hearing a sound unusual in that
remote place, "there is the galloping of a horse's feet. I hope no bad
news from Sorrento. Run down and see, good Adam, and bring me
word quickly."

CHAPTER LVIII.

Morley Ernstein had not been alone in watching with eager terror
the progress of the storm, and the wreck of the Sicilian polacca, on
the night, with the events of which, we have lately been busy. Helen
Barham, also, had seen the first effects of the squall, with terror the
more intense, because she knew, not only that Juliet must be at that
very time upon the waters, but also because she was aware that she
must be within a few leagues of the shore of Sorrento, upon which
the wind was blowing with such dreadful vehemence. Juliet had
written her a note from Capri, where they had paused for an hour or
two to see the island, and had even so accurately described the
vessel, that Helen had seen and recognised it before the storm
began. Each howl of the gale, when it first commenced, made her
heart sink with apprehension; and though there be some people in
the world, unfortunately, who may dream that thoughts would come
across Helen's mind to check if not to mitigate her anxiety for her
friend, yet be it said, most truly, that Helen only remembered Juliet
at that moment as one who had ever been tender and kind, who
had been a sister to her when the ties of kindred failed, who had
loved her with disinterested love, and soothed her in the time of
sorrow and mourning.

As soon it was possible, notwithstanding the fury of the wind, she

went out to the highest point of the coast, though it required all the
strength of Harry Martin, and another strong man, to steady her
steps. But Helen could not resolve to remain within, while one whom
she so dearly loved was perishing amidst the waves; and on the top
of the promontory she found a number of Italians, gazing out
likewise, with their eyes all fixed upon that vessel--now mastless and
abandoned to the fury of the waters--which was growing dimmer
and more dim to their sight, as the beams of day were fading away
from the sky. Then came the signals of distress, and all those terrible
moments, ere the polacca was totally hidden by the night. But
Helen, though powerless, remained not inactive; she endeavoured,
though in vain, to induce the fishermen to put off a boat; she
enquired fruitlessly for any persons more venturous than the rest;
she offered sums that seemed of incredible magnitude to the poor
Sorrentines, for any one who would go forth to give aid to the vessel
in distress. None would undertake it; and as the night went on, one
by one the people who had been assembled dropped away, and left
her standing there, still gazing out into the darkness, but unable to
tear herself from the spot.

At length, the same idea struck Harry Martin, which had occurred
to old Adam Gray. "In half an hour from this time, madam," he said,
"that ship will be upon these rocks. Will it not be better to get a
number of men, with torches, all ready to help and save as many of
the crew as possible?"

"Oh, yes, yes!" cried Helen; "fly, by all means, fly, and collect as
many as possible. Pay them well, and promise a large reward for
every life that is saved. Go quick, my good friend, go quick! I will
return to the villa with the courier. I fear I can do no good here.
Never mind me, Martin, but gather the people together, as fast as
possible."
 According to her orders, Harry Martin left her; and after remaining
for about ten minutes more, Helen was turning to go back to her
own dwelling, when one of the servants of the villa came up seeking
for her in the darkness to tell her that some people had been sent
over to Sorrento by Sir Morley Ernstein, who entertained some
apprehensions regarding her safety. Scarcely had the man spoken,
when the dim forms of two or three other persons were seen
sauntering up the rocky road, and Helen, somewhat alarmed at what
she heard, and not liking their appearance, hastened her steps. She
passed another and another, without being able in the obscurity to
discern their faces; and the sound of footfalls following, made her
heart beat strangely. At length four men presented themselves,
linked arm in arm, and at the same moment a loud whistle was
heard from those behind. At that signal an immediate rush was
made upon Helen, and those who were with her. The two men were
knocked down in an instant; and Helen, caught up by arms which it
was in vain to resist, was borne away, shrieking, and calling for help
in vain.

"This way, Eccellenza, this way!" cried a voice, in Italian, while the
speaker apparently ran on before; "round by this wall, and the back
of the houses, or we shall be stopped. Once on the road to Vico, and
we are safe. The house you bade us get, is that way--the other men
will take care we are not pursued. Here, round to the right, sir."

Helen ceased not, however, to cry for help, as long as strength

remained, but it was in vain, and for two miles the man who carried
her bore her on with a rapidity that made his own breath come thick
and hard. At length as they were entering what seemed a wilder,
and less cultivated part of the country, where the walls of the
vineyards and gardens had ceased, and nothing was before them
but the hills covered with their odoriferous plants, he paused,
saying--"I must stop for a minute. Bid the men make a circle round
us."
 "Oh!" cried Helen; "for pity's sake let me go. What have I done to
injure you? If you will let me go, you shall have any ransom that you
name."

"Ransom!" he replied, speaking in English and in a voice too well

known; "half a world should not ransom you, till you become a thing
that you yourself loathe and hate. You scorned my love in England,
you scorned it still more bitterly at Rome, but now I have you
amongst these wild hills, and the God that delivers you, will be a
God indeed! Come on, my men, come on;" he continued, "see, the
moon is breaking through the clouds, and the wind is going down,
we are still too near the houses.--Come on, quick, I say; I think I
hear a horse's feet."

Helen heard the same sound, and shrieked aloud for aid, but help
did not come; they hurried her on: the echo of the horse's feet died
away, and Lieberg said, in a bitter tone--"He hears not the sweet
music; or, like the deaf adder, he stoppeth his ear to the song of the
charmer. Your mode of journeying is unpleasant, perhaps; it will
soon be over, lady, so content yourself for a time."

When he had gone about a quarter of a mile farther, however, a

distant noise met the ears of the whole party, not like the noise of
one horse's feet, but as if there were many, coming up at the full
gallop by the same path which they were pursuing. Helen found her
persecutor's arms clasped more tightly round her, while his pace
grew still more rapid; and, confirmed by these signs in the faint
hope she entertained of assistance being near, she again called
aloud for help.

"Tie this over her mouth," cried one of the men, giving Lieberg a
handkerchief; "they cannot trace us here, unless her screams bring
them up."

"That accursed moon will betray us," exclaimed Lieberg. "Cannot

we get down into the hollow way?"
 "They will hem us in there," cried the man. "By the body of
Bacchus, they have got round, and are before us! Bend down,
Eccellenza, bend down!--Curse that screaming! I will drive my knife
into her!"

"Here, take her," cried Lieberg. "We shall have to fight them.--Call
up some of the men from behind.--Tie her, and keep her here; they
cannot be so many as we are. We will soon disperse them.--Here
come three, right down upon us--call up some of the men from
behind, I say!"

The man to whom he spoke uttered the same loud whistle that
Helen had heard before, but at that moment were heard two or
three shots from the ground which they had just passed over, and
then a whole volley, while the three horsemen, who had galloped on
and intercepted Lieberg's farther progress, caught sight of him, by
the clear moonlight and were coming down at full speed.

"Huzza! we have them--we have them!" cried the voice of Harry

Martin.--"In God's name, leave him to me, Sir Morley.--You look to
the lady."

But as he spoke, two of Lieberg's hired ruffians rushed up, in that

picturesque, and never-to-be-mistaken costume which the Italian
bandits have affected, with the ribands on their hats floating wildly
in the gale, and their long guns carried easily in their hands.

"We cannot help you," they cried--"we cannot help you, they are
too many for us. Bertolo is down, and so is Marino."

"But strike one stroke," exclaimed Lieberg, furiously; "here are but
three before us."

"But there are twenty behind," answered one of the men.

"However, here goes;" and raising his gun to his shoulder, he fired.
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