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 Another Random Document on
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saddened by a partial knowledge of her brother's perilous state;
though William Barham himself, like most sufferers from the same
malady, was utterly ignorant of the fate that hung over him, and had
that very morning been cursing the doctors, for some little
inconvenience which he had undergone at the last inn, declaring
that if they had let him remain in England, he would have been well
long before.

Helen gazed, as I have said, pleased but somewhat sorrowful;

and, indeed, there is nothing on earth I know more melancholy, than
to look over one of the bright scenes of nature with an eye fresh
from the bed of deadly sickness. There is a strange and awful
contrast in it: it makes life seem so utterly vain and worthless, that
all we have been taught to prize turns suddenly, like the fabled
fruits, to dust and ashes; and our heart sinks with a conviction of the
emptiness of every thing below, even before it can rise with the
consciousness of a better state beyond.

Helen gazed, then, and meditated; and her lovely eyes filled with
tears. At that moment her brother's voice said, "Helen;" but for a
short time she would not look round, lest he should see the drops
upon her eyelids, and divine their cause. But the next moment, he
repeated the word "Helen" in a tone that alarmed her, and when she
did turn, his countenance alarmed her still more. His cheeks had
become more hollow, the red spot which had been constantly there
for some weeks was gone, his temples seemed fallen in, and the
thin light hair lay more wild upon his brow than usual. There was a
transparent greyness, too, about the flesh which Helen had never
seen before, in him, but had marked it to well in another; and when
once seen, it is never to be forgotten. At the same time a sort of
spasmodic gasping seemed to convulse his chest, and his hands lay
upon his knees.

"Helen!" he cried--"Helen! I feel very queer. Don't let them go on

in this mist. Stop the carriage--I should like to get out. The air is so
thick here I cannot breathe. Stop the carriage, girl, I say! Those d--d
doctors, if they had but left me in England I should have been well
by this time. That mist--"

Helen let down the window hastily, and called to the postilions to
stop, but they did not hear her, and it was some time before she
could catch the ear of the courier. At length, however, the carriage
paused; and the door was opened, and, by a great effort, William
Barham raised himself from his seat, and fell forward into the arms
of the courier. The man carried him to the bank, and placed him at
the foot of a tree, but the unhappy youth sunk back upon the grass
with his eyes closed; while the same death-like pallor continued
upon his countenance, and a quick, hard-drawn respiration shook his
emaciated frame. Helen sprang from the carriage after her brother,
and knelt beside him, her heart palpitating with apprehension, and
her eyes filled with the tears of natural affection, no less keen and
sensible because he who lay there dying before her had been so
frequently the cause of pain, and sorrow, and anxiety. She bade the
man bring water from the stream to throw upon his face; but though
he went civilly to obey, yet he shrugged his shoulders, saying, in
French--"It is of no use, mademoiselle--he is dying."

Oh! of all the many painful things of earth, there are few more
terrible than to stand by the side of a being that we deeply love,
watching the last struggles of departing life, looking round for aid,
consolation, and support, and finding about us none but indifferent
strangers, who view our sorrow and its cause but as a scene upon a
theatre. Though she knew that medical aid was useless, what would
not Helen Barham have given, at that moment, for the presence of a
physician, for the presence of any friend! But all she could do was to
clasp her hands, and gaze through her tears upon the unanswering
countenance of her brother, expecting every moment to see the
spirit depart. After the courier had been gone for a minute, however,
a hasty step called her attention, and then a voice which seemed
familiar to her ear, asking aloud, in English--"What's the matter--
what's the matter?"
 Helen looked up, and the face of Harry Martin met her eyes.

"Oh, I am so glad to see you!" she exclaimed. "My brother--my

brother,--he is dying, I am afraid."

Harry Martin said, in his own heart, "And no bad job either!" But
there was too much of the milk of human kindness, mingled with his
rough nature, to let him utter one word which could pain poor Helen
Barham at that moment.

"I am very glad to see you, ma'am," he replied; "but sorry to find
you in such a state. But why did you take the young man out of the
carriage? The place they call Steig is only two miles off; the doctor
will be there in half an hour, to see our poor old woman who broke
her leg. Better put him in again, Miss! Take the maid with you,
inside; I'll jump up behind, and we'll soon be there."

The courier came back with some water in his hands, but though
thrown upon the face of the unhappy youth, it produced no effect,
except a slight shudder which passed over his frame. The suggestion
of the man Harry Martin was then followed. He himself carried the
almost lifeless body of William Barham to the carriage, and placed
him in it; while Helen, taking her seat beside him, supported his
head upon her arm, and the door being closed after the maid had
entered, they proceeded on their way.

The postilions drove quick--much more so, indeed, than any

money would have induced them to do--and in about twenty
minutes the chariot stood before the little post-house. Much to the
satisfaction of Harry Martin, the surgeon who had been attending old
Mrs. More was seen, as they came up, in the very act of getting into
his ancient caleche, to rumble back again to Friedburg, and,
springing down, the Englishman stopped him, and told him what had
occurred. The surgeon followed him instantly to the side of the
vehicle, but when they came up, the post-master, the servants, and
the courier were all whispering round, Helen's beautiful face was
buried in her handkerchief, and the dead body of William Barham lay
beside her, with the head resting upon her shoulder.

Harry Martin sprang round to the other side of the chariot,

opened the door, and, raising the corpse in his powerful arms, bore
it into the inn. Helen started, and looked round for a moment, as she
felt the weight that had leaned upon her removed; but then bent
down her head again, and once more covering her eyes, wept
bitterly, without making any movement to quit the carriage. In
another instant, however, Harry Martin was at the door again, and
gently laying his hand upon her sleeve, he called her attention,
saying--"You must get out, Miss Barham, I fear, for there is much to
be done.--Be comforted, madam," he added, in a low tone--"be
comforted. Ay, and thank God! Remember, it might have been
worse--much worse."

Helen dried her tears, and entered the inn, where much sad
business lay before her. Luckily, however, she was amongst
kindhearted and honest people, and the only effort that was made to
wrong her in any respect, was on the part of her brother's courier.
He was detected in pilfering and cheating, on the day after the
funeral of William Barham, by the keen eyes of Harry Martin, who,
as he himself said, not knowing the laws of the country, ensured
that the rogue should not go without punishment by thrashing him
most terribly on the spot, and at the moment. He then reported his
conduct to Miss Barham, and the man was accordingly dismissed, so
that Helen was left in a small German village, without any counsel or
assistance of the kind and character which she most needed, to
choose her own plans, and to follow out the curious windings of that
fate, which had placed her in so many an unforeseen position
through life. She had been compelled to choose her course before,
in circumstances that may seem to the reader far more difficult; but,
strange to say, now that great wealth was at her command, and that
all the self-named friends and humble servants who are always
ready to bow down and worship at the shrine of the great god of
this world, were prepared to court and seek her, and show her
kindnesses and attentions, not the slightest of which her high
qualities of mind and heart would have won from them had she
remained poor,--strange to say, she felt more embarrassed, more
anxious, more doubtful in acting for herself, than she had felt when
left, by her father's death, to provide by her own exertions food for
her brother and herself.

At one time, she thought of returning to England; and, perhaps,

had she been a person to consult the dictates of prudence alone,
she would have done so; but alas! reader, Helen Barham was not by
nature a prudent person. She was good, indeed,--she was very
good; and she had strong and fine principles, but it was from her
heart that her goodness proceeded--in her heart that her principles
dwelt. On the present occasion there was some secret longing--
some inclination hidden from herself which made her anxiously
desire to go on towards Italy; and though, at first, she felt some sort
of fear at the mere idea of doing so, of taking so long a journey by
herself, of encountering strange scenes and strange people, and
undergoing all the dangers and difficulties of the road, yet these
apprehensions soon disappeared, and she reasoned down every
other objection in her own mind.

Nor did many real obstacles present themselves. All her brother's
affairs had been settled before she left England, and she came in as
the clear and sole heir, he having died under age, of the whole
property which they had lately acquired. The steps necessary to be
taken in consequence of his decease, the lawyers were very willing
to carry through without her presence, and Helen having once
written to England and received an answer, openly took the
resolution of going on to Italy--speaking the truth when she said
that she herself did not feel well, and would probably be better for
the air of a milder climate.

There was a difficulty, indeed, in procuring an honest and

respectable servant, and her experience of the last courier did not
tend to give her any great confidence in that sort of cattle. But she
was not destined to proceed alone. The man Martin and his wife had
shown her that devoted attention and respect, which could only
spring from deep gratitude; and although the good old lady, Mrs.
More, was still in a very feeble and even dangerous state, they had
lost no opportunity of offering to Helen every attention and
assistance. The funeral of William Barham had been arranged and
carried through by Harry Martin himself, who had by this time learnt
to converse in a somewhat barbarous kind of German, and many of
the painful particulars which attend the act of committing our
kindred clay to the earth, had been spared to Helen by his
consideration for her.

When he now heard that she was going on to Italy, he made all
the preparations, took her orders, as if he had been her servant, and
often gazed wistfully in her face, with a look that seemed to imply
there was something in his mind which he wished to speak, without
presuming to do so. He often, too, held long consultations with his
wife; and, in the end, he came one morning suddenly into the room
which Helen had made her sitting-room, saying, without any
preface--"I can't think of your going to Italy by yourself, Miss Helen.
I know you talk of getting a courier fellow at Schaffhausen or
Constance; but bless you, ma'am, he's as likely to cheat you as the
other, and you are going into a place where there are blackguards of
all sorts. Now, it's very possible, ma'am, that, from what you know
of me, you may think I am not a very likely person to take with you,
and that I may just prove as bad as the rest of them you would
meet with; but I give you my word of honour, that I never cheated
any one in my life, though many a time I have done, perhaps, what
may be worse. But, however, I would not wrong you in any way for
a great deal more than the world, and if you were to give me to
keep for you a hundred thousand pound without counting it, you
should have every farthing back again, if I were starving."

"I am quite sure of it, Martin," replied Helen Barham, with one of
her sweet confiding smiles; "I should not in the least mind putting all
I have in the world in your hands. But what is it you wish to
propose? You could not, quit this poor lady in her present state--"

"Why, Miss Helen," replied Harry Martin, "that is just what I have
been talking to my wife about. She is not the least afraid of staying
here to attend to her mother, till I go with you to Italy and come
back again. What I want is, just to go along with you, on the outside
of the carriage, to see that nobody does you any harm. You can get
a courier fellow where you can find one, for you see I know nothing
about that sort of business, and should not exactly like such a thing
either; but I will see that he keeps all straight, and when once you
are safe, and amongst people who will love you, and take care of
you, as you ought to be, I can come back again, or Jane can come
to me, as the case may be."

Helen took a day to consider, but her consideration ended in her

adopting the plan which was proposed, and though she obtained a
courier with a good recommendation, Harry Martin attended her
onward into Italy.

CHAPTER LIV.

That season of the year was approaching when it is necessary for

foreigners to quit Rome, if they hold their life very dearly; and
Morley Ernstein, though certainly with no thought of malaria, had
more than once proposed to Lieberg to pursue their way to Naples,
but for some reason, best known to himself, the latter had always
made some excuse to delay. In the meantime, he surrounded Morley
Ernstein with temptations of all sorts, upon which we will not dwell,
having already displayed the course which he followed, and the
means which he took, and it being unnecessary to repeat nearly the
same story. He did not succeed, it is true, to any great extent. Some
few pieces of extravagance, Morley certainly was led to commit--
some few acts which he regretted,--not many, but enough to give
Lieberg encouragement to pursue his plan with good hope of
success at last; for the water does not more certainly wear the stone
over which it passes, than a constant familiarity with vicious scenes
destroys the moral principle in the heart of man.

Morley Ernstein would not approach the gaming-table, however,

neither would he drink to anything like excess, though that also was
tried by his dear friend, who well knew, that, as in the case of the
Santon, one folly of such a kind opens the door to vices of all sorts.
It may be asked, what was the object of all this?--it may be said that
there must be a motive for all human actions. Reader, I cannot
clearly tell you what the object was; and Lieberg's conduct certainly
seemed more fiend-like than human. He afterwards indeed uttered
some dark words which were never explained and might be untrue;
but if there was not some deep seated cause of enmity towards
Morley Ernstein in his bosom, arising in circumstances that we know
not, we can only guess at his purposes and motives. To degrade
Morley in the eyes of Helen Barham was certainly one end in view;
but besides this, we have seen that his young companion had on
more than one occasion thwarted him in an object of passion, had
mortified his vanity and wounded his pride; and if we take these
causes of offence, acting upon a malignant mind, together with the
natural antipathy that the evil feel towards the good, and the jealous
hatred of a man who sees another preferred by the being that he
loves, the motives may perhaps be considered sufficient for his
conduct. There may indeed have been something more--I am
inclined to believe it was so--but what, I know not.

The struggle was still going on with Morley Ernstein between

temptation and resistance, when, one day, as he was passing along
the Piazza del Popolo, he saw a magnificent carriage, undoubtedly of
English construction, standing before the great hotel, the name of
which I forget, with two or three servants round the door, and the
usual quantity of lackeys, couriers, and ciceroni at the entrance of
the inn. When his eyes first lighted upon it he was at a considerable
distance, and while he was still some thirty yards, a lady came out of
the hotel with a quick step, and entered the vehicle. The door was
closed, the order given where to drive, and the carriage, taking a
turn, dashed past Morley the moment after. There was an earl's
coronet and emblazoned arms upon the panel, and Morley, raising
his eyes to the window, beheld the countenance of Juliet Carr. How
often had he seen that face with joy--ay, even after hope had passed
away; and the first sensation had always been pleasure; but now,
there was something in Juliet's dress and appearance--something in
the magnificence of the equipage--something, perhaps, in his own
pre-conceived suspicions which made the sight of her he loved feel
like a heavy blow upon his heart. She evidently did not see him, and
was speaking with a smile to some one else who was in the vehicle
with her. Morley paused for an instant to recover breath, and then
advancing to the inn, determined to have his doubts satisfied, he
asked an English servant, who was still gazing after the carriage,
whose it was.

The man was one of those saucy English footmen who are the
disgrace of many of our noble houses; and to any one but a man of
Morley's distinguished appearance he might have made an insolent
reply. To him, however, he answered, in a civil tone--"The Countess
of Clavering, sir."

"Lord Clavering has not long been married, I think," said Morley,
in as firm a voice as he could command.

"About a month, sir," replied the man, with a grin, "and he has
already gone back to England to attend the house of peers. That
was my lady who just drove away."
 Morley turned with his heart burning and his brain whirling round;
but, pausing after he had taken a step or two, with a bitter smile
curling his lip, he took out his card-case, and, walking back, gave the
man a card, saying--"That for Lady Clavering, with my
congratulations."

The attempt to describe the feelings of Morley Ernstein, when the

full agony burst upon him, would indeed be vain. His passionate
indignation approached nearly to madness; his bitter, bitter anguish
of spirit might have tempted him, at that moment, to commit any
act which his worst enemy could wish. He felt it--he knew it to be
so--his command over himself was gone, and he feared to return to
the inn where he had left Lieberg, lest he might be led into some
irretrievable step of folly or of vice. He wandered, then, through the
streets of Rome for several hours, with the hurried pace and unequal
step of a man torn by terrible emotions. He saw nothing that passed
him; his eye marked none of the objects it rested upon; his spirit,
busy within itself, seemed to have lost communication with the
bodily senses; and it was nearly night when he was recalled to
himself by some one suddenly seizing his arm, and exclaiming--
"What is the matter, Morley? I have been following you this half
hour, and you do not seem to know where you are going, or what
you are doing."

"Nor do I, Lieberg," replied Morley. "All I have undergone is not

equal to this."

"Nay, nay," said Lieberg; "come back to the hotel, and tell me
what is the matter. By keeping your griefs and anxieties to yourself
you more than double them; and not only that, but you are unjust to
me. In striving to suggest those things which might divert your mind
without knowing what it is that weighs upon it, I very often may
propose the worst things when I wish to offer the best. I beseech
you, Morley, tell me all."
 "I will, Lieberg--I will," replied Morley. "I will; but let us go home
first;" and walking quickly on by the side of his companion he took
his way to the hotel, where, casting himself into a chair, he covered
his eyes with his hands for two or three minutes to collect his
thoughts, and then gave Lieberg a hurried and confused account of
his attachment to Juliet Carr, and all that had occurred in the course
of that true love, which had run even more roughly than is usually
the case with the troubled course of human affection.

After he had brought his narrative up to the events of Venice, he

paused, and Lieberg replied--"I had known something of all this,
Morley, but not accurately, and I see I have made several mistakes
in dealing with you. I did not know that you loved her so intensely.
You may think me light, but my passions and attachments are as
strong, or stronger than your own. I believed that you would have
acted, if you truly loved her, as I would have acted under similar
circumstances, that you would have pursued her, struggled against
her resolutions, combated her arguments, set at nought idle vows,
and ultimately won her for your happiness and for her own. But I
forgot, Morley, that you are less experienced in all things than I am,
and though passion may give the impetus to action, it is experience
that must guide it to success. I forgot this, I say, and fancying that
you loved her with one of those half loves, which may be diverted by
pleasures and occupations, or swallowed up in another attachment, I
endeavoured to lead your mind upon a course it could not follow.
Now, however, I am convinced that you do love--at least I believe
so, but I shall soon see, by the steps which you once take when
your eyes are open. You seem to think that she has true affection for
you; and, though from your agitation now, I suppose you have seen
her again, and that she has once more treated you with the same
cruel coldness, if you do love her, you will pursue her with that
vigour of determination which will sweep away all obstacles. There is
a might in real passion to which all inferior things soon bow, and
which woman's heart can never resist, even for an hour, when once
convinced that it is truly present. But that conviction cannot be
produced by any sign of weakness,--you must show her that you
love her, as none but strong and powerful hearts can love. That you
are resolved to possess her, or to die----"

"Vain, vain, vain!" cried Morley, in bitterness of spirit. "It is all now
in vain; she did love me; but driven by some promise extorted by
her father, I suppose, she is now the wife of another!"

Lieberg started, and gazed upon him in surprise, then grasped his
arm, and with his dark star-like eyes fixed on his face, exclaimed--
"Take her from him! What right has he to possess her? Is she not
yours? Yours by the bond of the heart's affection--yours by the tie
that is beyond the earth--yours by the union of spirit with spirit! Talk
not to me of human laws and ordinances, where the soul itself
recognises a rule that is defined. You are her husband, if with the
true intensity of heaven's own fire you love her and she loves you.
You are her husband, I say, and every hour of her union with
another is adultery. Take her from him, Morley--take her from him,
be he who he may. Scruple at no means, stop at no pitiful
considerations; it is due to her as well as to yourself--it is due to her
in every sense. Think, think of the long and lasting misery that she
must endure. Do you not know--are you not sure that every hour
she must recollect you? What human ordinance will blot you out
from her memory? What empty words, spoken at an altar, will erase
from her heart the husband of her early dreams. Morley, if you are a
lover--if you are a man--you will spare that sweet, mistaken girl the
hell-fire tenderness of him whom she cannot love!"

"Hush, hush, hush!" cried Morley. "You will drive me mad!"

"You are mad already, Morley", replied Lieberg, "or you would fly
to her at once. You would show her the brow which she loves,
scathed with the lightning of passion, the form of him to whom she
promised heaven, blighted by the consuming hell of disappointed
affection. You would call upon her to remedy the wrong that she has
committed--you would urge her with those words of power, the
omnipotent magic of love, to save you from despair, destruction, and
death, and to give you back the joy of which she has robbed you."

Thus did he proceed, reader, adding to the words he spoke, that

overpowering eloquence of look, gesture, and tone, which has far
more effect than language, but can never be described. Let it be
remembered, too, that this was addressed to Morley Ernstein at a
moment when the whole powers of his mind were shaken by the
agony he endured, when reason herself tottered on her throne, and
despair had broken down the great prop of all good principle--hope.
He sat and listened, not without a knowledge that there was wrong
and evil in the words he heard; but it was as a man for whom all
life's joys and expectations are extinct, and who, in a moment of
frenzied desperation, takes quietly the cup he knows to be poisoned,
and drains it with a bitter smile.

At length, however, he rose, and said, "Lieberg, I will leave you

for to-night. I cannot converse with any one--my story is scarcely
told, but a few words more will do it. She is married to a man as old
as her father--to a Lord Clavering--"

"Why, he is just gone to England!" exclaimed Lieberg.

"I know it," answered Morley, "and has left her here."

"Fly to her, Morley--fly to her!" cried Lieberg, grasping his hand--

"fly to her this very night!"

"No," answered Morley, "no! Whatever I do, I must have time for
thought."

Thus saying, he left him, and in the silence and solitude of his
own chamber, paced up and down for more than an hour, with the
better spirit within him struggling vehemently against the spell, but
too weak to cast it off by its own efforts.
 "I must fly," he said to himself, at length--"I must fly from this
man, or he will destroy me. I will fly speedily, both from him and
from the presence of her who has cast away my happiness and her
own. To-morrow I will seek for the means, and to-night I will see
him no more. I will throw off his dangerous companionship. To avoid
evil is the next thing to conquering it."

He opened the door to call his servant Adam Gray; the old man
was sitting at the other side of the antechamber, and looking eagerly
towards the entrance of his master's room.

"I have knocked twice, sir," he said, "but you did not hear me."

"I was busy with very sad meditations, Adam," replied his master.

"I thought so, sir," answered the old man, simply, "for I saw to-
day the person who always causes them--I wish I might say all--"

"Say nothing, my good Adam--say nothing upon that subject,"

replied Morley.

"No; I must not tell anything now, sir," rejoined Adam Gray, "but
the time will come for me to speak."

"You said you knocked," continued Morley, gravely; "what do you

want?"

"Why, sir," replied Adam, "there's another person in Rome besides

her; a person whom you will be glad to see, I think; and who will be
glad enough to see you, poor thing!"

"Who is that?" demanded his master; the expression, "poor

thing," showing him that his old servant spoke of some person he
believed to be attached to him, and making his mind immediately
turn to Veronica. Alas, he never thought of Helen Barham!
 "Why, sir, it is the young lady who was for some time with Lady
Malcolm," replied Adam Gray. "Miss Barham, or Miss Helen, as
people always call her. I saw her maid looking about the town with
the courier, about an hour or two ago, and told them where you
were, so just now the courier brought this note for you."

Morley ordered lights into his room, and taking the note, read as
follows:--

"My Dear Sir;

"Although, under ordinary circumstances, it might seem strange
for me to ask you to come to see me, yet I feel that it would show a
want of gratitude were I to be in the same city with yourself and not
tell you that I am here. But I have another excuse for that which I
acknowledge I am very willing to do. You are, I dare say, aware, by
this time, of my poor brother's death, and that the property which to
my great regret, he claimed and obtained from you, has descended
to me. There is still, however, some business to settle in regard to it,
which I am sure he would have wished to arrange himself as I
propose, if his life had been spared to do so. In regard to these
arrangements, I could much wish to speak with you, as well as to
assure you that I am, ever most truly,

"Your grateful,

"Helen
Barham."

"P.S. I will wait at home to-morrow till you call, unless you let me
know that it is inconvenient to do so on that day."
 Morley answered the note at once, and named the hour, and this
return to the ordinary things of life had some effect in calming his
mind again. Twice he asked himself why Adam Gray had called Helen
"poor thing," but he turned his thoughts away from the images to
which the reply gave rise.

CHAPTER LV.

Pale, haggard, and sick at heart, Morley Ernstein rose from his
sleepless bed, and made preparations of various kinds for that
speedy departure, which all the varied trains of thought that had
visited his mind during the night, had but shewn him to be the more
necessary. The next thing to be done, was to announce his
determination to Lieberg, and for that purpose he proceeded to the
saloon, where his companion was already seated at breakfast. There
was a sparkling sort of smile upon Lieberg's countenance which
Morley was never very fond of. He had often seen it precede
conversations that ended or went on in a painful manner; but it was
Lieberg's general plan never to commence any subject himself,
except of an ordinary kind, and on this occasion, as usual, he
suffered Morley to speak first, merely giving him the common
salutation of the morning. Now, as we have shewn, the character of
Morley Ernstein was intimately mixed of good and evil, but he had
one invariable quality, which was, frankness; at times carried too far,
perhaps--too far, at least, for his own earthly interest: truth can
never be carried too far for Heaven. In the present case, he not only
told Lieberg his purpose, but he told him why; he acknowledged that
he feared him; that their views on the subject which they had
discussed on the preceding night, were as different as light from
darkness; but that he dreaded lest, under strong temptation, he
might yield, and never cease to regret that he had so given way.

"I believe, Lieberg," he said, "that you wish me well, and would
direct me to what you conceive to be happiness. My view of that not
to be found jewel, however, can never be the same as yours; and
though I thank you much for your good wishes, yet I must pursue
my own plan."

Morley paid no great attention to his companion's countenance

while he spoke, and yet it was worth observing. There was once or
twice a look of displeasure, and once or twice a look of triumph,
especially when the young Englishman owned that he feared his
influence. A scornful smile marked his lip, too, when Morley spoke of
proceeding at once; but the whole settled down into an expression
of calm, well-satisfied pride, and he replied, attaching himself, in the
first place, to the words, "My view of happiness can never be the
same as yours,"--"You must come to it, Morley," he said--"You must
come to it. The time will be, believe me, when you will find such
happiness as mine the only happiness to be procured. However, be it
as you will! Take your own way! Go to Naples at once, and wait for
me there till I come. I will not be long after you; and then, as I shall
have nothing to tempt you with, you may pursue your journey with
me in safety, through the sunny land of Greece, and perhaps to the
brighter and more ardent skies of Syria. There we shall see whether
even your cold blood may not be warmed into a flame. But where go
you after breakfast? Let us, at least, spend this last day of your stay
in Rome together."

"I fear that cannot be," replied Morley; "I have various things to
do, and have an engagement at eleven; but after two I am at your
command."
 Lieberg bit his lip, but made no reply, and Morley had finished his
breakfast as soon as he left the saloon, and proceeded to his own
chamber. It happened, by the merest accident in the world, that
after he had taken his hat and gloves, and give some additional
orders to Adam Gray, he went out of his room by another door, on
the side opposite to that which opened into the common vestibule,
and issued forth from the hotel by a small staircase which he had
only used twice before. It is true that, although he believed Helen
Barham to be now placed by fortune far above Lieberg's pursuit, yet
he felt no inclination to speak of her being in Rome at all; but still, in
going out by the back way, he acted without premeditation, and
without ever dreaming that he would be watched.

Had he gone through the anteroom, however, he would have seen

that Lieberg's valet was waiting there; and there the man continued
to sit, till Adam Gray came out of Morley's room, when a few words
were interchanged between the two servants. The valet seemed
surprised, and immediately went in to speak with his master; after
which the old man's ear caught a furious imprecation, followed by a
sound, as if the Count in his anger had struck the table a violent
blow with his clenched fist.

In the meanwhile, Morley Ernstein walked on to the inn where

Helen Barham was to be found, and, on asking for her, was
immediately admitted. She rose as soon as she saw him, a little
fluttered and agitated, but with the mounting colour in her cheeks,
the slight quivering of her beautiful lip, and the dancing light in her
dark eyes, all adding to that loveliness which in itself was
incomparable. She strove hard to be calm and placid, and indeed
would sooner have become somewhat cold than otherwise, but it
was a difficult thing for Helen Barham to be so. I have heard people
called creatures of impulse, but she was a creature of emotions--
tender, fine, high, noble, but still trembling, like a finely-balanced
lever, at the lightest touch. She could not restrain her feelings; and
as Morley met her, she looked so happy with her resplendent beauty,
with all her wild grace, with light, and soul, and tenderness in her
eyes--she seemed to possess so much of everything that God can
give to content the utmost expectations of a human creature, that
Morley was forced to ask himself again why it was the old man had
called her "Poor thing!" Morley fell into a very common error
notwithstanding all his own experience. It is, that we always make a
mistake as to the source of happiness. It springs from within, and
not from without. It is the water that gushes from the rock of our
own hearts, not the rain that dimples the stream, adding but a few
drops to the current.

"I am most delighted to see you," said Morley, taking the hand
she offered; "and though I know you must feel the loss of your
brother deeply, yet I must still congratulate you on your accession to
the fortune you now possess. I was always sure, my dear Miss
Barham, that you would do honour to high station and extensive
means, and I thank God that I see you now possessed of them!"

"If I had had either voice or choice in the matter," replied Helen,
earnestly, "I never would have become possessed of them in such a
way. A very small portion would have contented me; and the
superabundance which I do possess is rather a burden than
otherwise, especially as I feel that, to have taken it from you, is to
have turned our heel against our benefactor."

"Not at all," answered Morley Ernstein. "It was perfectly your

brother's right; and as soon as I became convinced that it was so, I
could not have held the estate for a single hour. Neither did your
brother behave at all unhandsomely in any of the proceedings
regarding it--"

"Nay--nay," said Helen, holding up her hand--"though he did not,

Sir Morley; and I believe would ultimately have done what was right,
yet his lawyers did behave unhandsomely in his name; but I have
immediately taken means to remedy what was amiss."
 "I do not know what you have done, my dear Miss Barham," said
Morley, with a smile; "but I trust and hope that your kind and
generous feelings have not induced you to undo anything that has
been settled. What the law gives you, is yours; and as far as I am
concerned in the matter, I cannot consent to your making any
sacrifice--honour and common honesty forbid me; and now, having
said this, let me enquire what it is that you have done?"

Helen was sitting beside him on the sofa, and for a moment she
raised her bright eyes to his, with a look of internal satisfaction
mingled with regard, which, if Morley had chosen to translate it,
might have been read--"I have done that which gives me the highest
delight, because you must and will approve it." But she did not
answer exactly in those words, and withdrew her eyes again
immediately, with a sigh, and a look of sadness, as if she saw
something in Morley's countenance, which she had not remarked
before.

"What I have done," she said "is only what is just and right. There
has been no generosity--no flights of what people call fine feeling in
it, and I think you will confess at once that it is so, and not give me
the greatest pain, by refusing to accede to that which your own
heart will tell you is just, merely because it is proposed to you by a
person whom you have already loaded with benefits. I think," she
added, in a lower, but not less eager tone, "you would not willingly
make me very unhappy."

"God forbid!" replied Morley, warmly. "What is there that I, would

not do to make you happy?"

Helen's cheek became a little pale, and, for a moment, she did
not answer; but finding that he paused also, she said--"The fact is,
simply, this: the property which my brother claimed, and recovered
was bought from my grandfather, who, I am told, was the most
careless and thoughtless of men. He did not, I am sure, intend to
defraud your father, and acted without consideration. But, at all
events, your father paid ninety-three thousand pounds for the
estate; and the lawyers tell me, that if my grandfather had been still
living, you could have claimed and recovered that sum from him. It
is but just, then, that I should pay it back to you, and I have told the
people in London, to place it immediately in the hands of your
friend, Mr. Hamilton.--Nay, now," she added, "do not look grave and
thoughtful--your heart tells you that what I propose is right."

"But--" said Morley Ernstein.

"Nay, nay," interrupted Helen, playfully; "I will have no buts. Tell
me, Sir Morley, in former days--to remember which, connected with
your kindness, will always be most delightful to me--did I not ever
do what you told me, as soon as I was convinced that it was right?"

"You did, indeed," said Morley, with a smile; "but I wish first to be
sure whether this is really right?"

"What would you do if you were in my place?" demanded Helen.

"As you have done," answered Morley.

"Ay, and perhaps more," said Helen. "You would do all that I
should wish to do, but dare not offer, because I know you would
reject it angrily."

"Not angrily--not angrily, with you," exclaimed Morley; "but firmly.

You have already done as much, and more, than the most generous
feeling could dictate; and as I believe it is a pleasure to you to do it,
I will not refuse to accept what you propose, though I see that you
do not know the whole circumstances. Let me tell you, then, my
dear Miss Barham, what they are, in some degree; for if you feel a
pleasure in doing a generous act, the satisfaction will be doubled
when you know that act relieves one who has the greatest regard
for you from a severe embarrassment."
 He then explained to her, that the only means he had found of
paying the large claims against him, were, to assign the rents of
almost all his landed property, to dismiss his servants, to curtail his
expenditure, and to live upon an income comparatively small and
pitiful. Helen's cheek first grew pale, and then burned with the hue
of crimson; and as he went on she burst into a bitter flood of tears,
exclaiming--"And we have done this!--we have done this!"

Morley took her hand, and pressed his lips upon it, saying--
"Others have done it, and were not to blame. You have remedied it
all, and how am I to thank you?"

"Oh, no, no!" she exclaimed--"I have not remedied it all; I fear
that I still am robbing you--robbing you of that fortune which you
used so nobly; and that, too, when I owe you everything--life, and
more than life; for in the state I was when you found me, I could
not have lived long, and should not only have died, but have died
with shame and misery!--Ah! you cannot tell, Sir Morley," she
continued, "how much sooner I would be a pensioner upon your
bounty for a small pittance to supply my daily wants, than take from
my benefactor that property which I cannot but feel of right is his."

"Not so, indeed!" answered Morley Ernstein; "it is not mine,

Helen. It was of right your brother's, and is yours. I scarcely know,
indeed, whether I am justified in not following out the plan that I
had first proposed, and paying you all. But as you wish it, I will not
insist upon that point; and now, tell me how you are, and let me
hear all that has happened to you, since we met."

"Why, I am well," replied Helen, wiping away the tears which still
felt inclined to flow; "well, and yet not quite well. But speak of
yourself--I scarcely dare to ask how you are, for I see that you are
ill, Sir Morley."

"I must not have you call me by that name," said Morley Ernstein;
"after the strange way in which our fate has been linked together,
we can but look upon each other as brother and sister; and if you
will let me, Helen, I will be a brother to you instead of him that you
have lost."

"You have been a better brother already," replied Helen; "but you
do not say, if you are ill; and yet I am sure you are, for you are so
changed."

"I have had much to pain me, Helen," answered Morley Ernstein;
"very much."

"I know it--I know it," said Helen; "and it has been our doing--
Morley."

The last word she pronounced after a moment's hesitation, and in

so low a tone that he scarcely heard it; but yet the blood came up
into her cheek, as if she had told him that she loved him.

"It was not on that account, Helen, that I have grieved," he

replied. "Fortune could never disturb my night's repose; but there
have been many other things pressing heavily upon my mind."

Helen cast down her eyes, and replied not; but the paleness that
crept over her countenance might well shew that there were some
emotions busy at her heart. Morley Ernstein was silent, too, for there
was a light breaking upon him, to which he would have fain been
blind. At length, Helen spoke, saying, with an effort--"I was in hopes
I should have heard of your being very happy."

"It is quite the reverse, Helen," he answered. "Those bright days,

which you once saw me enjoy, are past away for ever, and I have
nothing left but to fly from myself, and from her who might have
made my happiness, and has made me miserable."

"Oh, no, no!" cried Helen; "do not say so."

 "Yes, indeed!" replied Morley Ernstein. "It is on that account I quit
Rome to-morrow. Are you aware that she is in this city?"

"Who?--Juliet Carr?" exclaimed Helen.

"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."
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