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Flora Adair; or, Love Works Wonders. Vol. 2 (of 2)

by A. M. Donelan · English · Gutenberg #43499 · 362,410 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Flora Adair; or, Love Works Wonders. Vol. 2 (of 2)

Author: A. M. Donelan


        
Release date: August 18, 2013 [eBook #43499]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FLORA ADAIR; OR, LOVE WORKS WONDERS. VOL. 2 (OF 2) ***

    FLORA ADAIR;
        OR,
    Love works Wonders.


    _BY A. M. DONELAN._


    "IN FUNICULIS ADAM TRAHAM EOS, IN VINCULIS CHARITATIS."
        _Osee_ xi. 4.


    IN TWO VOLUMES.
        VOL. II.


        LONDON:
    CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY.
        1867.




FLORA ADAIR.




CHAPTER I.


Would she have said so had she known that, although Mr. Earnscliffe
_was_ in Venice, all his thoughts were occupied about her?

In proportion as he had been elated and happy with her, so did the next
morning find him depressed and sad. He had given himself up completely
to the enjoyment of that starlight walk. How pleasant he found it to
watch the movements of Flora's little slight figure as she walked by
his side, and every now and then to have some thought or feeling which
he expressed responded to by a look from her soft eyes. But even as he
thought over it all he said to himself, "Yes, it was very delightful;
but will any good come of it? I knew such an evening long ago; then,
too, I walked with one whom I loved and trusted, and she brought me
only misery. Life and hope and faith have been blighted by her. Is it
not worse than folly, then, to believe in a woman again?..."

For the last few days he had cast all doubt from him. He only thought
of how Flora had acted towards Mr. Lyne; of how true she had been
to him; so true that not even an unjust accusation could wring from
her a word implying that he had proposed for her. But now came the
reaction. It was not all at once that Mr. Earnscliffe could divest
himself fully of that distrust of women which for years had been so
rooted in his mind. Then Mary Elton's words and his own dream forced
themselves painfully upon him, and sounded like a warning which said,
"Stop, before it is too late." "But perhaps it is already too late," he
thought. "Could I forget her even now? Have I ever forgotten her since
the first day we met at Frascati? All that time at Capri was I not
thinking of her, although persuading myself that I was not interested
in her personally? How much less, then, could I forget her after
these two happy evenings. Yet, if ever any one had a presentiment of
misfortune in adopting some particular course of action, I have. It is
not possible, of course, to do otherwise than accompany them across the
Brenner, since I offered them my escort; but I need not go to Meran; we
can meet at Botzen. If she is to be banished from my memory, it would
be folly to put myself in the way of sweet associations; of seeing her
constantly; of walking and riding with her; guiding her through all
the lovely excursions about Meran. Then, indeed, I could never help
yielding to the charm of having such a companion--a charm which I have
never known before; for in those fatal days when I fancied myself in
love, I was only caught by a beautiful casket. It was so beautiful that
it dazzled me, and kept me from looking beyond. I took it for granted
that the jewel contained in it must be priceless, until one day the
casket flew open, and showed me that the supposed jewel was a false
one. Now it is just the contrary; the casket boasts of no great beauty
or outward ornament, but may not the jewel within be precious? Yes,
I see it is the lighting up of that jewel which possesses so subtle
a charm now, when no outward brilliancy could win a glance from me.
Were I sure of its intrinsic value, it would be well worth the trial;
yet all kinds of dark forebodings seem to warn me back. But how that
jewel's sparkle would brighten my cold, lonely existence! Shall I,
then, go to Meran, or not?"

Ah! Flora, you little know how important a moment this is for you! Why
are you not in Venice, so that your presence might turn the scale in
your own favour? Will the memory of yesternight's walk suffice for
it? It appears that at least it is sufficient to prevent sentence
from being pronounced against you. The judge is evidently not sure of
himself; not sure that he would have strength to carry it out, and
therefore he wisely defers putting it on record. He will wait and see
what time will do. So you may congratulate yourself on a half triumph,
at all events; and occupy yourself with the sights of Verona and the
different beauties of the route to Meran.

In "fair Verona's" amphitheatre, unmatched save by the giant Coliseum
of Rome, we left the Adairs standing, and when they had wandered up and
down its tiers and given their meed of admiration, they drove to see
the house of the Capulets and the--so-called--tomb of Romeo and Juliet.
On their way Flora told Marie the lovers' sad history, and showed her
how doubly interesting the site is to natives of Great Britain, because
enshrined in their great poet's genius.

An afternoon they found sufficient to "do" the lions of Verona, so the
next morning they started by train for Peschiera, and there took the
steamer to Riva.

What a lovely sail it is across the Lago di Garda, with its boundary of
castle-capp'd mountains and the little villages at their base, half
buried in groves of lemon and orange tress! And, for lovers of classic
memory, there are the ruins of the house where Catullus dictated his
ballads. In the days of Virgil the lake was celebrated for looking like
a little sea, foaming beneath the lash of the mountain winds, which
seldom left it unruffled; and to-day it did not belie its reputation,
as its blue waters tossed about in miniature fury, the white-crested
waves rolling one over the other and dashing their spray afar. Riva
itself is a charming little place; and then the drive to Trent--a
drive which shows one of Tyrol's greatest charms, that of uniting
something of the wildness and grandeur of Switzerland with the soft,
fresh beauty of our home scenery.... Now we see an isolated lake, so
shut in by snowy mountains that the only egress from its shores seems
to be a winding, giddy mountain path, to which we almost fear to trust
ourselves; but if we venture and ascend it for a time, we find that
it leads down, on the other side, into a smiling valley, with emerald
green fields stretching far away in gentle undulations, and watered
by little rivulets flowing between flowery banks and shady trees. Or
we come suddenly upon two rocky points spanned by a single plank, and
at such a height that, looking at it from below, it appears as If it
were suspended in the air; and beneath, a rushing torrent dashes over
its rugged bed, gurgling and foaming at each attempted interruption
to its headlong course. Let us climb down from this wild spot, and we
come upon an almost English scene of comfort and neatness; there is a
pretty cottage with its shelving wooden roof and carved cross in front;
the sheep and cows are grazing at a distance, and the shepherd boy is
lying in the grass pulling the wild flowers which grow around him.
The character of Tyrol's inhabitants partakes too of all this; they
have the open independent bearing of mountaineers, combined with rare
simplicity and softness. There is not a spot in all Tyrol without its
own beauty, and we should travel far indeed before we met so fine a
race of people; not only in their general character, but also in their
outward appearance.

The Adairs slept that night at Trent, and before leaving the next day
they visited its churches, particularly the one where the great Council
was held, and there they saw a painting of it which contains portraits
of several of the prelates who assisted thereat. Towards evening they
arrived at Botzen, just as the last rays of the sun were lighting up
the Calvarienberg, as the mountain close to the entrance of the town
is called, on account of the stations of the Cross which lead up to
the Calvary on its summit. With one accord they all exclaimed, "How
beautiful!" But in Tyrol this is an exclamation which is called forth
at every turn, and words are indeed too weak to express the different
degrees of its loveliness.

How glad Flora felt at the prospect of getting to Meran to-morrow! It
would be the fourth day since they had left Venice, the day upon which
Mr. Earnscliffe had promised to meet them; and she looked forward
anxiously to that meeting. Once before she had parted from him in the
utmost friendliness, and when next she saw him he scarcely spoke to
her--would it be so now? These were her thoughts as they drove along
the hill and castle-bordered route which leads from Botzen to Meran.

No familiar face greeted them at the Post Hotel. The day waned, and
Flora stood leaning listlessly against one of the front windows,
gazing down the road which they had traversed that morning, and sadly
she thought: "So he is not coming--I suppose he will wait until the
exact time when he thinks we shall want to cross the Brenner; but, at
least, he might have written to say so. It is rude of him thus to break
the appointment without a word of apology. How slowly the days will
now pass, even here in beautiful Meran! Beauty and pleasure are only
accessories; they cannot give a particle of the happiness which we
may feel, even in toil and trouble, when endured for one whom we love.
Moore was right when he said--

    'Life is a waste of wearisome hours,
    Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns.'"

But stay: Flora's listless attitude changes; she bends eagerly forward
over the window sill, then draws back and throws herself into an
armchair beside it. Her colour is bright and her eyes are dancing.
Whence this sudden change? We have only to look along the Botzen road,
and an approaching carriage with a single occupant will tell us the
cause of it.

Flora Adair's eyes had not deceived her. Its occupant was Mr.
Earnscliffe. We remember, that day when the Adairs left Venice,
how he hesitated about joining them at Meran; yet here he comes,
although it would be difficult to say what had turned the balance in
Flora's favour. They started on Tuesday, and that day and the next
Mr. Earnscliffe spent in visiting different galleries with dogged
perseverance, although they did not seem to afford him any great
pleasure. He also went to see some Italian artists and literary men
with whom he was acquainted, and for the remainder of the time he made
a feint of reading, whilst in reality he was pondering on the Meran
question. Thursday came, and he half determined to be wise and stay
away. If he were to do so, however, he felt that he must write to Mrs.
Adair and say that he could not leave Venice for some days, but would
meet them at Botzen a week hence, and have everything arranged for
crossing the pass at once, if he did not send an apology, he must of
course fulfil his promise to join them at Meran; however, it would be
time enough to write in the afternoon. He dawdled away the morning over
some books which had been lent to him, and then prepared to go out; but
just as he was about to do so, in came an Italian who asked him to make
one of a party of five or six, himself included, who were going by the
next train to Treviso to see the paintings of Titian and Domenichino,
in the fine but yet unfinished cathedral, and also the Villa Manfrino;
they would dine at Treviso and return to Venice in the evening.

The Italian named those who were to be of the party. Mr. Earnscliffe
knew them all to be more or less well-informed, agreeable men, and
among them were two excellent musicians and improvisatori; so at least
the proposal held out to him the prospect of hearing some good singing,
of which he was particularly fond; besides, it would spend the day for
him, and if he were candid with himself he would acknowledge that he
felt rather at a loss for something to do. Accordingly he accepted the
invitation and went off with his friend, without ever thinking of the
note to Mrs. Adair.

The day passed quickly away, and the dinner was excellent; the
champagne abundant; the singing of the best; the conversation flowing
and animated--Mr. Earnscliffe sustaining a prominent part in it. He
spoke Italian with perfect ease, and entering into the spirit of the
hour, he showed how brilliant, without being shallow, were his powers
of conversation, when he once cast off his habitual reserve. They only
returned to Venice by the last train, which arrived about eleven, and
Mr. Earnscliffe, having wished his friends good-night and thanked them
for the pleasant day which they had afforded him, got into a gondola
and soon landed at his hotel, the "Victoria."

The night was as lovely as the one upon which he had parted from Flora
Adair. The memory of that night now rose up vividly before him, and
as it did so, he remembered with pleasure that he had _not_ written
to Mrs. Adair, and that now it was too late to hesitate any longer;
go he must. If he started by the first train in the morning, he could
reach Meran the same evening, and so keep his appointment, and this he
determined to do; so as soon as he got into his room he rang for his
servant, and told him that he was to have everything ready for them to
leave Venice by the six a.m. train next morning. The servant looked
rather dismayed at this intelligence, but retired without making any
remonstrance; for he knew that his master must be obeyed to the letter,
and unhesitatingly too.

As the door closed Mr. Earnscliffe exclaimed, "So for good or evil it
is decided that I go to Meran. Perhaps it is as well that it should be
so. I shall have an opportunity of knowing Flora Adair thoroughly. If
she is all that I have dreamed of, and if I can win her love, it will
be worth having suffered, even as I have done, in order to taste such
unexpected bliss; and if she is not, it will be only one pang more, and
what signifies that in such a life as mine? Not to go would be to throw
away a chance of possible happiness through fear of possible pain; and
that at best would be more of cowardice than prudence. I am glad that I
am going in spite of all my presentiments."

On the following day Mr. Earnscliffe reached Botzen about four. He
dined there, and set out afterwards in an open carriage for Meran,
where we have seen him drive up to the hotel. He left his servant at
Botzen to make inquiries about the carriage and ascertain where was
the best place for getting really good horses, and then he was to
follow him to Meran.

Mrs. Adair and Marie met Mr. Earnscliffe just as he got out of the
carriage. They were returning from the Friday evening devotions in the
church, at which they had been present. Flora did not accompany them,
for she felt that even if she did go she would be only corporally in
the church, that her mind and heart would be fixed on the Botzen road
and not on prayer; so she remained at home watching the setting sun,
and with it fell her hopes of that longed-for arrival.

The sun sank, but her hope rose and broke into bright certainty.

Marie ran into her room, crying, "Flore, _Monsieur Earnscliffe est
arrivé!_"

The waning light and the shadow which the curtain threw over Flora
prevented the blush and conscious smile from being seen, as she
answered, "Indeed, then he has been punctual to his word, I see."

"And we take tea downstairs with him, Flore, Madame Adair has told me
to tell you. Are you ready?"

"I shall be before you, Mignonne, for I have only to brush my hair
and wash my hands, and you have, besides all this, to take off your
out-of-door things; but surely there is not any hurry if we are to
wait for Mr. Earnscliffe,--he must have time to shake off the dust of
the journey before he appears for the evening."




CHAPTER II.


A week is quickly passed in Meran in visiting the different places of
interest in its neighbourhood--all so rich in the beauties of nature,
yet richer still in the memories of the late war of independence in
1809, when Tyrol's children, headed by her peasant-hero, Andreas
Hofer, rose in defence of their religion and their liberty, and with
rare heroism maintained the struggle almost single-handed for several
months--Austria having withdrawn her troops from Tyrol in the August of
1809--against the united and disciplined forces of France and Bavaria.

Close to the town are the hill and castle of Zeno, both so called
because St. Zeno was consecrated in the chapel which, with the
exception of one of the entrance towers, is the only part of the
castle still standing. Looking from its summit over the broad
range of the Janfen mountains--whose passes were defended like so
many Thermopylæs--and the valleys which gave birth to those brave
defenders, we cannot help recalling the following beautiful words of a
German writer: "A wild river rushes by the castle-topped hill of Zeno,
and in vain do the red roses bend lovingly over it, as if to soothe its
foaming waters with their kisses; in vain do the fig-trees spread over
it the soft shade of their fresh green leaves; unheedingly it dashes
on with a deep sullen roar. What sort of a river is it then? How comes
it that the lovely flowers and the soft balmy shade cannot win it to
anything like peace and rest? Ah! that river is the Passer! Does it
then entone an eternal lament over the heroes whose lullabies it once
sung, or is it that with unbridled fury it dashes on to the Etsch, so
that, in union with it, it may look upon the land where the Sandwirth
of Passeier laid down his heroic life."

A little more distant from Meran is the Schloss Tirol, the ancient
residence of the country's princes, and from which it takes its name.
There, too, it was that Hofer and Hormayer--Tyrol's simple mountain
son, and proud Austria's baron--met on terms of equality to consult
over the means to be taken in order to preserve the country's newly-won
freedom. Then the castle of Schönna, magnificently situated at the
entrance of the Passeier valley, now in possession of Archduke John's
son, the Count of Meran, and many others scarcely less remarkable.
But exceeding all other spots in interest is the Sandwirthshof, the
birthplace and home of Andreas Hofer, the pure noble-hearted patriot
whom Napoleon--to his everlasting shame--condemned to death and caused
to be shot in Mantua on the 20th of February, 1810.

Thus from Meran our friends made excursion after excursion, and Mr.
Earnscliffe almost ceased to struggle with his daily increasing
admiration for Flora Adair; yet he rarely betrayed it by word or look,
even whilst wandering by her side through scenes where almost every
hill and castle made her eyes light up with enthusiasm, as she talked
of the deeds connected with them. He delighted in exciting her about
her favourite Tyrolese, and as they stood one evening a little in
advance of Mrs. Adair and Marie, leaning over the rocky bridge which
runs into the lovely valley of Kinele, with the sun's golden rays
illuminating its narrow defile, he began to tease her about them, and
spoke somewhat disparagingly of the Passeier peasants in particular, as
a stupid, stolid race--with the exception of Andreas Hofer, of course.
She looked up at him exclaiming--

"Oh, Mr. Earnscliffe, you cannot mean what you say! The people who
combine unsurpassed bravery with the softest compassion of a woman's
heart cannot be called 'stolid.' Was there ever a war so remarkable
for deeds of heroic humanity as this peasants' war? You know, of
course, the grand act of the Passeier, Sebastian Prünster, when he was
one of the outpost watchers on the hill above Volders--how, when he
struck with the butt end of his gun the Bavarian soldier who had crept
close up to him through the underwood in order to shoot him, he felt
horror-stricken as he saw him rolling towards the precipice, and at the
risk of his own life dashed after him, caught him up in his arms, and
carried him to the soft grass above, and having staunched his wound and
given him bread and brandy to restore his strength, cried, 'Ass that
thou art! what brings thee up here? Flee as far as thou canst from me.
It pains my inmost heart to think that I should be obliged to kill thee
thus without any good cause.'... How those who loved Sebastian Prünster
must have gloried in him!"

Flora had never seemed so charming to Mr. Earnscliffe as now. She
ceased speaking and stood with her slight figure drawn up triumphantly,
and one little hand resting on the ridge beside her. He looked at her
for a moment in silent admiration, and then, bending low over her
hand--low enough for his lips to have touched it, but they did not--he
murmured, more to himself than to her, "What would not any living man
give to hear himself so spoken of by you!"

The sound of these words fell faintly on Flora's ear, and she scarcely
dared to believe that she heard aright; nevertheless she blushed as she
turned away, saying, "They are waiting for us."

This was their last evening in Meran; the next day they commenced the
crossing of the Brenner to Innsbruck. If Flora's enthusiasm for her
favourite Andreas Hofer and his brave followers had been excited by
visiting the peaceful haunts of their early days in the dark Passeier
valley, what must it be now when passing over the very sites of some
of their most wonderful victories! And after spending some days in
Innsbruck, the focus and hotbed--the Marathon of Tyrol, as it has been
called--of that glorious war, they set out for Munich by the Achen and
Tegernsee route. Two hours of train travelling took them to Jenbach,
and thence an open carriage was to convey them to Achensee, their
journey's end for that day.

About three o'clock they drove up to the pretty rustic little inn
called Scholastica, which stands at the top of the lake; and after an
hour or two spent in resting and dining they went out to explore the
beauties of Achensee, and as the best way to do so they were told to
row up to the other end of the lake and walk back along its shore. As
they rowed slowly, and stopped every now and then to feast their eyes
on its loveliness, it was tolerably late by the time they got out of
the boat. Mrs. Adair and Marie walked on at once along the path which
leads back to the hotel; but Mr. Earnscliffe and Flora stood gazing
silently on the scene before them.

What pen could give a true idea of Achensee at any time?... It would
indeed be rash to attempt to describe it on such an evening as this,
when it lay bathed in a flood of mellow light shed from the golden
slanting rays of the setting sun. What words could paint that lake,
so closely shut in by mountains as to be almost hidden within their
bosom--their peaks towering one above another with their still
snow-covered summits glowing with the rich red tints of the dying
day; the lengthening shadows creeping over its deep blue waters, and
gathering round Flora Adair and the object of her love, as they stood
on its brink?

Well do we know the indescribable beauty of Achensee on a fine evening
at sunset, for we too have stood on its brink at that hour, gazing into
its waters, and watching the shadows flitting over them, but

    "Alone the while,"

that is, with the heart's void unfilled save by a vague ideal. What
must it be to stand there beside the one all-absorbing love of one's
life! And Flora knew what that was now, as she leaned against a tree
with her hat in her hand, the light breeze ruffling her luxuriant hair.

"Miss Adair," exclaimed Mr. Earnscliffe, suddenly, "can you not picture
to yourself in such a scene as this the interview between Rudens and
Bertha in Schiller's 'William Tell'?... Oh! I can feel with Rudens as
he says,

    "Könnt ihr mit mir euch in das stille Thal
      Entschliessen und der Erde Glanz entsagen--
      O, dann ist meines Strebens Ziel gefunden;
      Dann mag der Storm der wildbewegten Welt
      Ans sichre Ufer dieser Berge schlagen--
      Kein flüchtiges Verlangen hab' ich mehr
      Hinaus zu senden in des Lebens Weiten--
      Dann mögen diese Felsen um uns her
      Die undurchdringlich feste Mauer breiten,
      Und dies verschlossne sel'ge Thal allein
      Zum Himmel offen und gelichtet seyn!"[1]

Flora, as if in a sort of dream, began Bertha's answer--

    "Jetzt bist du ganz----"

She stopped suddenly, and got very red.

"Why do you stop, Miss Adair?" asked Mr. Earnscliffe, eagerly. "Why
break the charm which you shed around me--that of being with one who
responds to each implied thought and feeling?"

"I see that we have been carried away by Schiller's beautiful
poetry even to the forgetting that mamma and Marie have preceded us
by some minutes towards home. Pray let us make haste to overtake
them," answered Flora, blushing more than ever, and moving away. Mr.
Earnscliffe was at her side in a moment, and said, "Yes, we will follow
them, but as we go you must hear me, Miss Adair. I can wait no longer
to have my fate decided. Over each hill and through each dale of this
lovely land have I wandered before, but never until now have I _felt_
its beauty to the full; never until now have I known--to use your own
poet's words--the 'soft magic' of having one, the beloved of my heart
near me,

    'To make every dear scene of enchantment more dear,'

Flora, will you hear me?"

She made a slight motion of assent, but did not look up, and he
continued, "Yet I must not ask you for an answer until I have given
you--though painful be the task--a short sketch of my life, so that
you may know me as I _really_ am before you decide for or against me,
and also that hereafter none may have the power to tell you aught of
my earlier days that you have not already heard from my own lips....
Left an orphan, whilst still almost a baby, I was consigned to the
guardianship of an uncle, and most honourably did he fulfil the trust;
but I could no more love that imperturbable, just man, who was _coldly_
kind upon principle, than fire and water could blend. He was not
married, so I had no aunt or cousins to whom I could attach myself,
and it was a joy rather than a grief to me that I was sent to school
when very young. I applied with unusual ardour to study, and gloried
in the power which I possessed of being first among my companions, and
in my facility for mastering foreign tongues.... I lived among the
ancients--those master spirits of old who by their nobility of soul
rose above the debasing vice of their age, and stood forth as bright
examples of the great power of man's own mind and will unaided and
unrestrained by the fetters of modern society or Christianity. Thus I
passed from a studious, dreamy youth, to man's estate. I was ardent and
enthusiastic, full of glowing ideals of moral beauty and excellence,
and, with all the prestige of high birth and wealth to assure me a
favourable reception from the world, I was launched into the vortex of
London life. I tasted of all its pleasures; I was courted and sought
after; yet by most people I was looked upon as being

    'Among them, but not of them; in a shroud
      Of thoughts which were not their thoughts.'

But what cared they for that? I was rich and successful, and was,
therefore, to be flattered. At Lady M----'s ball--"... he paused,
covered his eyes with his hand as if to shut out the stinging memories
which now thronged before them; he mastered himself and went on, ...
"Pardon me, even now I cannot recall that time without a shudder, and
only dare to pass cursorily over its events.... Well, as I said, at
Lady M----'s ball I saw one who then appeared to me to be beautiful,
and was introduced to her; I was completely captivated. I imagined--ah,
_now_ I know, 'twas only imagination--that I loved her with a deep,
true passion. I won her,--but scarcely had I time to congratulate
myself on my conquest when I discovered--oh, that I should have to tell
it!--that I had been deceived, betrayed by her; that she had accepted
me only for my wealth and position, whilst her love was another's.
To resolve to separate from her for ever was a moment's work, and I
confided to the care of my lawyers all the necessary arrangements, and
left England, to escape at least from the scene of my misery, and the
rankling consciousness that men were laughing at the proud _exalté_
Earnscliffe, who had been caught by the light beauty; then I awoke from
the dream of careless enjoyment in which I had been living.... The
face of nature in its calm repose seemed to mock at my wretchedness.
Everything gave testimony of a creative power; but of justice, of
love, in that dread power, I could see no trace.... I had not asked
for life; I had done nothing knowingly to merit the curse which had
fallen upon me. Why then was I subjected to a betrayal which blighted
my every hope, dried up all the sources of happiness from which I used
to drink?--for my belief in truth and goodness had been shattered....
I asked for what had I been created? Why doomed to bear unasked-for
existence?... I sought eagerly for comfort in religion, but I could
find none. What consolation could any man's interpretation of Scripture
give me, since everything they said was vague and varying? I longed
for some universal certainty--something upon which to lean with one's
whole weight, but nowhere could I find it; the more I sought, the
more incomprehensible did everything appear to me, seeing all around
as Lamartine says, 'evil where good might be.'--At last with wearied
brain and aching heart I gave up the search. To end my life seemed to
me to be a cowardly thing; to plunge into dissipation, as Byron did,
beneath me; so I resolved to be henceforth self-sufficing; noble and
true, because such qualities alone make man great; but trusting in
none, believing in nothing, and above all, not in a woman.... Such has
been my life for the last ten years. But a few months ago there came a
break in its terrible monotony--I met you! Accustomed as I was to be
flattered and fawned upon by young ladies as a good match, your severe
remark upon what I said to Mrs. Elton at Frascati made me almost start
with surprise, and during the time when I considered myself bound to
visit you and try to relieve the wearisomeness of your imprisonment, I
studied you as something new--unknown before. I became interested in
the study, nevertheless I would not admit to myself the possibility
that I could be attracted by a woman. I persuaded myself that I merely
felt a curiosity about you; then I fancied that I had discovered you
to be just like the rest of your sex, heartless and false, and, in
spite of all my theories about not caring for you, I mourned over the
supposed discovery. But a light was suddenly thrown upon your conduct,
and you came out brighter than ever from under the cloud.... I
followed you on chance to Venice; I watched you closely day after day
in your family circle; I saw how little the ordinary bagatelles and
vanities which sum up the existence of most women occupied you, and I
felt drawn towards you as to a kindred spirit; yet I dreaded to trust a
woman again, and I struggled hard indeed before I yielded to the charm
of loving you. But resistance was useless; the more I tried to think
of you as of others whom I had known, the more I found you different,
and at last I gave up the struggle. Now I am yours wholly and entirely.
Refuse not then to receive the poor shipwrecked traveller, who, having
confessed to you all his faults and misfortunes, clings to you as his
last anchor of hope on earth.... Flora do not hesitate--speak."... He
caught her hand and pressed it tightly in his own.

The rush of wild delight, which thrilled through every portion of
Flora's being at having thus offered to her a happiness so intense
that she had not dared to expect it, was so great, that for a moment
it deprived her of utterance; but raising her glistening eyes to his,
she gave him _such_ a smile that he asked for no words to interpret its
meaning, and drawing the already imprisoned hand within his arm, he
held it there clasped to his heart, as he exclaimed--

"_My_ Flora! this moment repays, nay, overpays me for all that I have
suffered!... But why do you tremble? Are you afraid of me? Have you not
faith in me?"

It cost Flora an effort to speak--to shake off the exquisite emotion
which the warm clasp of his hand caused her to feel; but surely any
lover would have thought it an answer worth waiting for when at length
she said--

"You might as well ask me if I had not faith in my own existence. All
that I am afraid of is the intensity of my happiness."

"Generous Flora! not one word of doubt, although I could not offer
you--what alone is worthy of you--a heart's _first_ homage; and yet in
very truth I might say that I never really loved before. Now, indeed,
can I forgive and forget that faithless one----"

"And _I_ can thank her for having left you free to offer me the
treasure of your heart, and to receive mine in return whole and
untouched--friendship only has it known until now! But 'tis all that
I have to give, for fortune I have none, nor--as you see--beauty, and
this last I would that I had for your dear sake."

"But you have it for me, Flora. Your beauty I would not have exchanged
for that of a Venus di Medici!"

"Nay, turn not flatterer, or I shall be forced to _begin_ to doubt. But
tell me, why did you treat me so icily when we met you at the Farnese
Palace--to say nothing of the celebrated night at Mrs. Elton's?"

"So even then you noticed and felt my change of manner, Flora?" he
asked in a low, thrilling tone, as he bent down and tried to get a full
look at her face; but he could only see the bright red colour spreading
even over her neck as she quickly turned away her head, and said gaily--

"Why, that is worthy of an Irishman! You answer my question with
another, which I certainly shall not take any notice of; and now please
to reply to mine."

"You shall be obeyed, my little queen.... The day before I met you
at the Farnese Palace, Mary Elton told me that you were going to be
married to Mr. Lyne, adding that, indeed, you could not _afford_ to
refuse such an offer as his. Prone as I was to believe that all women
were ready to sell themselves, I scarcely doubted this to be true,
although I knew that you did not particularly like Mr. Lyne. Then
everything seemed to confirm it. I met you with him the next day at the
Farnese Palace, and at Mrs. Elton's ball. He was constantly at your
side. I saw you together apart from everybody else, talking eagerly.
At last he stood up, and held your hand in his for a moment before
leaving you, and I believed this to be the signing of the sale. I left
Rome more embittered than ever against women; but a chance--a blessed
chance--showed me how utterly mistaken I had been. I learned from
Helena Elton that Mr. Lyne had proposed for you, but that you--with a
truth and courage rarely to be found in woman--had refused him, rich as
he was, and although you yourself were portionless. Oh, Flora! how my
heart bounded to you from that moment! Now you know all, and you see
that I not only love you ardently, but that I have at the same time the
highest esteem for you. Come to me and be the chosen companion of my
heart and mind, for in you I pay homage to a heart superior and a mind
equal to my own!"

"It is worth living for alone to hear such words! But, again, I must
chide you for flattery and exaggeration, as it was both to say 'a
mind equal to my own.' No: mine is not equal to yours--a woman's very
education forbids it. Had you said that I possessed a mind capable of
understanding and following yours it might have been true. Believe
me, it is a woman's truest glory to admit the great superiority over
herself of him whom she loves. What repose it is to trust entirely in
a higher being than one's-self,--to know that henceforth you will be my
lawgiver and teacher; for you will have much to teach me.... But how
sweet will such lessons be!"

"How could I have ever dreamed that I loved before, oh, my dearest!"

"_I_ can scarcely answer that question; but we all know how tempting
a bait is beauty of person to you lords of the creation--is it not
so? But time wears, and I have much to say before we reach the hotel.
You have told me all your feelings on religion. Another would shudder
at such a disclosure, and perhaps be scared from loving so daring a
spirit; but _I must_ love you, whatever be your faults. I believe
I almost love your faults themselves, because they prove what the
strength and grandeur of your character is; but I do shudder _for_
you! How fearful it would be to think of such a soul as yours lost
for all eternity, and like this glorious sun above us only shedding
forth the rays of its light and power for a few short hours on earth,
then setting into darkness, but unlike the material sun, never to rise
again. This must not, shall not be if power or prayer of mine can aught
avail!"

Her face flushed and her eyes lit up with the light of that long
concentrated love which now burst its bonds. To Mr. Earnscliffe it
was irresistible. He clasped her round the waist, drew her to him,
and--let Bulwer speak for us--"and still and solitary deepened the
mystic and lovely night around them. How divine was that sense and
consciousness of solitude! How, as it thrilled within them, they clung
closer to each other! Theirs was that blissful time, when the touch of
their hands clasped together was in itself a happiness of emotion too
deep for words!"

At length Flora said, as she walked on with his arm still encircling
her waist, "Yes, I do hope that I may help you more than any theologian
to reach the one great source of truth. Let me say a few words of my
own experience.... Like you, when at school I delighted in study,
and enjoyed being first among my companions. This, added to a cold
although invariably polite manner, caused me to be looked upon by
the rest as proud and haughty, setting myself apart from them. But
I was indifferent to others; study and the approbation of one of my
mistresses, whom I dearly loved, were everything to me, and as far as
it went, I was perfectly happy within those dear convent walls. My
sorrow at leaving them was great; but I could not spend my life there.
I too one day awoke from a dream of careless, thoughtless happiness.
That day came when I left school to enter upon a young lady's inane
existence. I felt, as Schiller says, that 'empty occupation cannot fill
the soul's void; there is a deeper happiness, there are other joys!'
Balls, visits, promenades and needle-work--what could they give to
satisfy the heart or the mind? The people whom I met in society wearied
me; I longed for something different. Then I sought for rest and
contentment in religion, but I found them not; and weary of the present
and dreading the future, I too asked, 'Can life be a gift? Where am
I to find the justice and goodness of God of which I am told? Is it
not He who has made me _what_ I am, and why, why render me incapable
of finding contentment in the ordinary occupations of those with whom
He chose to cast my fate?' All the other stumbling-blocks to human
reason--predestination, the origin of evil--followed in the train of
these thoughts; I was on the verge of losing all faith; but grace and
the teaching of one of God's own ministers, one to whom I must ever owe
the deepest gratitude, saved me. He showed me the evidences and truth
of the Fall of man--that key to all knowledge of him; he proved to me
the existence of a Divine teaching Authority, by which man could learn
his end, and the means of attaining it; he made me see how absurd was
the attempt of finite reason to measure itself with the Infinite; and
he summed up all in these words, as he pointed to the crucifix, 'Will
you refuse to believe in the goodness of Him who gave his only Son to
die on a Cross for your sake? And, trusting to that goodness, can you
not wait patiently until the few short years of life shall be over,
and all shall be made clear as noonday to you? On the other hand, if
you will not wait, if you refuse to submit your reason, what will you
gain? You say that you are not happy now: will it make you happier not
to believe in eternal happiness, and throw away all hope of attaining
it?'... How true was all this! I could not doubt the life or divinity
of our Saviour: history itself proves it too clearly; then how could I
deny the great testimony of love given in His Crucifixion? Again and
again recurred to me that question: 'What will you gain if you refuse
to submit your reason?' Nothing, absolutely nothing: nay, more, I began
to see that to dwell on these subjects, which are above, not against,
human reason, could only lead to misery and perhaps to madness; and
I determined to question no more, but to believe.... 'Easier said
than done,' perhaps you will answer.... True, it is easier said than
done, but at least it is possible in the only religion which bears
the impress of Divine foundation, the only religion which dares to
attribute to itself the delegated authority of God, and say, 'So far
and no farther shalt thou go.'... Study _that_ religion, examine the
proofs upon which its authority rests; but you must go to that study,
that examination, with the full determination that as soon as you
recognise its Divine foundation, you will trust to faith, and not to
finite reason. I know it will ever be rebelling, but those rebellions
must be crushed down with a firm hand. We cannot all be simple loving
disciples like little Marie, but we can do our utmost, and say, 'My
God, I am what Thou hast made me; accept then what I can give Thee.'"

She ceased speaking, and for a few moments they both remained silent;
then Mr. Earnscliffe said gravely, "I _will_ make the examination which
you desire, with all earnestness and sincerity, and God only knows how
I have longed for truth and certainty; but I could not venture to give
you much hope that your wishes and my own will be crowned with success;
nevertheless, you _have_ done more towards making me a believer, my
Flora, than any theologian, even though you admit that your mode of
persuasion is second-hand; but you speak from your own feelings and
experience, and not from theory, and with such an advocate how could I
reason coldly?"

A look of love so inexpressibly tender rested on Flora, that her heart
thrilled again with the intensity of her happiness. But at this
moment they caught sight of a figure coming along the shady walk,
now dimly lighted by the pale rays of the rising moon, and Flora
gently disengaged herself from Mr. Earnscliffe's encircling arm. The
approaching figure turned out to be Marie, who, as soon as she saw
them, cried out, "Where are you gone? You have been so long time, Mrs.
Adair is tired waiting you."

Flora could not think of any answer to give, but Mr. Earnscliffe said
with mock gravity, "It is not at all wonderful, Mademoiselle, that we
have been a long time coming, for we have had such a fall; and if I
could only tell you what we fell into, you would not be astonished at
our delay."

"_Oh! vraiment_," said little simple Marie, "I am so sorry; I hope
Flore has not done herself harm. Relate me all that please."

"Never mind him, Mignonne; it is not true," said Flora, as well as she
could speak from laughing.

Something, a nameless look about them both, suddenly struck her, and
she exclaimed, "_J'y suis maintenant_, he means that--as you other
English say--you have had a fall into love."

Flora, half indignant and half amused, said, "I declare you are too
bad. I wonder what you will say next. But let us make haste to
mamma; she must indeed be tired of waiting, and pray, Mignonne, do be
_sage_. I assure you"--with a gay glance at Mr. Earnscliffe--"that
our conversation has been awfully serious;--death, judgment, hell and
heaven, are not more solemn subjects than those upon which we have
conversed."

She took Marie's arm and hurried on, followed by Mr. Earnscliffe, who
said, "This is not fair, Miss Adair; you surrendered yourself prisoner
at discretion to me, and then on the first occasion you run away from
me."

She laughed, but hurried on more than ever to the open space before the
hotel, where Mrs. Adair was sitting admiring the silvery moonlit lake.
"At last!" exclaimed Mrs. Adair as they came up; "I was almost getting
frightened about you; and now let us go in and prepare for tea, which
is no doubt ready."

Accordingly they went in, Flora managing that her mother and Marie
should precede her, so that she might linger a moment to get one more
fond clasp of Mr. Earnscliffe's hand and look of love. Then she too
went in.


  [1] Canst thou then dwell with me in this peaceful vale, and forego
      earth's pomp? Oh, then the goal for which I struggled is
      attained, and the storms of the wildly agitated world may beat
      unheeded against the firm bulwarks of these mountains. Not one
      more fleeting wish have I to send forth through life's whole
      expanse. Oh, now may these rocks around us here spread into
      impenetrable encircling walls, and this blessed valley be alone
      open to and lighted by heaven.

      _Bertha_--Now art thou all----




CHAPTER III.


Shortly afterwards they came down to tea, Flora feeling very shy and
conscious. When they had finished, Mr. Earnscliffe said he would go out
to smoke a cigar; and as he left the room, he gave Flora a look which
seemed to say that as soon as possible he would be glad to have some
other company besides that of the cigar. Marie, with delicate tact,
followed his example, declaring that she must go to her room to mend
her dress, which she had torn. Then Flora went and knelt beside her
mother and said, "Mamma, Mr. Earnscliffe has proposed to me."

"What! Mr. Earnscliffe--the woman-hater, as you used to call him!"

"He is not a _universal_ woman-hater now, mamma," replied Flora, with a
little smile of triumph.

"So it seems; but what answer have you given?"

"Mamma! can you ask?"

"Which means, I suppose, that you have accepted him; but, my child,
you know that he is not a believer in religion. If he were to become a
Christian, then, indeed, I should not object to him as a son-in-law;
whilst he remains in his present sentiments, however, you surely will
not think of marrying him."

Flora started up, saying, "Not think of marrying him! Oh! mamma! But he
is virtually a believer in Eternal Truth, if a yearning desire to know
it constitutes one; he could not be the man he is, nor could I worship
him so fully as I do, if error had ever been capable of satisfying him.
From his early youth he has had a craving for truth which has never
yet been appeased; the right means only have been wanting to lead him
into the body of the Church, and to give rest to his soaring spirit.
Then, mamma, do not, do not in pity say that I must not marry him, or
you will break my heart; you will divide it between the two whom I love
best on earth. You know well that no other man ever excited in me even
a passing fancy, and I love Mr. Earnscliffe as only a woman can who has
never loved before. I was _so_ happy an hour ago when he asked me to be
his, and now, mamma, you will not turn my happiness into wretchedness?"
Flora knelt down again, and hid her burning face in her mother's lap.

Mrs. Adair's eyes filled with tears as she wound her arms round
Flora, and said, "I cannot make you wretched, my precious one, when my
only object on earth is your happiness; so I will not _forbid_ you to
marry him--besides, good seldom comes of _forbidding_ marriages--but
I beseech you to pause; take time to see if he will really become a
Christian."

"_I_ cannot oppose him, mamma; you may say anything you like to him
about waiting, and if he consents to wait it is all right. I have no
will but his, and I cannot begin to thwart him now when I ought to
begin to practise that most sweet duty which is to be mine--the duty
of obeying him even in trifles. Besides, his life has been so unhappy
that it would be cruel in _me_ to hesitate about granting whatever
he wishes. Go to him, mamma, and do all you can to persuade him to
wait for whatever time you wish to name, but do not ask me to join in
opposing him--only let me be neutral."

"My poor child, I see yours is a hopeless case; but come with me, and I
will say all that I think right before you."

Mrs. Adair kissed her again and again, then stood up, and putting her
arm round her waist, led her out to meet Mr. Earnscliffe.

A little way down the walk they saw Mr. Earnscliffe leaning against a
tree, and smoking furiously; as soon as he perceived them, he advanced
quickly to meet them, and said, in an eager tone, "You are come to give
me Flora, Mrs. Adair, are you not?"

"I cannot keep her from you, Mr. Earnscliffe; your conquest is
indeed complete, so take her"--and she placed Flora's hand in Mr.
Earnscliffe's. He kissed Flora's forehead warmly, then took Mrs.
Adair's hand, and put it to his lips as he answered, "Oh, that I knew
how to thank you, Mrs. Adair! At least you shall see how I will guard
the precious trust which you now place in my hands."

"Do not thank me, Mr. Earnscliffe; I give her to you not as a free
gift. Let us walk on,--I wish to speak to you very seriously."

He turned, and drawing Flora's arm within his own, he walked between
her and Mrs. Adair, murmuring in a low tone to Flora, "You are mine
now, indeed."

Mrs. Adair then began, "I said that I do not give you Flora as a free
gift, Mr. Earnscliffe, and it is because you are not a believer in
religion. You possess everything else that I could possibly desire for
her in a husband, but what is there that can make up for the want of
faith? It is a fearful risk for a Christian to marry an unbeliever; it
is endangering that faith without which 'it is impossible to please
God;' therefore I urged Flora--as strongly as a parent could urge
without using authority--not to accept you. But, 'tis true, one does
not reason where one loves: she would not listen to anything, and so
implored me not to make her wretched for life by refusing to let her
marry you,--that I could not do so. But I think I have a right to ask
that you should wait a year, and try if you cannot during that time see
the truth of religion."

"A year! Mrs. Adair! If you knew what my life has been, you would not
ask me to wait so long before I may enjoy the only gleam of sunshine
which has been granted to me during ten long lonely years. Give her to
me at once, and she will teach me better than any one else can. I hope
you do not think so badly of me as to imagine that I would care less
to arrive at the knowledge of truth because I had already won her. If
you could feel what it would be to one who has been buffeted about as I
have been from opinion to opinion, to find rest in certain truth, you
would not dread my leaving any means untried in order to obtain it;
and to keep Flora from me can make no difference, as even for her dear
sake I could not profess to believe unless I did so fully. However, it
shall be as Flora wishes. I will abide by her decision whatever it may
cost me; I would serve fourteen years for her, as we are told that
Jacob did for Rachel. Now, Flora, say, must I suffer on through another
year of loneliness and misery? or will you trust me with yourself at
once, and have sufficient confidence in me to believe that I will use
every effort to do and be all that I can to make you happy here and
hereafter?" He let go her hand as if to leave her perfectly free, but
she pressed her face against his arm, as Mrs. Adair said earnestly,
"Flora, think what it is for a Christian to marry an unbeliever! Let
there be this year's trial, and such a sacrifice to the advice of the
Church will merit happiness for you both."

"Yes," added Mr. Earnscliffe, bitterly, "and so needlessly inflict
twelve long months of suffering on him whom you love, and who for ten
years has known nothing else--this, too, merely in obedience to the
advice of your Church. If _it_ gives you leave to marry me at once,
will _you_ refuse me? Flora, is it to be so?"

Poor Flora! what would she not have given not to be called upon to
decide the question, to grant Mr. Earnscliffe's prayer. She knew that
it was an act of weakness to consent to his wishes, but she had not the
almost superhuman courage to inflict such pain as her refusal would
give him, and from her own lips, too! No, she could not do it, and
with her head still pressed against his arm, she murmured, "Mamma, I
told you that I could not oppose Mr. Earnscliffe in anything which was
not in _contradiction_ to our Holy Faith. If he chooses me to marry
him at once I must do it--that is, if I am permitted, and you do not
positively forbid me."

"My own true Flora!" exclaimed Mr. Earnscliffe.

"God help her, poor child!" said Mrs. Adair, with a sigh.

"Do not say God help, but God bless her, Mrs. Adair. Had I your faith I
would say God bless her ten thousand times over for her perfect trust
in the world-wearied man."

Flora glided away from Mr. Earnscliffe's side, and went round to her
mother, to whom she clung fondly, saying, "But you must not be angry
with me, mamma; I could not help it; and _you_ must bless me too, or it
will be a miserable closing to a happy day. You must not make me feel
that my love for him is pain to you--it would be too dreadful if _the_
two strong feelings of my life were to clash."

"They shall not clash, my darling child, and of course I will bless
you. I only want you to be happy; but I fear that you are grasping
_too_ eagerly at happiness--what if it were to be taken from you?"

Flora shuddered from head to foot, and cried, "Oh, don't, don't,
mamma dearest,--let me be happy whilst I may without thinking of dark
possibilities; only bless me and"--in a low tone--"him!"

Mrs. Adair kissed her with overweaning affection, and said, "God bless
you, my own sweet child, and give him whom you love the great boon of
Faith. Take her again, Mr. Earnscliffe, she is indeed yours." Once more
she placed her hand in Mr. Earnscliffe's, who again drew her round to
his side as he replied--

"Mrs. Adair, I can only say, as before, that you shall see how little
cause you will have to regret letting me have her at once. And let it
be all arranged now. When may we be married?"

"We expect to reach Paris in about ten days; there, if you choose; all
the necessary preparations can be made, and the marriage solemnized."

"That will answer so nicely. From Paris I can take a run to England,
and have the settlements--of which you and I, Mrs. Adair, can speak at
our leisure--drawn up."

"There are not any settlements to be made, Edwin," said Flora, shyly,
and for the first time calling him by his Christian name; "you know I
have not any fortune."

"But I must make a provision for all future possibilities. Suppose, for
instance, that you were to be left a widow; you must have a jointure."

"You are as bad as mamma, I declare--you both seem to foresee nothing
but misfortunes for me."

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Mrs. Adair. "But we had better go in now; it
is getting late and chilly."

"Chilly, mamma! why I find it quite hot, and it is so beautiful out
here; really one does not know which to admire more, Achensee by sunset
or by moonlight--it is exquisite at both times."

"I daresay _you_ find it so," replied Mrs. Adair; "but I can answer for
it its beauty does not keep _me_ warm. Besides we ought to go in to
Marie--she will feel so alone."

"That's true--how selfish I was to forget poor little Mignonne! she
_will_ feel alone."

They walked back to the hotel, and Mrs. Adair went in; Mr. Earnscliffe
and Flora remained out a few minutes more. He thought he had a right
to get a parting embrace from his betrothed, and Flora was not prude
enough or coquette enough to try to withhold it from him. She could no
more think of being capricious or tantalising towards her lover than
she could of treating him coldly in order to increase his fervour,--as
she had said to her mother, her only thought was how best to please
him. The playfully capricious school of heroine is, we know, the
favourite style in novels, but is not Shakespeare's Juliet a higher
conception of a loving woman, as she says--

    "But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
    Than those that have more cunning to be strange?"

Mrs. Adair's voice was heard calling, "Come, Flora." Mr. Earnscliffe
let her go, saying, "I believe, after all, I must learn quickly to love
God, that in perfect faith I may be able to ask Him to bless thee."

They joined Mrs. Adair, who said, holding out her hand to Mr.
Earnscliffe, "Good-night. It is already late, and we start early
to-morrow, so we must rest now."

"So soon, Mrs. Adair? But you have granted me so great a boon to-night
that I cannot object to anything you wish; you have made me your most
grateful and obedient subject for ever. Good-night then," and he kissed
her hand.

They looked round for Flora, but she had disappeared. Mrs. Adair
smiled, and said, "I dare say you have wished her good-night already,
and she probably did not want to have the _private_ good-night spoiled
by a public one, so ran away."

Mr. Earnscliffe smiled too, as he handed Mrs. Adair her candle, and
taking his hat he went out again.

Mrs. Adair was right. Flora had run away--she had gone up to Marie. As
she entered the room the light of the moon showed her Marie sitting in
the window, looking sadly dejected, and going over to her she put her
arms round her, saying, "Poor darling Mignonne!"

Large tears rolled slowly down Marie's cheeks as she said in French,
"Don't think me ill-natured, Flore--don't imagine that I would not do
anything that I could to promote your happiness, but I felt so lonely;
I felt that I was a stranger amongst you. Now that you are with me,
however, and as fond as ever, it is all well, and I am so glad if you
are happy, Flore. But Monsieur Earnscliffe is not _un croyant_, so I
suppose you cannot marry him until he becomes one?"

Flora felt almost angry with Marie. Was there never to be an end of
this question of religion? She subdued the feeling, however, and
answered gently, "Mignonne, if Mr. Barkley were not a _croyant_, as you
say, and if he came to you and told you how for years and years he had
known only suffering, but that now he loved you and that you could
make him forget it all if you would marry him at once, would you--could
you say to him, 'No, suffer on until you become one of the body of the
faithful?' Could you condemn him you love to endure pain which _you_
could relieve? Could you refuse, even for a time, to fulfil the office
for which woman was created--that of consoling and rendering happy one
whom she loves?"

"I know it would be fearfully difficult," replied Marie, looking very
much puzzled; "but if you were told it was right to do so, what then?"

"If the Church _forbade_ me to marry him I would of course submit.
But what misery it would be to make him endure one hour's suffering
from which I might save him. Thank God, I know that there is no
_indispensable_ obstacle to my marrying him--it would be _too_
dreadful."

"Take care, Flore, there may be some _indispensable_ obstacle although
you know it not."

"Mignonne, wish me joy at having won the love of _such_ a man, rather
than suggest obstacles to our happiness; it is a bad omen to hear of
nothing but objections on the night of one's betrothal. God knows
that 'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,'" and again Flora
shuddered.

"I do wish you joy, Flora, now and for ever, and I will daily pray
that Monsieur Earnscliffe may soon be as firm a believer as you are
yourself."

"Thanks, dear Mignonne, it is so unselfish of you to think about me now
in the midst of your own trial."

"I was not unselfish a few minutes ago, Flore, when I saw you and
Monsieur Earnscliffe together, and his kiss of betrothal imprinted on
your brow made me cry; yet indeed it was not that I envied you, Flore,
but it made me feel how different everything was for me."

"You need not tell me that it was not envy, Mignonne. I verily believe
that you would not know envy if you were to see it, so you might indeed
answer with regard to it as Nelson did when somebody spoke to him of
fear, 'What's fear? I never saw it.'"

"It is very _gentil_ of you to say so, Flore; but I want to talk about
yourself. I want you to tell me all about it,--how long you have
cared for Monsieur Earnscliffe; when you discovered that he liked
you,--everything, _enfin_."

"It will only pain you, Mignonne,--only recall Florence."

"But it will be such sweet pain, Flore; do tell me?"

"Yes, anything you like, darling," answered Flora, who certainly was
just in the mood to-night to do whatever could give anybody pleasure.
So they had a long chat over this prolific subject to young ladies--a
love affair. Then Flora went in to Mrs. Adair, and nearly an hour
passed before she sought her own room.

It was the last on the corridor, and had a balcony looking upon the
lake, so she was tempted to go out and look again on the beautiful
scene without. To any one Achensee would have looked surpassingly
lovely on that clear moonlight night, but to Flora Adair its beauty
spoke with one of those voices "which set the inmost music of our souls
a-going," singing a song which requires no words, yet breathing a
prayer to heaven to be made more worthy of ministering to the object of
our love, and to be enabled to make him happy. At length she muttered
half aloud, "What bliss it was to hear him say that I had done him
good!--my Edwin!"

"Flora!"

She started, but more with pleasure than fear, at the sound of her
own name, as she saw Mr. Earnscliffe come from under the shadow of
the trees and stand facing the balcony as he said, "I saw you come
out, and I have been watching you ever since. It was so delightful to
see you there, and know that you were thinking of me. I even heard a
sound which seemed very like Edwin; but it would have been still more
delightful if I could have been standing up there beside you."

Flora blushed and laughed as she answered, "Well, I must say it was
very wicked of you to be out here eaves-dropping when you ought to have
been in bed; and pray, why are you not there?"

"Might I not ask the same question, fair lady?"

"No, it is quite a different thing for me. A lady may have work and a
thousand other things to keep her up, but a man has no such excuse."

"And does standing on a balcony in the moonlight get a lady's work done
for her?"

"_Such_ a question does not merit any answer. But you will go in now,
will you not? It is really very late."

"Do you _wish_ me to go?"

"I think you ought to go."

"That is not saying whether you _wish_ me to go or not; if you do, I
will go."

"Unfortunately wish and ought are very often at variance, and so they
are now; wish says, 'stay out and enjoy this beautiful night,' and
ought, 'go in and to bed.' But now I must obey _ought_ for I have been
very refractory of late."

"In what?"

"In not listening to its voice, which told me to wait a year before I
gave a certain person of my acquaintance the right to plague me with
his presence at all seasons and hours; so now good-night indeed."

"Stay a moment longer, Flora; do not go yet."

"If I stay a moment it may probably stretch into an hour, and it really
must not be; good-bye again, but only till to-morrow." She retreated
into her room as he kissed hands to her; the window was closed, and he
too went in for good.

We can imagine that, although it was very late when Flora got to bed,
she was up betimes next morning, and took a stroll before breakfast,
and of course it is unnecessary to say that her stroll was not a
solitary one. Again they wandered down that walk which borders the
lake,--that lake which evermore will be mirrored in Flora's memory as
she saw it at eventide with the snowy mountains around it, crimsoned by
the setting sun; then as it lay calm and unruffled in the pale silvery
moonlight; and lastly as on that morning when the sun shone full upon
it, and a light breeze tossed its waters into sparkling, dancing waves.
It will ever be to her

    "The greenest spot on memory's waste."

When they got a little way from the hotel, Mr. Earnscliffe said, "Mrs.
Adair was so kind as to say that all the arrangements for our marriage
could be made in Paris, and that she expects to arrive there in about
ten days, but I want _you_ to name the day when you will give yourself
to me 'for better, for worse.' I feel a feverish impatience to have you
in my own keeping--to be certain that nothing on earth can separate us
more."

"What could separate us now, Edwin?"--she pronounced his name shyly;
then laughed and looked up at him, saying, "Do you know that I still
feel half afraid to call you by your Christian name; it sounds so
strange that _I_ should have the right to take such a liberty with so
grand and unapproachable a personage as you are."

"What, child, afraid of your captive! You ought rather to triumph in
your victory over one who made so fierce a resistance; and pray don't
have the least fear of wounding your captive's pride by taking _such_
liberties with him. You can never know how sweet it sounded to him last
night when first he heard you say Edwin."

"Well then, Edwin, I ask again what could separate us now? Surely you
have ceased to doubt me, and know that the chains in which you hold me
cannot be riveted any tighter; the marriage ceremony will only bless
them, and give me its sacred sanction to dwell in the mighty shadow of
your love."

"Ceased to doubt you, dearest! Of course I have. There is no real
love without trust; but I want you to be mine beyond the reach of all
danger. I am like a man who has found some rich treasure in an open
field, and can feel no rest or peace until he can convey it into his
house and revel in its possession; until then he dreads, he knows not
what, but that something may rob him of what is so precious to him. But
does the treasure not wish to be taken home? Would it rather be left
where it is for some time longer?"

"Oh, Edwin!"

"Then, the day, Flora--the day!"

She paused for a moment, and then said in a low tone--

"The happiest day I have ever known until now was the 21st of June,
the great feast of my dear school days, and its happiness consisted
in the power of being nearly all the time with my favourite mistress,
the object of my girlish love; so let my wedding day be the 21st of
June, that day which will give me the unutterable happiness of being
always with the love of my riper years; and thus the 21st of June will
be to me the happiest day of my life in youth as in childhood. Are you
satisfied, Edwin?"

She blushed all over as she spoke, and still more so when his answer
was to fold her in his arms, and murmur--

"My wife, then, in a few weeks hence!" Then he added, letting her
go, but making her lean upon him again, "I will write to England
immediately and desire all the papers to be got ready, so that I shall
only have the signing work to do when I go there from Paris."

"But you will not be long away, Edwin, will you?"

"Trust me, I'll not stay longer than is absolutely necessary; but I
must pay a flying visit to Earnscliffe Court to give orders about its
being fitted up for your reception. Shall I take you to it--my real
home--at once, darling?"

"Please, Edwin. Would it be possible to get there from Paris without
stopping on the way? That would be so pleasant."

"So it would; and I'll think about how we can manage. The old place
will bring up many painful memories, for I have not been there for more
than ten years; but you will exorcise all those ghosts of the past, my
Flora."

"It shall not be my fault if I do not, Edwin."

"Then in September I must whirl you off to Capri. I promised my poor
fisherpeople there to go and see them again as soon as I could; but
I almost doubt if they will know me, for I shall have grown so
young-looking in this new atmosphere of happiness. How much I shall
have to show you on those classic shores!"

"How bright a picture, Edwin: its brightness dazzles me. Oh, that it
may be realised!"

"Why should it not be realised? _Now I_ may ask, why do you doubt it?"

"Because it is too--too bright for me, Edwin. But we must return, or we
shall be late for breakfast, and then mamma will not be pleased."

When they got into the breakfast-room, they found Mrs. Adair and Marie
there. Flora had jestingly told the latter that she must congratulate
Mr. Earnscliffe the first time she met him; but, of course, never meant
that she should take it seriously. However, as Mr. Earnscliffe shook
hands with Marie and wished her good-morning, she said, timidly--

"I wish you much happiness, Mr. Earnscliffe; and it would be very
astonishing if you were not happy when you shall have Flore."

"I quite agree with you, Mademoiselle Mignonne: it _would_ be very
astonishing. But what do you say of Flora? If you were in her place,
would you likewise say that it would be very astonishing if you were
not to be happy?"

"Oh, that is all another thing, Monsieur. I would have fear of you; but
Flora has not."

This speech of Marie's caused a general laugh, which covered the poor
child with confusion; but Flora said gaily--

"Never mind, Mignonne! What you said was perfectly true:--I am not
dreadfully afraid of the formidable Mr. Earnscliffe. I don't suppose
that he will chop me up into mincemeat. But here comes the coffee, and
we must not let it get cold."




CHAPTER IV.


About an hour after breakfast the carriage came to the door, and our
friends set out for Tegernsee, two of them, at least, looking back
fondly on Achensee's secluded shores, and promising themselves to
visit them again when their happiness should be still more complete.
Promises, alas, which might never be fulfilled! Live in the present,
poor lovers--draw from the passing hour all its sweetness; but dream
not of bliss to come! The dark curtain which veils the future may too
soon be drawn aside, and leave you standing face to face with a stern
reality. Wander yet awhile in lovely Tyrol!--feast your eyes on its
green valleys, where graze the peaceful flocks, and the tinkling of
their bells sounds musically through the clear air, and look up to the
mountain's height where

    "Mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been,"

or by the foaming torrent's course, and see there the touching symbols
of their faith, raised by Tyrol's sons to cheer and guide the daring
chamois hunter on his lonely way. It is a land that breathes of love
and peace. Linger in it, then, and deem not that Paris, with its false
glitter and turmoil, will crown your happiness. Passions fierce and
angry dwell within that great city's walls and point their arrows
towards you!

Immediately after leaving the village which lies at a little distance
from the lake, the road to Tegernsee enters the narrow pass of Achen,
bordered on one side by a rapid stream, and on the other by high
mountains, which are so thickly wooded that even beneath a mid-day sun
they make the pass look dark and solemn; whilst through breaks in the
mountain's chain glimpses may be caught of smiling valleys, and here
and there a solitary cottage.

In passing by a shrine the driver raised his hat, and Flora said in a
low tone, "Do you condemn that, Edwin?"

"Not in these poor people, because they do not know that it is
superstition."

"But suppose that it is _not_ superstition, as you yourself will admit
when you see the supernatural truth of religion, and God grant that
that may be very soon."

"Amen! How I long for faith in _eternal_ happiness now, Flora."

His expressive eyes and the tone of his voice as it lingered over her
name told all that words did not say of why it was that he so longed
for such faith _now_. And Flora read it all therein with deep delight
as she answered, "How true it is that the more the heart loves, the
more irresistibly is it drawn to Divine faith, for _then_ we dare
not believe that the grave is to be the end of everything. The great
mystery of life and death would be too awful had we not faith and hope.
So you must have them, Edwin."

"I shall have them, Flora, if I can only find what I used to call my
_ignis fatuus_--certainty--to rest them upon. I gave up the search for
it long ago, as I told you, but now I will begin it again in a new
territory and under new auspices, and if it will cease to be an _ignis
fatuus_, and blaze into a steady flame, how grateful I shall be, and
how I shall bless the star which lighted it up for me, and shed over me
the halo of happiness for this world and for the next. But here we are
at the baths of Kreuth."

"It is very pretty," replied Flora, "although it cannot boast of
Achensee's grand wild beauty. What could rival that?" Flora's smile
seemed to say that Achensee had more charms for her even than those
which nature had bestowed upon it.

At Kreuth a rest and hot luncheon--or dinner, as it may be
called--were very acceptable after their drive through the keen
mountain air; and in about two hours they resumed their journey. Some
time before reaching Kreuth they crossed the Tyrolian boundary into
south Bavaria, where the scenery all the way to Tegernsee is very
lovely, although, as Flora said, it cannot boast of great wildness
or grandeur; and Tegernsee itself is a sweet little spot, but wholly
devoid of any of the characteristics of Achensee. The lake is like
an immense sheet of crystal, with pretty little villages and gardens
running down to its very edge, and all around wooded hills and flowery
meadows meet one's gaze, but there is nothing solemn or impressive
about it. The dark blue lake shut in by ramparts of snowy mountains,
the isolated cottages with their carved crosses, the oratory and the
shrine--these all belong to Tyrol. Tegernsee charms the eye with
its smiling prettiness and brightness, but it does not speak to the
imagination as Achensee does.

Our party stopped that evening and the next day at Tegernsee, exploring
its neighbourhood. Walking was the order of the day. Mr. Earnscliffe
managed that they should drive as little as possible; he declared that
it was a shame not to walk when there were such beautiful shady alleys
leading to all the different _points de vue_ and places of resort; or
in other words, walking suited his taste better than driving, because
then he could have Flora more to himself, whilst Mrs. Adair and Marie
preceded or followed them, as the case might be.

Mr. Earnscliffe was an exacting lover, but he could not be too much so
for Flora; she asked nothing better than to be with him, whether he
spoke or was silent, and he was very often silent. On one occasion when
they had walked for some distance in silence, he said, "You are so good
to stay with me, Flora, in whatever mood I may be. Does not my silence
sometimes weary you? I fear I seem but a sorry lover, and you never try
to make me what you would wish me to be; you do not use your privilege
of _fiancée_--that of ruling your lord elect."

"How can you ask if your silence wearies me, Edwin? Do you not know
that silence is often more eloquent than words? It is enough for me
to be with you, and to feel that although you do not speak, you like
to have me at your side, and would miss me were I to go away. And as
to ruling you, it would be no privilege to me,--I want to be ruled.
_Our_ sovereignty consists in voluntarily yielding to one whom we love,
whilst knowing that we have the power to give him happiness. This and
this alone is our true sovereignty."

"Darling! what should I do if anything were to take you from me?" and
he shivered.

Flora had observed that the fonder he appeared to be of her the more
did he seem haunted by a morbid dread of losing her, and she asked,
"What makes you fear that anything should take me from you?"

"Because you are so precious to me, child, and I am so unaccustomed to
happiness that I can scarcely believe in its realisation. I wish we
were married and that I had you safe at Earnscliffe Court." He could
not tell her about Mary Elton and his strange dream;--of the former he
was of course bound in honour not to speak, and of the latter it seemed
so foolish and superstitious even to think; yet it was the remembrance
of these which so often made him thoughtful and silent.

Flora saw that he was in a desponding mood, and in order to distract
him from his gloomy thoughts, she began to question him about
Earnscliffe Court, what the grounds and house were like, until by the
time they reached the term of their walk he was talking gaily about the
fitting up of the rooms for her reception, and as the others joined
them he appealed to Mrs. Adair for advice on the subject.

In such walks and talks time slipped quickly by--time, that tyrant
which ever flees when we would have it stay its course, and drags when
we would give worlds to have it accelerate its speed!... How its wheels
are going now for Mr. Earnscliffe and Flora! They are tearing up the
hill at full speed, but at the summit the drag will be put on, and the
descent will be slow and weary.

The morning but one after their arrival at Tegernsee they drove to
Holzkirchen, and there got into the train for Munich. At the terminus
Mr. Earnscliffe's servant, who had been sent on to engage rooms, met
them with a carriage to take them to the Hotel des Quatre Saisons,
where apartments had been taken for them.

How well does Munich merit its title of the Athens of Germany, with all
its art repositories! Its fine wide streets and gay shops, too, claim
for it a share of admiration from the lovers of handsome modern cities.
A week passes quickly there, and even then we come away without having
really seen all its treasures, as it would indeed take a long time to
exhaust the resources of its different galleries. In the old Pinacothek
there are original paintings of the Spanish, Flemish, French, and
Italian schools. Of the last-named school we see subjects from the
pencil of its very earliest pupils,--Cimabue, Giotto, Sodoma, and Beato
Angelico. And standing before a picture of the _Frate's_ we find Mr.
Earnscliffe and Flora, the day after their arrival in Munich; Mrs.
Adair and Marie had just gone into one of the other rooms.

"Do you like Fra Angelico's pictures?" asked Flora.

"Yes, he is an exquisite painter."

"Yet he was, according to your ideas, an ignorant monk, and a
worshipper of images; nevertheless, I daresay that your enlightened
Landseer could not paint anything to equal his angels! Yet he is
generally considered to be one of your best painters."

"But it's not fair, Flora, to compare them," answered Mr. Earnscliffe,
laughing at the mere idea of such a comparison; "Fra Angelico's and
Landseer's are altogether different styles."

"Of course they are. How could reason and truth, and superstition and
ignorance produce the same style of painter? And it was just that which
struck me;--the difference in elevation of style and subject shown by
the disciple of truth and intellect over the poor superstitious monk!"

Mr. Earnscliffe smiled, but remained silent, and Flora said, "Why do
you not answer, Edwin? Have I annoyed you?"

"Annoyed me? No. I did not speak, because I was thinking over your
words. It _is_ strange, no doubt, that the painters of the Middle Ages
should be of so much higher an order than those of our own time. To be
candid with you, this reflection has often occurred to me before now,
but I turned away from it as one of the many riddles which reason could
not explain--I wish it could be satisfactorily cleared up."

"It _can_ be, Edwin. But we shall lose mamma if we do not go on--she
and Marie have already left this hall...."

It would be too fatiguing to follow them in all their sight-seeing
labours. The only expedition in which we feel inclined to accompany
them is the one which they made to the Bavaria. Mr. Earnscliffe said
that it was at a pleasant walking distance from the town; accordingly
they went on foot, he leading the way with Flora. Both she and Marie
were most curious to see the statue of a woman whose head alone can
contain six persons, and they found it difficult to believe that it
did not look like an overgrown monster. But, on the contrary, when
they reached it they saw only the form of a beautiful woman standing
on a marble pedestal and a lion crouching by her side. Its proportions
are so admirable, that even when close to it they could hardly force
themselves to credit its gigantic size.

The girls said they would like to ascend, just for curiosity. Mr.
Earnscliffe of course went with them. They sat down in the head, then
looked through the eyes for a moment or two, but were glad enough to
come down again, as the heat was excessive. When they returned and got
again into the open air, they saw, much to their astonishment, a lady
and gentleman speaking to Mrs. Adair, and heard her say, "How surprised
they will be to see you here."

The lady turned round, and they saw Helena Elton, looking brighter
and gayer than ever. Surprise was indeed depicted on all their
countenances, but in Mr. Earnscliffe's there was another expression
blended with it which was not so easily read.

"Helena Elton!" exclaimed Flora.

"Helena Elton is no more," she said, laughing and blushing; "allow me
to present my husband, Mr. Caulfield."

When the excitement caused by this unexpected meeting had subsided a
little, Mrs. Adair said, "Had we not better return now? We dine at five
to-day, so as to be ready to go to the Opera, which begins at six."

"We are going to do so also," added Mr. Caulfield.

"Then, Helena, you might as well walk back with us; I want to hear
a great deal of news," said Flora, with a significant glance at Mr.
Caulfield.

"Indeed, Miss Flora, and do you expect me to gratify your curiosity?
But come, I will indulge you if you will promise to gratify mine in
return."

"If I had anything to tell which could gratify it, I might promise, but
one can't make promises if there is nothing to be told; however, we can
make terms as we go," answered Flora, lightly.

"Very well, so be it. We drove here, but we can send away the carriage,
can't we, Harry?"

"To be sure we can, Cricket; I dare say the driver will not be
inconsolable for the loss of our company if he gets our money. But,
Mrs. Adair, can you not wait for a few moments to let us run up Dame
Bavaria,--we want to be able to say that we have been in a woman's
head."

"Yes, ten minutes cannot make any great difference."

"Oh, we shall do it in less time than that."

As soon as they had got into the statue, Mr. Earnscliffe drew Flora
aside, and said, "Do not tell her of our engagement. I will give you my
reasons for not wishing it to be told to her, at another time."

"It is enough to know your wishes in order to follow them, Edwin; you
can tell me the reason when you like, or not at all, if you choose. But
I must caution mamma and Marie."

He pressed her hand as she turned away from him and went to her mother.
Shortly afterwards, Mr. and Mrs. Caulfield came down again, and they
all set out to walk home, Mr. Caulfield having first discharged their
carriage.

Helena and Flora walked together, as prearranged, and the latter
thought the best way to keep from admitting her engagement was to begin
by telling as much as she chose, and so prevent too much questioning;
therefore, she said at once, "When you talked of my gratifying your
curiosity, Helena, I suppose you meant to allude to Mr. Earnscliffe's
being with us, but, alas! for your gratification, there is very little
to tell. We met him by chance in Venice."

"Chance, Flora?" interrupted Helena.

"Yes, quite so; we did not even know that he was in Venice. We happened
then to speak of crossing the Tyrol. Mamma said we were going in the
diligence,--as we were three unprotected females she did not like to
take a carriage and trust altogether to the driver of it,--when Mr.
Earnscliffe good-naturedly offered to escort us over the pass. That is
all I have to tell you."

"Come, Flora, you are not so verdant as to imagine that a Grand Mogul
like Mr. Earnscliffe, who, as a general rule, dislikes ladies, would
offer to dance attendance upon three of them out of mere good nature;
it is quite evident that he would never have done so unless one of the
three had pinioned him with Cupid's fiery darts. Admit, Flora, that he
is in love with you."

"Well, Helena, your reasoning _is_ worthy of a woman, for it is utterly
guiltless of all logic. Because a gentleman offers to see us across
a mountain pass, you jump to the conclusion that he must be in love
with _me_. If even it were--which, of course, it is not--a necessary
consequence of his travelling with us that he should be in love with
one of the party, why, in the name of all that's wonderful, fix upon
me? Marie is much prettier. Why, then, not upon her?"

"Prettier--yes; but you might as well talk of his being in love with me
as with her. Why, he considers _us_ merely good, gay little fools, that
is, if he could for a moment bring down his great mind to think about
us at all. Of course, _you_ are the 'favourite;' and if he does not
propose it will be very dishonourable."

"How can you be so absurd, Helena?" said Flora, getting a little
excited, yet feeling that too warm a defence might only betray her.
"It would be too bad if a gentleman could not do a good-natured act
to three ladies without being expected to propose for one of them, and
surely an avowed woman-hater like Mr. Earnscliffe could do it most
safely without giving cause for any such expectations. But never mind
_him_,--I want to hear about yourself. I need scarcely say that I knew
there was a flirtation between you and Mr. Caulfield in Rome; but I had
no idea that Mrs. Elton would approve of him as a suitor for your hand."

"Approve of him, indeed! What an idea! Poor Harry is not enough of a
big-wig or rich enough to take my lady mother's fancy. Our history is
quite a romance."

"Then please to let me hear it, or a _résumé_ of it, at least, for we
have not much time to spare."

"Well, then, to begin at the beginning. Early in the winter Harry and
I became great friends, and at first mamma seemed to be amused with
him, and used to laugh at our incessant skirmishing. Then that day at
Frascati--you remember it, Flora?--she suddenly got up the idea that
I flirted _too_ much with him. She was particularly annoyed about it
because that horribly slow Mr. Mainwaring was there. He is as rich as
Croesus, and mamma wanted me to marry him. But the evening crowned
the day. I was in wild spirits, and danced all night with Harry, and
finally sat for a full half-hour alone with him in that recess where I
had the pleasure of seeing you with Mr. Lyne. You can guess what tale
it was that I listened to there, and what my answer was. In an evil
moment mamma passed by and gave me a look of thunder. I saw that a
storm was gathering, and hoping to avert it, I told Harry that I would
not dance with him any more that night, and that he must not attempt
to speak to mamma until I gave him leave to do so, for I dreaded that
she would 'cut up rough.' He didn't seem to like it. However, he was
obliged to give me the required promise. No sooner were all the people
gone than I got the most tremendous scolding that a poor mortal could
have. I was peremptorily told that Mr. Caulfield was not a fit match
for me, and that, therefore, the way in which I flirted with him was
disgraceful, and, in fine, that there must be an end to it. I was in
despair; but thought that I had better let the squall blow over and
try to get Mary on my side. Mary behaved like an angel. She saw that
I really loved Harry, and so she did all she could to let us meet as
often as possible, and in the meantime endeavoured to influence mamma
in his favour. Thus things went on as long as we remained in Rome, and
for some time after we got to Naples. At last, one evening--by the
way, Mr. Earnscliffe dined with us on that day--a bouquet girl came
to the door ostensibly to sell bouquets, but in reality to bring me a
note from Harry. The note was to tell me that he had just received a
letter announcing his sister's approaching marriage with an officer
about to start for India immediately, and whose wedding must therefore
take place at once; but Harry declared that he would either take me
with him as his bride, or never see me again. His note, I assure you,
Flora, was quite in the _romance_ style, calling upon me to choose
between the man whom I professed to love, and a cruel, unreasonable
parent. He concluded by saying that he _had_ waited months in the
hope of her relenting, and that he would wait no longer, but on the
next day would formally ask mamma for my hand, and if she refused her
consent, it would remain with me to decide between them. There was no
possibility of stopping him, for I could not write then, and afterwards
it would have been too late; but, to say the truth, I did not want
to do so. I was getting heartily tired of manoeuvring to see him,
and to keep mamma from forbidding me to speak to him, so I was almost
glad that it had come to a crisis. The next day up came the hero, and
he was shown into the drawing-room, where Mary and I were sitting in
fear and trembling at the coming attack on the citadel. Harry looked
awfully determined and braced up to the fighting point as he came in,
and walking up to Mary, he said, 'Miss Elton, you are probably aware of
what my object in coming here to-day is, and I hope I may count upon
your seconding it.' Mary bowed, and then he asked, 'Can I see Mrs.
Elton?' 'I will go and tell her that you are here,' answered Mary.
Harry had only time to say a few words to me, when mamma came down,
followed by Mary. Then commenced the battle in earnest. Everything
that mamma said was bitter and cutting, and I, of course, was crying
like a fool. At last she concluded by saying, 'Mr. Caulfield, I told
Helena long ago that I disapproved of her flirtation, as I would
never give my consent to her marriage with you, and I tell it to you
now. My consent she shall never have. She has braved my displeasure
hitherto, and I suppose she will continue to do so. I have not the
power to prevent her from becoming your wife if she chooses to do
it in spite of my prohibition; but if she does I will not give her
any fortune whatsoever.' The brightest of smiles played over Harry's
face as he replied, eagerly, 'As for the fortune, Mrs. Elton, it is
a matter of indifference to me. If Helena can be satisfied to marry
a comparatively poor man it's all right. I shall only regret her not
having a fortune for her own sake. What do you say, Helena?' My answer
was to go and place my hand in his, and he put his arm round my waist,
saying, 'It's all right, you see, Mrs. Elton.' I saw mamma's eyes fill
with tears, and pushing Harry away, I went and threw myself at her
feet, and begged of her only to say that she would not be angry with
me if I married him. I said that I did not want any money, but that I
could not bear her displeasure. Mary came to the rescue, and joined her
prayers to mine, and we wrung from mamma a sort of half consent, which
Harry gladly seized on, and rushed off to the English chaplain to get
everything arranged as quickly as possible. A fortnight after we were
privately married. Mary was my only bridesmaid, and Mr. Lyne Harry's
bridesman. Poor Mary looked heart-broken as she wished me good-bye, and
I was so sorry to leave her; but I could not help wanting to go with
Harry"--(Flora smiled)--"We travelled post-haste to Rome, intending
to sail from Civita Vecchia; but at his banker's in Rome Harry found
a letter from his sister, informing him that her marriage was put off
for a few weeks, as her future husband's regiment was not to sail so
soon as they had expected. How Harry laughed when he got that letter,
declaring that if his sister had been playing into his hands, she could
not have helped him better to his wife, and that he was sure if he had
not taken mamma by storm and carried me off in a whirlwind, he would
never have got me at all. We had now time to spare, and I proposed that
we should come here, as we had neither of us seen Munich, and go home
by the Rhine. There's the end of my story; but, tell me, wasn't it
grand of Harry not to care about my fortune when, naturally, he must
have expected that I would have a large one? And mamma kept to it. She
did not give me anything. But Harry is such a darling, Flora, you can't
think!"

"Take care, Helena; you are yet too young a wife to sing your husband's
praises.... Wait a little."

"As if Harry would change, indeed!"

"Well, I don't at all mean to say that he will; I only said that you
must wait a while before you gain the right of singing his praises.
But here we are at your hotel, for I see them all standing at the door
waiting for us."

"Yes, we are staying at the Bayrischer Hof,--and you?"

"At the Vier Jahreszeiten; but we shall meet at the theatre."

"Oh yes, we must spend this evening together, for I heard Mrs. Adair
say that you were going away to-morrow; and I am not at all satisfied
about Mr. Earnscliffe; I must try and pick his brains--or rather it
is his heart that I want to pick--to-night at the theatre. As you are
so close to it, suppose we call for you, and then we can all go in
together."

"Yes, that will be the better plan; then please to be with us at a few
minutes before six."

As they came up Mr. Caulfield said, looking admiringly at Helena's
bright laughing face, "What a chatterbox my wife is, is she not, Miss
Adair?"

"Not worse than her husband, at all events," answered Helena, taking
his arm and pinching it. She then wished her friends good-bye, until
six, promising for herself and Harry to be punctual.

We may imagine what success Helena had that evening in gleaning
information from Mr. Earnscliffe about the state of his heart; and the
next morning the Adair party were in the train _en route_ for Paris
before the Caulfields had finished their rather late breakfast.




CHAPTER V.


When the Adairs arrived in Paris they found a letter waiting for them
from Madame de St. Severan, stating that most unfortunately Monsieur de
St. Severan had got a violent attack of the gout, which it was feared
would detain him for some weeks at his chateau in the south, where they
then were; therefore, to their deep regret, they were forced to give up
the pleasure of going to Paris to receive their dear child Marie, and
to thank her kind friends who had taken such care of her. But if Mrs.
Adair would kindly write and say on what day Marie would be ready to
leave Paris, they would send up a faithful old servant to take charge
of her to the chateau. The letter concluded with a warm invitation to
the Adairs to spend some time with them as soon as Monsieur de St.
Severan should be recovered. Flora declared that Marie must not go
away before her wedding, but the difficulty was how to get leave from
the de St. Severans for her to stay, without giving the true reason,
for Flora did not wish them to be told of her marriage; she said it
would be time enough to tell them just before it took place,--it was so
disagreeable to have a thing of that kind spoken of beforehand. So Mrs.
Adair could only write to Madame de St. Severan begging her to allow
Marie to stay with them until after the 21st, when they intended to
leave France, and holding out a hope that if the de St. Severans were
not able to come to Paris, then she would take Marie to them herself.
Mrs. Adair pressed so earnestly for consent to this arrangement that it
was granted, although somewhat reluctantly, as Colonel de St. Severan
was all impatience to see Marie; however, the consent _was_ given, and
Marie remained--for the wedding.

For nearly the first three weeks of their stay in Paris Mr. Earnscliffe
was in England, and, notwithstanding her occupation--one too in
which ladies are supposed to take such delight, that of getting her
_trousseau_--Flora found the time pass very slowly, and voted the
_trousseau_ a bore. Marie, however, supplied for the bride elect's
abstraction, and superintended all its most minute details.

Towards dusk one evening Flora sat in the drawing-room window totally
heedless of repeated calls from Marie to come and see what pretty
things they were planning for her; but she sat immovable in the
half-dark silent room, whilst from the one next to it there came a
streak of light and the sound of shrill French voices in full chatter.
Suddenly she started up and ran to the outer door of their apartment,
which she opened as if by chance just as a gentleman was about to ring
at it. It was too dark for him to see who the person was who opened it,
particularly as she stood very much behind it, and he asked in a quick,
eager tone, "_Madame Adair, est-elle chez elle?_"

"_Est-ce bien Madame que Monsieur veut voir?_" was the reply, in an odd
muffled voice.

"_Les dames enfin_," he returned, impatiently, "_sont elles à la
maison? Dites moi donc vite._"

A low laugh was now the only answer, but it seemed to satisfy Mr.
Earnscliffe perfectly as to whether the _ladies_ were at home, for he
did not repeat his question, but caught the respondent in his arms, and
murmured between kisses, "Wicked Flora! to try my patience so, and keep
me waiting for _this_."

Now time resumed its gallop for Flora, and everything became
interesting. Being asked to decide between this dress or that was
no longer tiresome, since Mr. Earnscliffe was there to say which he
thought the prettier. It came to within about ten days of the eventful
twenty-first, and everything seemed to bid fair to contradict the old
saying that "the course of true love never did run smooth." But one
evening as they drove home from the Bois de Boulogne, Mrs. Elton and
Mary passed them, driving very fast, but not before Mary had time to
recognise them and bow most markedly.

"The Eltons here!" exclaimed Flora. "Helena did not tell me that they
were coming to Paris." And she looked at Mr. Earnscliffe, but to
her amazement she saw that he had become strangely pale, and seemed
scarcely to hear her; then, with that sort of shudder which she had
before observed, he said, "Here! yes, I had no idea of it."

He scarcely spoke again all the evening, yet he could not bear Flora to
be away from him for a moment.

Here was the first shadow: it was not a very great one, but it
_was_ one. Flora could no longer blind herself to the fact that in
Mr. Earnscliffe's mind there was some sinister train of thought
in connection with Mary Elton. To doubt Mr. Earnscliffe was an
impossibility to her, and she only wished to know what it was that
caused this gloom, whenever Mary Elton was named or seen, in order
that she might better know how to cheer him and make him forget it.
She could not speak to him on this subject, because, as he had not
volunteered to tell her, any questioning or remarks upon it might look
like distrust, and she could not bear to say anything which might wear
the faintest semblance of such a feeling. So on that evening she could
only exert all her powers of charm and affection to try to chase away
his sadness. He stayed late, and when he was going away he held her for
a moment longer than usual in his arms, and said, but more to himself
than to her, "Would that you were really mine, Flora! then I should
have nothing to dread, but now----"

"What is that you dread now, Edwin?"

"You would laugh at me if I were to tell you, Flora, and it does seem
to be folly, but--oh, the power of a woman for good or evil is fearful!
I have a right to dread it."

"But tell me what it is that makes you sad, be it folly or not, and I
will try to banish it away, Edwin," she said with a smile.

"That you would, darling, but I _must_ not tell you. I am bound in
honour not to do so, and you gave me so good an example some time ago
on this point, that I should be unpardonable if I were to say a word.
But you will trust me."

"Trust you, Edwin!" and her blue eyes, as they rested full on his face,
looked worlds of trust.

"My own dearest, good-night!" and he gave her the last kiss, adding,
with a smile, as he turned away, "I must not stay any longer, or
you would tempt me into telling you my foolish fears, to have them
_petted_--which would be better far than reasoned--away."

But Mary Elton: what were her feelings on thus seeing Mr. Earnscliffe
driving in the carriage with her rival? In order to understand them
fully, let us go back to that evening at Naples, when, worked up to
the highest pitch of excitement, she forgot all maidenly reserve, and
allowed Mr. Earnscliffe to see her ungovernable passion for himself,
and almost cursed Flora Adair. We remember that she rushed away from
him down a side walk, as she heard the sound of an approaching step;
but we did not see her a moment later, when, coming to a stone bench,
she threw herself on the ground beside it, and pressed her burning face
upon its cool surface. Suddenly, however, she felt something flowing
into her mouth, and raising her head, a stream of blood came from her
lips. She tried to stop it with her handkerchief, and with her other
hand she clung to the bench for support, for everything seemed to swim
round her.

Thus Helena found her, and she started back with fright as she saw her
face, hands, and handkerchief all besmeared with blood; then putting
her arms round her, she made her lean against her as she exclaimed,
"Oh, sister, what is the matter? What can I do for you? Shall I call
any one?"

Mary leaned her head heavily on Helena's shoulder, as if to keep her
from moving, and half opened her closed eyes. Helena saw and understood
well why it was so--that Mary did not wish any one to see her in this
state; so Helena tried to remain quiet, but she felt so frightened
about Mary, and so powerless to do or to get anything for her, being
afraid to leave her, that she fairly broke down and began to cry. It
roused Mary, however, for as Helena's tears fell like rain-drops on
her face, she opened her eyes and tried to say, "It is nothing, I
shall be better in a few minutes;" and again, after a moment's pause,
she whispered, "Let me lean against the seat, and you go and dip your
handkerchief in the fountain and bring it back to me."

"But I am afraid to leave you, Mary, darling!"

"Do not be afraid, go--oh, go!"

Helena did not venture to hesitate any longer, for fear of irritating
Mary and making her worse, so she settled her as comfortably as
she could against the bench, went to the fountain, saturated her
handkerchief well with cold water, and ran back with it to Mary, who
muttered, "Put it upon my head." As Helena did so, Mary gave a deep
drawn sigh of relief, then taking the wet handkerchief in her own hand,
she rubbed it upon her face.

"Let me do it for you, Mary," said Helena, and she took the
handkerchief from her and tried to remove the blood stains from Mary's
lips, whilst the latter said, in a stronger voice than she had yet
spoken, "Do you think you could take me up, Helena, and help me to the
fountain. If I could only get to it I should be all right."

"I will try," answered Helena, and after a little time she did get her
up; and holding her tightly round the waist, and with Mary's arm thrown
across her shoulders, they at last got to the fountain. Mary plunged
her hands into the cold water, deluged her face with it, and repeated
this process until all feeling of faintness was gone. Helena stood by,
watching her mournfully, until at length Mary said, "There, now it's
all over, and so don't look frightened any more, Lena."

"But, Mary, what was all that blood? You have not burst a blood-vessel,
surely!"

"Nonsense, child," said Mary, quickly, although in her heart she
thought that what Helena said was true, that she had burst a
blood-vessel; "I probably hurt myself against the bench, and my nose
and mouth bled."

"I hope it was only that, dear sister; and now please, please to
believe that I did not willingly disobey you about Flora. He found it
out, Mary, before I knew what I was saying,--forgive me, forgive me,"
and Helena knelt before Mary.

"Helena!" Mary almost screamed, "never again dare to mention that
subject to me, the past is buried, and"--with bitterness--"washed
away in my blood. None know it but you, and none ever can know it but
_through_ you; be silent as the grave upon it to me as well as to
others! Lena"--her voice changed and lost all its sternness--"do not
thwart me by ever alluding to it; you are all that is left to me to
love now. Speak to me of yourself--of how I can help you--and I shall
be glad to have anything good to do or to think about."

Helena kissed her fondly, and thinking that, as she herself said, it
would be well for her to have something to do and to think about,
she put Mr. Caulfield's letter into her hand. Mary read it by the
moonlight, which, as we may recollect, was very bright that night. Then
she said, "We must go in now; I will go upstairs and change my dress,
and you can tell mamma that I have gone to do so, as I got it wet by
sitting at the fountain; that is true, heaven knows." She held up her
arms, and the water dripped from her light muslin sleeves.

The first thing that Mary did on getting to her own room was to drink
off about twenty drops of sal-volatile, in the smallest possible
quantity of water--she had latterly given herself the habit of taking
these stimulants--and then as soon as she had changed her dress, and
carefully folded up and put away the blood-stained one, together with
her own and Helena's handkerchief, she went down-stairs, and appeared
to be very much as usual for the remainder of the evening. Then next
day, as we already know, began all the fuss and hurry about Helena's
marriage, and for the ensuing fortnight excitement kept Mary up. But
on the evening of Helena's wedding day, after the bridal party had
left, as Mary sat before the dressing-table to have her hair arranged
for dinner, the maid saw even in the glass that she suddenly changed
countenance, and her lips formed the word "basin" although scarcely any
sound came from them. She handed it to her with all possible speed,
and again the blood streamed from Mary's lips. The maid was able to
reach the bell from where she stood at the dressing-table, and rang it
violently. The house was soon in commotion, and Mrs. Elton, though
evidently much agitated, was the only one who preserved any presence
of mind. Without a moment's delay, she sent off a messenger to their
doctor, and in case that he should not be at home, she desired the
former not to return without some good medical man; and having done
this, she turned all her attention to trying to get Mary stretched upon
her bed, as she was sure that she would be better if she could be laid
on her back. They succeeded in this, and the vomiting of blood ceased
for the time being.

Dr. Danvers, their regular physician, came quickly on the receipt of
Mrs. Elton's urgent message. Almost immediately after seeing Mary he
said that she had burst a blood-vessel from over excitement, but that
as far as he could judge at present there was not any danger if she
could be kept perfectly quiet. Mrs. Elton of course promised that this
should be done, and Dr. Danvers, having written a prescription, and
given all necessary directions for the night, took his leave, saying
that he would see the patient early next morning.

The first words which Mary spoke were, "Mamma, remember, you must not
say that I am ill when you write to Lena,--promise me this faithfully,
or I shall have no rest."

"Of course I will promise it, dear child," answered Mrs. Elton;
"everything shall be done that you wish, only keep yourself quiet, and
then you will soon be well again. I never supposed that Lena's leaving
us would be such a blow to you, and yet how you urged on that marriage
for her sake. How unselfishly you must love her, Mary."

Mary's eyes filled with tears, and her mother, dreading any agitation
for her, kissed her and went away. Mary now progressed slowly but
steadily from day to day, and before long she was able to go about
again. But when Dr. Danvers was taking his final leave of her he said
significantly, "Young lady, beware of violent excitement. To break a
blood-vessel about the heart a second time is most dangerous, a third
time fatal. In persons of your temperament feeling should be given way
to naturally, and not hidden and pent up in their own hearts, for then
it swells and swells until it bursts, and inundations, we all know,
sometimes destroy life. Remember my words, young lady, if you would be
long-lived. And now allow me to wish you good-bye, and at the same time
health and happiness."

Dr. Danvers might have spared his advice. There could be no natural
outlet for that secret passion which Mary kept "pent up" indeed in
her own heart. She burned to know where Mr. Earnscliffe and Flora
Adair--for she never doubted that they were together--were, and what
was the result of their meeting. Suddenly it occurred to her that
perhaps they were in Paris. She remembered that the Adairs had said
in Rome that they expected to get to Paris by the end of May. It was
the first of June now, so in all probability they were there, and Mary
resolved that she and Mrs Elton should go too, murmuring at the same
time, "I told him to dread me in the hour when he felt most sure of
Flora Adair. For her he slighted my love, and I will snatch her from
him yet--how, I know not--but I will do it or die."

Helena had not ventured to tell Mary that she met the Adairs and Mr.
Earnscliffe in Munich, so it was on chance that Mary determined upon
inducing her mother to go to Paris, and Mrs. Elton at once consented,
not wishing to oppose Mary in anything just after her illness.
Accordingly they arrived in Paris a day or two before that evening when
they met the Adairs and Mr. Earnscliffe in the Champs Elysées.

Mary had expected to see them together, yet the realisation of what
she expected was a shock to her. A sharp pain shot across her heart,
and tears of rage and jealousy started to her eyes, but, heedless of
Dr. Danvers' parting admonition, she forced them back, and exerted
herself to appear unconcerned, and when she retired to her own room
for the night, she did not go to bed, but sat pale and exhausted in an
armchair, meditating upon what she could do to separate them. "I saw
him start as he caught sight of me, so he has not forgotten that night
at Naples, and it shall be recalled still more forcibly to his memory
before long,--yet how? I do not even know where either he or the Adairs
are staying; however that I can find out. What then? Oh, that I were
Iago to his Othello! Heavens! it is not possible that they are married
and that I am too late!" she exclaimed, springing from her chair. "No,
no, it cannot be, I should have heard of it; but even if they are, I am
not too late,--revenge is still possible, only let me have the means!
But it is of no use to think any more to-night; to-morrow I must find
out where they are, and then--now, oh give me rest, rest!"

The next morning she sent their courier to the police to inquire where
a Madame et Mademoiselle Adair et Mademoiselle Arbi were residing, and
desired him to be shown up to her room the instant he came back.... She
trembled as she heard his step approach, and it had seemed like ages to
her until his knock came to the door. "_Entrez_," she cried eagerly.
He went in and gave her an answer, for which he received a most
earnest "_Merci beaucoup_." The answer was that the _three_ ladies were
residing in an apartment in the Avenue de Marigny, 29. "Now," thought
Mary, "we can go and call upon them, and there we shall hear where Mr.
Earnscliffe is. So far all is well; I am still in time to keep my word
to him. We had better go early to the Adairs--about half-past one--so
as to catch them at home; so I must go and tell mamma, as it must be
long past twelve now." She entered the drawing-room, where Mrs. Elton
was sitting reading, and was just going to propose the visit to the
Adairs, when Thomas opened the door and announced "Mr. Maunsell."

Mary frowned with displeasure, for she feared that the visitor--she
could not think of any one whom she knew of that name--might make them
late in going to the Adairs, and she felt indignant with Thomas for
allowing any one to come in at such an undue hour for visitors--"before
one o'clock--preposterous!" But Mrs. Elton exclaimed, with a bright
smile, as a venerable-looking, grey-haired old gentleman came in, "Mr.
Maunsell, how delighted I am to see you!"

Mary saw with surprise that her mother's eyes were swimming in tears,
and the old gentleman, whom she was sure _she_ had never seen before,
kept her hand in his as he said, "Poor William! You and he were
together when last I saw you."

They both remained silent for a second or two, and then Mrs. Elton
said, "Mary, come and make the acquaintance of an old friend of your
dear father's. You have heard me speak of Mr. Maunsell often, and of
having stayed at his country seat, near Earnscliffe Court, years ago."

As if by magic Mary's frown vanished, and her whole face lit up; even
Mrs. Elton was astonished at the singular graciousness of her manner as
she expressed her pleasure at being introduced to Mr. Maunsell; yet she
was much gratified by it, for she looked upon it as a proof of how dear
her father's memory was to Mary; and Mr. Maunsell seemed to be quite
touched as he said, "Thank you, my dear, for receiving me so warmly; we
old people value cordiality from the young so much."

But neither of them had got the right key to her sudden change of
manner,--that key was the word Earnscliffe Court. "He must know Mr.
Earnscliffe then," she thought, "and possibly he might be of some use
to her--who could tell?"

When they were all seated Mrs. Elton said, "How did you know that we
were in Paris, Mr. Maunsell?"

"Well, by the merest chance," he answered. "I met Earnscliffe
unexpectedly--I did not know that he was here, either--and in the
course of conversation I asked him if he knew you, adding that you
and his parents had been intimate friends. He said he had met you in
Italy, and then I asked him if he had any idea where you were now; he
answered, somewhat abruptly I thought, 'I suppose they are here, for I
saw them driving in the Champs Elysées last evening, but I know nothing
more about them.' I did not like to lose the chance of seeing you,
without making some exertion, and accordingly I went to Galignani, in
hopes of finding your address, and as you see, I was successful."

"It was so good of you to take the trouble of finding us out."

"It was not goodness, my dear; I felt that it would be a gratification,
even if a sad one, to me to see you again. But come, I must not make
you think of bygones," he added, as he saw Mrs. Elton's eyes beginning
to glisten again; "let us talk of something cheering. By the way, I
think Earnscliffe is going to be married again."

Mary felt as if the beating of her heart stood still, as Mrs. Elton
exclaimed, "Again! Why, has he been married? Is he a widower?"

"Married! to be sure he has been, but he is only a widower in law,"
answered Mr. Maunsell with a smile.

Mary could stay quiet no longer; she stood up and went to the window,
apparently to arrange the blind, and then seated herself so that the
shadow of the curtain fell upon her.

"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Elton. "We have resided so much out of
England for the last twelve years, that I know nothing of all this. Do
tell us the whole history."

Mr. Maunsell, who enjoyed telling a story, acceded to this request with
the utmost willingness.

"It must be somewhat more than ten years ago now, I should say, since
the beautiful Miss Foster was the reigning belle in London. Mr. Foster
had been lavishly extravagant all his life, and it was generally known
that he depended upon his only child's making a rich marriage in order
to stave off absolute ruin. If beauty can be called a fortune, Amelia
Foster certainly had an ample dower. Well, in the beginning of the
season Earnscliffe was abroad, but towards its close he returned to
London, and was, of course, introduced to Miss Foster. From the first
moment that he laid eyes upon her he was a doomed man, and by the
end of the season he had proposed and was accepted. Old Foster was
in a high state of triumph at having secured _such_ a son-in-law.
He thought that there was nothing which he might not expect from
Earnscliffe, with his lordly possessions and well-known generosity;
but it was observed by more than one that the young lady looked sad
and dejected from the time of his proposal. She pleaded hard, I am
told, not to be married until after her next birthday, which was some
months off. Earnscliffe chafed at so long an engagement; but he could
not refuse her anything that she chose to ask for. I never saw a man
more bewitched by a woman than he was, and she tried him pretty well.
Her worst prank was insisting on fulfilling a promise which she had
made to go on a tour with her uncle's family through Switzerland and
Germany. I used to see a good deal of him at the time, and although it
was evident how much this tour annoyed him, he would not allow any one
to find fault with her. Accordingly, she went off with her Uncle and
Aunt Stanly, and her two cousins, John and Alfred. John was the eldest
son, and a quiet ordinary young man; but Alfred was a handsome, gay,
wild fellow, and it was whispered that if he and Earnscliffe could
have changed places with regard to the fair Amelia, she would not
have wanted to see Switzerland just then. No one, however, ventured
to say this to Earnscliffe. You know it is not easy to take any
liberty with him. Poor fellow! he spent the time of her absence all
alone at Earnscliffe Court, superintending the adorning of it for its
future mistress. At last, late in October, she came back. I was not in
London then; but I heard from friends there that Miss Foster looked
wretchedly ill. However, she did not complain, and there was no further
postponement of the marriage, and it was celebrated on the 20th of
November. I remember the date well, for it was the day upon which I
myself was married. And on that very day Alfred Stanly received the
official announcement that he was nominated to a place in the Home
Department of the Foreign Office, which Earnscliffe had procured for
him. I was one of the wedding guests, I went up to London especially
for it, and I heard the Stanlys showering thanks upon Earnscliffe for
his kindness to Alfred as they took leave of him, and he led his bride
to the carriage. They spent three weeks or so in the south of England,
and then they came to Earnscliffe Court for Christmas, which was to be
kept there with grand festivities. The house was full of company, and
among others was Alfred Stanly, who had just passed his examination for
his new appointment. He was a clever fellow enough when he chose to
exert himself. Everything went off to perfection, and the bride was at
times lively and charming; at others silent and abstracted; I often saw
Earnscliffe look at her with a melancholy puzzled air. At length all
the guests went away except Alfred Stanly, who was to remain with them
until the middle of January, when he was to begin his attendance at the
office. One day I met them out driving, and Earnscliffe told me that
he was going to London that evening on business; but Mrs. Earnscliffe
exclaimed eagerly, 'Oh, Mr. Maunsell, you have influence with my
husband--do try and persuade him not to go now. He might as well wait
for Alfred, who will be going to town in a fortnight, and they could go
together!' I was going to try what I could do to forward her wishes,
but Earnscliffe said gravely, 'Do you suppose, Amelia, that I would
stay at home at the request of another, when I thought it right to
refuse you? I really must go at once; but I shall be back in a week.'
'A week!' she repeated, and I shall never forget the scared expression
of her face: but she said no more. And I thought nothing further about
them until five or six days afterwards, when the rumours spread through
the country that late on the previous night Earnscliffe had returned
unexpectedly, but quitted his house not half an hour after he had
entered it, drove back to the railway station, and took the night mail
up to London, and also that Mrs. Earnscliffe and Stanly left early
next morning. The next thing we heard was that Earnscliffe had sued
for and obtained a divorce, and that his unfortunate wife had become
Mrs. Alfred Stanly. This morning was the first time since that dreadful
affair that Earnscliffe and I have met."

"Why, you have told us quite a romance," exclaimed Mrs. Elton; but she
was prevented from saying anything more by Mary's getting a violent fit
of coughing: she made a sign to her, however, not to mind her, and with
her handkerchief pressed to her mouth she stood up and left the room.

"Miss Elton is not ill, I hope?" said Mr. Maunsell.

"Oh no!" answered Mrs. Elton; "she will probably be all right again in
a moment. And now I will ring for luncheon. You must not run away from
us until after that, at all events."

Mr. Maunsell allowed himself to be prevailed upon to stay for it, and
after a little time they repaired to the dining-room, where Mary joined
them, looking very pale, but her eyes sparkled brilliantly, and as
she came into the room she said, "I was sorry that my tiresome cough
obliged me to leave you just as you finished your interesting story,
Mr. Maunsell; but you said that you thought Mr. Earnscliffe was going
to marry again. And who is to be his second bride?"

"That I can't tell you; for, as you may imagine, marriage is the last
subject in the world upon which _I_ can speak to him. But I suppose
he is going to be married, because Earnscliffe Court is being all
refurnished, and I know that he was in England some time ago, and was
very much with his lawyers,--that looks like settlements. Then he told
me to-day that he was going with some ladies to the grand ball at the
Hotel de Ville, given for charity, which is to be to-morrow night."

"Going to the ball, is he, with her?" said Mary, and she laughed a low,
strange laugh; then added suddenly, "Mr. Maunsell will you escort us to
it? They say it will be a grand sight!"

"Surely I am too old for going to balls, my dear!"

"Indeed you are not, and I want you to come with us," answered Mary,
with her sweetest smile. "Now you must not refuse the first request of
my father's daughter."

"So you have already found out the way to make me do what you like!"

"Then you will come? Oh, thank you!"

"And you must come and dine with us," said Mrs. Elton; "then we can go
late to the ball."

"Of course I cannot refuse _you_ after granting my young friend's less
congenial request. At what hour do you dine?"

"Our usual hour is seven."

"Then I shall not fail to be with you by that time."




CHAPTER VI.


Soon after Mr. Maunsell left them, and Mrs. Elton said, "Really, Mary,
I am quite uneasy about you; you look dreadfully flushed and excited,
and that fit of coughing was almost convulsive. I must take you to Dr.
O----; and I do not think that I can allow you to go to the ball. I did
not like to oppose you while Mr. Maunsell was here, but now that we are
alone, I am sure that I have only to appeal to your own good sense in
order to induce you to give it up, especially as I know that you do not
care about balls."

"But I _do_ care about this one," cried Mary eagerly--however, she
continued in a calmer tone as she saw her mother look at her in
amazement--"and please to let me go to it; afterwards I will see any
doctor you choose. This ball is the first amusement that I have felt a
wish to partake of since Lena's marriage, and to prevent me from going
to it will only be a new cause of irritation."

"Well, I suppose it is the lesser of two evils to let you go, since you
have set your heart upon it; but why is it so? You never liked balls
before. There is something altogether strange about you--something that
I do not understand, and that your grief for Lena does not account for;
that would not make your cheeks flush, nor your eyes flash as they do
now. What is the cause of it all, Mary?"

"God knows! Derangement of the nervous system, I suppose. But talking
about it, mamma, can do no good; it can only increase the evil. Wait
till the ball is over, and then try what doctors can do for me,"
answered Mary gloomily, as she hastily left the room.

Poor Mrs. Elton was sadly perplexed. She saw that there was some secret
influence at work within Mary's heart, yet she feared to question her
any farther, as it seemed to increase her excitement so much, and in
vain she tried to form any _clear_ idea of its cause. A faint suspicion
crossed her mind that Mr. Earnscliffe had something to do with it; and
as she thought over the events of the last few weeks it struck her that
since that day when he dined with them at Naples Mary had never been
quite herself, and this wild desire to go to the ball, after she heard
that he was to be there, seemed to corroborate it all. The result
of these meditations was to render Mrs. Elton sad, and thoughtfully
serious, as she said to herself, "Since William's death, I have had
no thought on earth but to make my children happy and prosperous in
the world, yet I do not appear to have succeeded. Lena has made a poor
match, in opposition to my wishes, and Mary has some secret sorrow
preying on her; yet how carefully I trained them to avoid all romance
and love nonsense, and I thought at one time that Mary, at least, was a
model of sense and discretion; but I fear it is impossible to think so
any more. Can my teaching have been false? Oh, my children, do not make
me feel that I have been to blame in your regard,--you for whom alone
I have lived through these long twelve years of widowhood!" Then with
a sigh she stood up, and went to Mary's room to ask her what she would
like to do for the afternoon.

"To drive," was Mary's laconic answer. She had evidently given up
the projected visit to the Adairs. And well she might; for there was
nothing to be gained from it now. The tale which Mr. Maunsell had told
was to her as if she had been suddenly shown a mine of gunpowder, over
which her victims were unconsciously walking. She felt that she had but
to apply the match to it in order to blast their happiness to atoms;
and she revelled in this coming triumph of her revenge. Her excitement
was almost uncontrollable; it was killing her by inches, and she knew
it; but she could not relinquish her triumph. Come what would, she
must go to the ball and fire the mine; after that she resolved to give
herself up altogether into the hands of a doctor, and perhaps, even
then, she thought it might still be time to save her life.

Mary, having so many Catholic relations, knew--what Mr. Earnscliffe did
not--that Flora Adair, according to her religion, must look upon a man
who had got a divorce, but whose wife was still living, as a married
man. Therefore it was that Mr. Maunsell's revelations filled her heart
with such savage delight. She pictured to herself Flora's misery on
hearing it; her struggles between love and religion; Mr. Earnscliffe's
entreaties, reproaches, and final despair and indignation; and she
laughed bitterly as she thought over each detail of the suffering which
she was about to inflict. And if she could only make Flora believe that
Mr. Earnscliffe had intended to deceive her,--to marry her, although he
knew from the first that it would be no marriage to her,--then, indeed,
would her revenge be complete.

The eventful night arrived. But when Mary went up to dress she felt so
ill that she could scarcely stand, and as she sighed heavily her mouth
became full of blood. She spat it out hurriedly, and taking a bottle
of lavender drops, she put it to her lips, and held it there until she
felt herself reviving. She then put it down and corked it up, saying,
"I hope to-morrow will not be too late to see Dr. O----. But too late
or not, I cannot help it now; I must go on and take my chance for the
rest." She rang for her maid, and began to dress.

When she went into the drawing-room in her flowing white dress, covered
with light gauzy blue draperies, old as he was, Mr. Maunsell looked at
her admiringly, and said, "You are as good, my dear, I hope, as you are
handsome."

"But I am not, Mr. Maunsell," she answered impetuously; and her voice
trembled, for his words affected her strangely, and she did not speak
again until they were in the midst of that most brilliant of sights--a
ball at the Hotel de Ville in Paris; its vast _salles_ one blaze of
light, which together with the fountains, trees, and flowers, formed a
scene of fairy-like splendour.

The Eltons had not been there much more than a quarter of an hour when
the Adair party arrived, with Mr. Earnscliffe, and another gentleman
whom Mary did not know. Mrs. Adair was leaning upon the strange
gentleman's arm, and the two girls followed with Mr. Earnscliffe. Mary
longed to pounce upon her prey; but she considered that it would be
wiser to defer the final stroke until she could get Flora separated
from the others. However, she might go and speak to them at once; so
she said, "Mamma, there are the Adairs. Shall we go and join them?"

"If you like, dear," answered Mrs. Elton, watching her narrowly to try
and discover if Mr. Earnscliffe had really anything to do with her
feverish state of excitement. And when they got to the Adairs she did
imagine that she saw Mary's hand tremble as she shook hands with him,
whilst he scarcely touched hers. Mrs. Elton felt convinced that there
was some mystery connected with him, and resolved to speak to Mary
gravely about it to-morrow. She was so occupied with her own thoughts
that she scarcely noticed Mrs. Adair's saying to her, "Allow me to
introduce my son, Mr. Adair, to you, Caroline."

She bowed half mechanically, but recollecting herself, she said, "Oh,
_we_ must shake hands, Mr. Adair. Your mother and I are old friends;
we knew each other as girls. And here is my eldest daughter, Mary. You
have heard of her and her sister Helena from Flora, I dare say."

"If he _has_ not," thought Mary, as they shook hands, "he will hear of
me from her. So he has come over for the wedding! But he might have
spared himself the trouble, I can tell him. There will be _no_ wedding,
or else his sister must abjure the errors of Popery; but heaven forbid
that she should do so, for then my revenge would be frustrated!" and
her eyes glared on Flora.

Flora did not see that angry glance, but Mr. Earnscliffe did, and he
could not bear it. He felt that he must get Flora away; and turning
abruptly to her he said, "May I have the pleasure of dancing with you,
Miss Adair?"

It was a valse! Flora looked at him in astonishment, but took his
offered arm; and he led her away quickly into the crowd of dancers.
Flora could not understand it. She knew that he seldom danced himself,
and that he did not like her to valse; therefore she had determined
never to do so again, although _she_ saw nothing objectionable in it.
What, then, could have come over him to-night to make him propose
dancing it with her himself? And almost before she had time to recover
from her astonishment he whirled her round and round at such a pace
and holding her so tightly that she was quite out of breath when they
stopped after a very few minutes of it. He piloted her out of the crush
towards one of the fountains, where they found a nice shady seat
close at hand, and she was very glad to sit down. He stood before her,
looking at her anxiously, and said, "I fear I have tired you, Flora."

"Not tired me," she answered with a smile; "but you have put me
somewhat out of breath. And now do tell me what made you dance
to-night? I thought you disliked dancing,--valsing especially."

"Valsing is not disagreeable _sometimes_," he returned gaily. "But the
truth is that I wanted to get you away from those people; and I could
think of no other way of doing it but by proposing to dance. How heated
you look; where is your fan?"

"I gave it to mamma to hold for me whilst I arranged my necklace, just
before you asked me to dance."

"Then I will go and get it for you. I saw Mrs. Adair sit down near to
where we were standing."

"I do not want it, Edwin. Stay with me."

"Yes you do, dearest; you look so hot. I shall be back in a moment;"
and he hastened away. But he would not have gone had he seen Mary Elton
approaching from the other side, leaning on Mr. Maunsell.

"So here you are all alone, Flora," said Mary, going up to her.

"Yes," replied Flora. "Mr. Earnscliffe has just left me to go and get
my fan from mamma. I was heated after valsing."

"But, nevertheless, I dare say you enjoyed it with _such_ a partner.
And now let me wish you joy, Flora; I did not like to do it while
there were so many by." Flora blushed, but made no answer, as she
wondered how Mary had heard of her approaching marriage; and the latter
continued, "But I did not know that you Catholics recognised the law of
divorce, even for those who are not in your Church?"

Flora felt a sensation of icy cold creeping over her as she asked with
a gasp, "What do you mean, Mary?"

"Why, of course Mr. Earnscliffe has told you that he was obliged to
divorce his wife about two months after their marriage, and that she is
still living, and the wife of his rival. Mr. Earnscliffe's friend here,
Mr. Maunsell, knew _Mrs._ Earnscliffe very well."

Surely, even in this moment of her triumph, Mary must have felt a
touch of pity as she saw poor Flora's eyes close, and large drops of
perspiration burst out on her forehead; but with a supreme effort at
self-control, Flora opened her eyes, and looking at Mary, said, "You
were right when you supposed that we Catholics do not recognise the
law of divorce; but what this has to do with Mr. Earnscliffe I can't
see, for I have never said, nor has he, that there was any engagement
between us. Now, adieu for the present," and Flora turned away her
head. Mary thought she saw Mr. Earnscliffe coming, and not wishing to
meet him just then, she drew Mr. Maunsell away, but looked back with
an almost pitying glance at Flora, and murmured to herself, "She _is_
a brave girl! How she tried to bear up in order to save him from the
imputation of having deceived her! Yet the bare thought of it must
rankle in her heart. My revenge is working well!"

Meanwhile, Flora was writhing under this overwhelming blow. There was
not a ray of comfort for her on any side, and the javelin of distrust
which Mary had so cleverly barbed was lacerating her heart, although
she struggled with all her might to cast it from her. But did not
this fatal disclosure clearly explain Mr. Earnscliffe's hitherto
unaccountable dread of Mary Elton? To know that she must either give
up him whom she loved, or her religion, was--heaven knows!--torture
enough; but it would be nothing in comparison to being forced to
believe him to be unworthy of that love--a deceiver, in short; that
would be agony! and she exclaimed within herself, "No, it is not
so,--he is _true_, if heaven is true!"

At this moment Mr. Earnscliffe returned with the fan, but as he saw
Flora leaning back with closed eyes, and a look of terror in her face,
he cried, as he threw himself on the seat beside her, "Flora, speak,
are you ill? What is the matter?"

She looked at him earnestly, but did not answer; that look, however,
was enough to make her feel, "Yes, he _is_ true, and I cannot give him
up."

"Flora, dearest," he called again, "answer me! What is the matter with
you?"

"The heat, or something, has been too much for me. Take me home,
Edwin," she said, in a low, plaintive voice.

"You must take something first--wine--champagne--what shall I get you?"

"Oh, do not leave me again, Edwin!"

"Flora," he exclaimed, "something has happened during my absence which
has put you into this state; tell me what it is?"

"How hot it is," she murmured, putting her hand to her forehead.

"Good God! Flora, you are not going to faint, I hope." He stood up
hastily--"Take my arm, and let us get out upon one of the balconies;
the air will set you to rights."

She took his arm silently, and leaned heavily upon it, as she passively
allowed him to lead her where he liked. As soon as they got to the
balcony he put his arm round her waist, and said, "Now, my precious
one, tell me, what is it all about?"

She did feel a little revived, and it was so sweet to stand there in
the cool night air, with his strong protecting arm round her; but how
could she tell him what had happened? Yet she must do it, if it were
only to have her faith in his truth confirmed, so at last she said,
"Mary Elton"--she felt his arm tremble; it made her start, and she
asked, in a piteous tone of voice, "Edwin! what has made you dread Mary
Elton?"

"Go on, finish what you were going to tell me," was his only answer.

To obey him was like an instinct to Flora, and she began again
timidly, "Mary Elton and a Mr. Maunsell--I think that was the name
she said--came to me while you were away, and they began to talk of
your--your marriage, long ago."

"Well, dearest, but why should this affect you so? You remember, I told
you all about it at Achensee; how, a short time after I had obtained
possession of one whom I believed to be a treasure, I discovered that
she had betrayed me. Of course you understood that I got a divorce
immediately; indeed, I told you that I put the case into the hands of
my lawyers at once, and left England."

Flora forgot everything else in her wild joy at this perfect
vindication of his truth, and she buried her face on his shoulder; but
she was roused by his saying, as he placed his right hand on her head,
"Darling, you have not yet told me what it was that so frightened you."

She shook all over as the sad reality was recalled to her, and his
utter unconsciousness of what the fact of his first wife being still
alive was to a Catholic, increased her pain, as she answered, "I have
been very stupid, Edwin,--you did tell me everything of your past life,
with your own truth and honour, but I misunderstood you. I thought
that she of whom you spoke as having betrayed your love, was only your
betrothed, not your wife, and--and--" she could get no further, and
Mr. Earnscliffe said, quickly, "Flora, I don't understand you. What
difference does that mistake make to you? Do you love me less because
my misfortune has been deeper than even you supposed?"

"_Love_ you less, Edwin!--more--more if it were possible, but--" the
words came slowly, and with great agitation--"there is no--no such
thing as divorce in the eyes of--of a Catholic!"

It was like an electric shock to him, and his voice trembled with
emotion, as he cried, "But I was not married as a Catholic; your laws
cannot affect me! Flora Adair, you are not going to give me up for
this,--it can be but mere prejudice!"

Flora fell from his encircling arm on her knees to the ground beside
him, murmuring, as she clasped his hands in her own, "Ask me nothing
to-night,--I am bewildered and half maddened; take me to mamma now, and
to-morrow morning come to me and you shall know all. God help me!" and
Flora moaned aloud.

"Flora," he cried again, raising her from the ground, "do you expect
me to be able to pass the night in such suspense as this? If you are
half maddened now, what should I be by that time? But here are people
coming; I must take you out of this place. Can I not see you to-night
in your own house?"

"No, Edwin, that cannot be, unless I tell mamma and my brother, and
then perhaps they would never let me see you again. Do you wish me to
tell them?"

"No, no. I suppose it must be as you say. But if _you_ fail me--oh,
Flora, Flora!"

He said no more, but the agonised tone of his voice rang in Flora's
ears with a dull, heavy, crushing sound, and she whispered--

"Take me to the cloak-room, and then go for mamma and the others. I
shall escape observation better in that way. Tell mamma that I do not
feel well."

Mr. Earnscliffe silently did as Flora desired, and before many minutes
her party joined her; but Mr. Earnscliffe did not come with them. They
got into their carriage and drove home. Flora hurriedly said good-night
and went to her own room; and now that she was at last alone, and free
from restraint, "all the winds" of passion did indeed

    "Leap forth, each hurtling each,
    Met in the wildness of a ghastly war,"

which was about to be waged in her heart.... Will she come forth from
that war victorious, although wounded and heart-broken? or conquered
and fallen? Will her one mainstay--her firm conviction in the truth and
the divine authority of her religion--carry her triumphantly through
it? or will she sink under the enemy's sharp blows from want of that
child-like love and confidence in the goodness of God which would have
blunted their edge? Ah, who can tell? It is a fearful test to be
called upon to dash away the cup which human happiness is "uplifting,
pressing, and to lips like" hers! Let us, then, follow her into her
room and watch the warfare's course.

She fastened the door, threw aside her cloak, and tearing off her pearl
necklace--a gift of Mr. Earnscliffe's--as if its clasp round her neck
were choking her, she walked up and down the room with rapid steps, and
her hands nervously pressed together. At last she exclaimed--

"Great God! it is as if Thou didst sport with the heart of Thy
creature! It would seem as if it were to crush that heart with tenfold
force that Thou didst lead me through a youth of deep yearning after
some object worthy of devoting myself to unreservedly, until I met
one who filled the void; and then after opening up to me a vista of
happiness and of a blessed work to be accomplished--that of healing his
wounded spirit and leading it to the knowledge of truth which it has so
long sought for in vain--Thou callest upon me to give him up, and not
only that, but at the same time, with my own hand, to inflict on him a
blow which will cast him back into darkness and despair! Is this love
or justice?"

She stopped short in her quick walk, and stood before the window gazing
out on the now quiet, deserted avenue, and then she raised her eyes
slowly to the blue starry sky above, as if, indeed, she would cry with
Promethus--

    "O majesty of earth, my solemn mother!
    ............ Earth and Ether,
    Ye I invoke to know the wrongs I suffer."

With a groan she turned away, threw herself upon a chair, and covered
up her face with her hands; but after a few minutes she took them down,
and said slowly--

"But let me try to think calmly.... Perhaps I have been too hasty in
at once supposing that I must give him up. Marriage, except among
Catholics, is not a sacrament: it is merely a civil contract made by
law, and 'what the law can make it can break' is an old-established
maxim, therefore Edwin is evidently free." She paused; but again she
resumed her soliloquy. "Yet the Church, I know, does not recognise the
law of divorce even among those who are not her children; but if that
decree be against reason, justice, and charity, am I bound to submit to
it? It could not be a good deed to drive him to despair, and that, too,
without being able to give him any sufficiently sound reason--at least,
any which would appear so to him--for my conduct. He would think that
my love for him was not strong enough to make me give up--as he would
call it--a mere prejudice of my education. It would only make him
hate, and keep him away from, religious truth. No, I cannot do this.
There is no really good reason why I may not be your wife, my beloved,
and that I will be! So now it is decided, I will marry him; and having
begun the night in true heroine style, with a wild rhapsody, I had
better finish it like a rational person and go to bed. But _how_ I wish
that he had never been married, or that she" (Flora gave her no name)
"were dead!"

She stood up, took off her ball dress, put on her dressing-gown, and
began to take down her hair.

Has the battle, then, been fought and lost? Is Flora about to fall from
light to darkness? Will she be false to her own principle? Will she
cast herself into the chaos of uncertainty and shifting opinion from
which she would have drawn her lover? Does she forget, when she says
that her refusal to marry him would keep him away from religious truth,
that if she does marry him, she places a stronger barrier than ever
between him and it? Yet stay, the battle is not quite over; even if the
enemy has gained possession of the colours for the moment, they may be
regained by the poor combatant.

Flora had just finished unweaving the thick plaits of her hair, when
she impetuously dashed it back from off her face, exclaiming, as she
resumed her pacing up and down the room--

"What sophistry all this is with which I have been endeavouring to
satisfy myself! Religion declares that there can be no divorce but in
death; and Edwin Earnscliffe's--ah!--wife lives! Therefore, it is vain
to try to compromise between my religion and my love. I must choose
between them; and, O God, what a choice! Fool that I was! I said that
to refuse to marry him would keep him away from religious truth; but do
I not know that to consent to it is to deny the principle of certainty,
and to force him, even for my sake, to shut his eyes to truth? and thus
I should be a curse instead of a blessing to him, not only in time, but
in eternity. Edwin, I must bear your reproaches and your misery; but I
cannot be a curse to you! No--no!" And she fell upon her knees before
an ivory crucifix which stood on a little side table, murmuring, "My
God! now teach me to do Thy will!..."

And there let us leave her to find strength and grace, whilst we return
to the Hotel de Ville to see what has become of Mr. Earnscliffe.

When he left Flora in the cloak-room, he lost not a moment in seeking
out Mrs. Adair, with whom, fortunately, he found her son and Marie, so
that there was no delay in looking for any of the party, and they at
once hastened down to Flora. But Mr Earnscliffe had scarcely delivered
her message, when he felt his arm touched, and turning round he saw
Mary Elton standing beside her mother, who was sitting talking to some
ladies near her.

"Mr. Earnscliffe," Mary said, in a low, impressive manner, "do you
remember that I gave you a rendezvous that night in Naples? I am here
to keep it now. Will you take me into the refreshment-room?"

But without waiting for an answer, she took his arm. The touch of her
hand was like the sting of an adder to him. In common politeness,
however, he could not shake it off, and to avoid attracting attention
he moved on, but did not speak.

Mary's eyes burned like two balls of fire as she looked at Mr.
Earnscliffe silently for a moment or two; but with her iron will she
kept down the fire which was raging fiercely within her, for there must
be no scene, she must be outwardly cool and collected so as not to lose
any of the triumph of her revenge; and again she spoke in measured
accents. "Yes, Mr. Earnscliffe, I told you that night to dread me in
the hour when you only waited for religious rites to make Flora Adair
yours, and I promised to be near you then, so you see I have kept my
word. That night you spurned me for her sake--I who had known and loved
you before you ever saw her--and I swore, if it were in human power to
do it, that I would tear her from you. I have done that work to-night,
and _you_ will _now_ know what it is to have your love spurned and cast
aside by your own idol for the sake of some senseless code of doctrine.
And to render my revenge more full and overflowing, I have planted in
her heart the thorn of distrust by making it appear that you intended
to deceive her by concealing your former marriage."

"Fiend as you are," he exclaimed in a tone of suppressed passion, "you
have not succeeded in that! My peerless, trusting Flora believes in me
at this moment as fully as ever----"

"How do you know that?" she interrupted eagerly.

"Because I have spoken to her since you have been trying to poison her
mind against me."

Mary's coolness began to give way. Was it then possible that Flora
would disappoint her of her revenge by giving up her religion rather
than her lover? and she cried hotly, "And will she marry you all the
same?"

Mr. Earnscliffe ground his teeth with rage. He could not answer
that question confidently. He hesitated, and in a moment all Mary's
coolness came back to her. She guessed how it was: that Flora had been
too confused to give any decided answer, but at the same time that
he dreaded she would not marry him; and from that instant Mary felt
_sure_ of her revenge. So, resuming her calm, mocking tone, she said,
"To-morrow, I suppose, you will go to her, and your 'peerless, trusting
Flora' will say to you, 'I am very sorry, but my Church will not allow
me to marry you,' and your love, your misery, and your reproaches will
not be able to win from this passionless disciple of her Church's
teaching a single concession. It is I, too, who have brought all this
to bear, in order to requite you for your appreciation of the gift
which I once bestowed upon you; and my thanks are adequate, are they
not, Mr. Earnscliffe? Now take me back,--I have had all the refreshment
which I wanted."

Mr. Earnscliffe did not trust himself to answer. He feared to lose all
mastery over himself, for if ever a man could be tempted to forget
himself, he was then. Every member trembled with the intensity of his
passion as he muttered under his breath, "Demon, and worse than demon!
and yet I must allow her to go unchained."

As soon as Mary saw that they were near her mother, she let go his
arm, and making him a mockingly gracious bow, she said, "Good-night,
Mr. Earnscliffe, and happy dreams." He hurried downstairs, and dashing
on his opera hat, which he had in his hand, he walked out into the
_Place_, without ever thinking of asking for his coat, and it was
between five and six in the morning when he appeared at his hotel door
in full ball costume.

In the mean time Mary Elton stood for about five minutes beside Mrs.
Elton without speaking, and then said abruptly, "There is Mr. Maunsell,
mamma; ask him to have the carriage called, and let us go home."

Mrs. Elton had been speaking to some old acquaintances whom she had
unexpectedly met a few moments before, but now she looked up at Mary to
see what had caused this sudden fancy, and she felt really frightened
at her appearance. There were two deep red spots on her cheeks, and her
eyes glittered with a strange light. Mrs. Elton said, "Mary, you ought
not to have been allowed to come to this ball; would that I had not
consented to it; however you are right in wishing to go home now," and
she beckoned to Mr. Maunsell to come to her, and asked him to get the
carriage called.

When they stopped at their own door Mr. Maunsell got out first, then
Mrs. Elton, but Mary did not move, and her mother called, "Mary are you
asleep?"

No answer came, and Mrs. Elton exclaimed, "A light, for God's sake!"
The servant pulled out one of the carriage lamps and held it inside,
and there, with her head thrown back upon the cushions, and blood
trickling from her lips, they saw Mary.

"Oh my God!" cried her poor mother, whilst Mr. Maunsell and the servant
took Mary out of the carriage and carried her upstairs. Mr. Maunsell
bent down his ear to catch some words which she was trying to utter,
and as well as he could make out they were, "Telegraph for Lena."




CHAPTER VII.


The great Dr. O---- was instantly sent for, telegrams to Helena and
Charles were despatched, and all that human skill or care could do
was done to save Mary; but while waiting for the doctor's sentence to
be pronounced and Helena's arrival from Ireland, we shall turn our
attention to our heroine and the coming interview with her lover.

On this fatal morning after the ball, when Flora went into the
breakfast-room, where her mother and Marie were before her, the former
exclaimed as she kissed her, "My child, what is the matter? You look
very ill; are you so?"

"No," answered Flora, speaking hurriedly to cover her intended
_équivoque_, "not now; but I certainly did suffer during the night.
Neuralgia is dreadful torture. But where is Edward?"

"Oh, he desired us not to wait breakfast for him, as he would probably
be very late, and we are going out early."

"For what?" asked Flora, listlessly.

"Oh, you _méchante_ Flore!" cried Marie; "I do believe that you have
forgotten the--the--_prise d'habit_--what you call it in English?--at
the Sacré Coeur to-day."

"You are right; I had forgotten it. But at all events _I_ cannot go: I
have an appointment for this morning."

But Marie had no notion of letting her off so easily, and she said with
a pout, "With whom then, Flore? You were not free to make a rendezvous
for this morning when you had already promised to come with us; it
would disappoint me so, and you do not wish to make pain to your
Mignonne, Flore; is it not so?"

"It is impossible, Mignonne; I expect Mr. Earnscliffe," replied Flora
shortly, and oh, how difficult she found it to utter that name calmly!

"_O ce Monsieur Earnscliffe!_ You cede everything to him, Flore. But
why not see him in the afternoon? Remit him until then. You can come
very well if you like; can she not, Mrs. Adair?"

Flora looked at her mother so appealingly, as she would say, "Spare me,
by ending this discussion," that Mrs. Adair said with a smile, "Oh,
Marie, you are too hard upon her. Remember who it is that you ask her
to give up for the reception; and she is tired from suffering and not
sleeping last night; so we will not tease her any more, but go to get
ourselves ready, and leave her love-sick highness to herself and her
beloved." Mrs. Adair stood up, and taking Marie by the hand, she drew
her along with her, and left the room.

As the door closed on them Flora sank back in her chair with a deep
sigh. How many home-thrusts had she not received in that short time!
and from those who would have done anything in their power to save her
from pain.

When she heard their descending steps, and the drawing up of the
carriage which was to take them to the Rue de Varennes, she went to
the window and saw them drive away. Then turning back to the table,
she drank off the cup of strong tea which had for so long remained
untouched before her, rang to have the breakfast things taken away, and
proceeded to her own room. Opening the _armoire_, she took out a box of
exquisitely inlaid woods, and placed it upon the table. She raised the
lid, and disclosed to view a perfectly fitted jewel case, with numerous
and costly ornaments reposing in their velvet beds. But three of these
were unfilled. Did she seek their occupants as her eyes wandered round
the room, and rested finally on the pearl necklace and bracelets lying
on the dressing-table, where they had lain since she took them off last
night? Yes, it was these which she sought; but what stinging memories
of that night's awful struggle did they call up! It almost seemed as
if the struggle were going to begin over again, as, clasping her hands
together, she cried, "It is too much! I cannot--cannot do it!" And once
more she impatiently walked up and down the room....

What! after the murmured "My God, now teach me to do Thy will!" and
the hours passed on her knees before the crucifix, does she fall
back into the old rebellious feelings? "It is very unheroine-like,
very imperfect!" we hear our readers exclaim. And it is quite true;
but we did not promise them a heroine even bordering on perfection.
We know that it would be much more according to the general style
of tale-writing to represent our heroine, after she has made the
sacrifice, as a picture of sad, touching resignation, thinking
beautiful thoughts about the sorrow and trials which are sent to us by
an all-loving heavenly Father, receiving them without a murmur because
they come from Him; but, alas! as we are painting from reality, we
cannot draw Flora different from what she is--one capable of making
grand sacrifices, but unable to bear patiently the incessant pricking
of that crown of thorns which now pressed her brows. To be really
resigned, to endure without repining, hour after hour, and day after
day, the weight of a great abiding sorrow, requires ardent faith and
sensible love of God. All this Flora had never possessed; her faith
had always been more or less beset by struggles, and now has come the
crowning one, which may never cease but in death. For her indeed,

    "Henceforth time is sunless,
    And day a thing that is not."

Suddenly she stood still and said, "Is this the way in which the heroes
of old sacrificed themselves to save their country? And shall I be
less brave than they were when the sacrifice which I am called upon
to make is one required by God, and made to save--although he will
not understand it _now_--him whom I love? No, no; even though their
sacrifice was far less than mine; for they died, and were at rest,
whilst I live to suffer. But, _fiat_!"... She took the necklace and
bracelets and put them into their places; her fingers seemed to cling
to them. Ah, how happy she was when she put them on last night! and
now--but she was determined to be strong, and hastily closing the box,
she carried it into the drawing-room and seated herself on the sofa.

Reader, do you know what it is to listen for a step whose sound
makes all your pulses throb; to long for it, and yet dread it; to
shudder if you think you hear it, and yet sink back with a feeling of
weariness and disappointment if it comes not? If you do, we need not
give any description of what Flora's feelings were as she sat in the
drawing-room awaiting the arrival of Mr. Earnscliffe, for you know
them by experience, and if you do not, a description of them would be
useless, for words could never give you any true idea of the reality.

Her state of suspense was ended at last; the servant opened the door
and announced "Monsieur Earnscliffe." She stood up, but remained
leaning with one hand on the arm of the sofa, not daring to look at
him. He advanced towards her, and in a constrained tone said, "Well,
Flora, how are we to meet?"

"Edwin!" and she raised her eyes to his.

The look of suffering in her face put to flight his assumed coldness,
and putting his arm round her waist, he kissed her forehead, drew her
down on the sofa beside him, and said, "My poor darling! you look
wretchedly ill; and no wonder, if you have passed as miserable a night
as I have done. Those dreadful words of yours at the ball haunted me,
and presentiments of evil gave me no rest; but now that I am here they
do not dare to assail me as before. Now that my Flora has had time to
think calmly over our case, I am sure she will be to me like a good
enchantress, and break all these dark spells; will she not?"

Flora could not speak. Each word of his was driving in the sword
deeper and deeper, and she was not deceived by his apparently cheerful
conclusion, for she knew how agitated he must be when his "deep-toned
voice faltered" as it did now. What could she say? How was she to
begin? And the longer the silence continued, the more difficult did
it become to her to break it. Mr. Earnscliffe, however, did that for
her, as he said suddenly, "Flora, you asked me last night what caused
my dread of Mary Elton,"--his lips literally grew white as he named
her, and the hoarse tone of his voice made Flora look wonderingly at
him,--"and I did not answer you; but now I think it right to do so, as
it might appear that it proceeded from fear of her telling you about
that unhappy divorce, although in reality I could not have had any
dread of that, believing as I did that you understood it all perfectly
before you promised to be mine."

"Edwin, I did not doubt you, though appearances were so strongly
against you."

"I know it, dearest; but it is better that you should be aware of what
my real feelings were in regard to her. I offended her, but through no
fault of mine, and in revenge she did all she could to keep me away
from you; but when she saw that that was not possible, she swore, if it
were in human power, to tear you from me. I had suffered so much from
a woman before, that this threat of another's had a strangely powerful
effect on me, and caused that morbid, and it seemed unreasonable, dread
of her. I considered myself bound in honour not to tell you all this
until now that she has openly interfered to separate us. But she will
fail if you are only true to me, if you prove yourself to be what I
have ever thought you--the first, the noblest of women, in mind as well
as in heart."

She looked up at him, and her lips moved, but no words could be heard;
and she shook her head as if to say, "I cannot;" then let it fall back
on the cushions of the sofa.

"For God's sake, Flora, say something! I can bear this no longer. If
you love me, tell----"

"If? Oh, Edwin!"

Her tone was so heart-broken, that he exclaimed, "Forgive me, Flora;
but you madden me.... In pity speak!"

He took her hand and held it tightly in his.

"Then, Edwin," she said, with a kind of gasp, "you must try to listen
to me quietly, and, above all, do not interrupt me, for I have scarcely
strength to get through the miserable task which lies before me; yet
it must be done. I tried to convince you in past happy days that there
was to be found on earth that which you had so long sought for in vain,
namely, an unerring source of truth; and its voice declares that there
can be no divorce between those whom God has joined. Therefore, were I
even wicked enough to be ready to barter my own soul for the intense
earthly happiness of being yours, I must not do it for _your_ sake; for
if I did I should be only a curse to you--a curse which would prevent
you from ever possessing the light of truth, that light which alone
can satisfy your great mind. No, think it not, my beloved--even such
unreserved love as mine could not satisfy you, unless you could look
forward with undoubting hope to the continuance and perfecting of our
happiness in an eternal union; then it would be bliss indeed! But as it
is, my very worship of you forces me to say that we must part."

Her voice sunk almost to a whisper as she uttered the last word, but
Mr. Earnscliffe heard it all too plainly, and for a moment he remained
silent as if stunned; then dashing away her hand, he stood up, and
looking at her almost with scorn, exclaimed--

"For _my_ sake, indeed! You might have left _that_ out; it is truly
adding insult to injury. But I have deserved this for trusting, loving
again a woman. Fool that I was to imagine that I had found one whose
mind and heart soared above their little world of petty triumphs, of
inane occupations, and hemmed in by weak prejudices and laid-down
maxims. You were only a deeper actress than the generality; yet,
Flora"--his voice softened almost unknown to himself--"your acting was
fearfully real; but the first obstacle has unmasked you." He paused for
a moment, but then burst forth again:--"Yes, you are worthy of your
sex.... Where is now that love which could brave death itself for me?
It seems that it is not strong enough to get over that narrow-minded
prejudice of your Church which says that I am married. As for what
you said about your love causing you to act thus, and your being a
curse to me if you did not do so, by preventing me from possessing
the light of truth, it is too nonsensical. It cannot be the voice of
truth or charity which tells you that you ought to break, to drive to
desperation, the wounded heart which you had won and promised to heal,
rather than to infringe an unreasonable regulation of your Church;
and this, forsooth! was the Church of which you so wished me to be a
member, and of whose truth you had in some degree convinced me! But
this puts the finishing stroke to my wavering belief in your 'goodness
of God.' Adieu, Flora! this is your work. You found me bereft of hope,
but a calm fatalist; you send me from you a blasphemer."

He turned away, and walked towards the door. Flora lay like one in a
trance; those bitter, cutting words appeared to have deprived her of
consciousness. But again he turned, looked back, hesitated, and hastily
retracing his steps, he knelt before her, saying--

"Flora, with all the strong power of my manhood have I loved you!--do
I love you! Send me not from you to despair!" and the proud man almost
sobbed.

Flora started up, and, grasping his outstretched hands, she cried--

"My own beloved! in mercy recall not those dreadful spirits with which
I struggled the long night through--rebellion, infidelity, and all
their satellites; for, as your terrible reproaches rang in my ear,
they seemed to crowd around me with renewed strength; they borrowed
your words, they spoke with your voice, they looked with your eyes.
How, then, resist, with all my own feelings aiding them in trying to
drag me from that standard to which I must cling, or else be the cause
of your ruin as well as my own? Reproach me and treat my words with
scorn as much as you choose, but nevertheless it is true that it is
the intensity of my love for you which, with God's grace, gives me
strength to act thus; and you will feel this some day, Edwin, though I
may not live to see it, for it would be too dreadful to think that such
a sacrifice as mine should be made in vain. Truth must dawn upon you at
last, and then you will do me justice."... She let go his hands, and
pointing to the jewel-case, she murmured--"It is mine no longer, Edwin:
when may I have it sent to you?"

He sprang to his feet, exclaiming--

"You might have spared me that at least, Flora. Do what you like with
the baubles; give them away--what you will--but I cannot have them:
they would be like coals of fire burning into my heart."

He strode to the other end of the room in a state of fierce agitation,
and Flora felt that she was growing very weak, that she could not bear
up much longer; leaning heavily on the table upon which the casket
stood, she held out her right hand, and in a faltering voice muttered--

"It must be said.... Edwin--good-bye!"

He seized her hand, looked into her eyes yearningly for an instant,
then suddenly he caught her round the waist, clasped her to his heart,
and whispered--

"_Must_ I go now, Flora?"

It _was_ an ordeal for her. Could she tear herself from those fond
encircling arms, and raise her head from that dear resting-place on his
shoulder? Her colour came and went, and his breath fanned her cheek
as he bent over her to catch the longed-for leave to stay. It was the
supreme moment of her long struggle, and opening her closed eyes, she
looked wildly round as if to ask for help; but help there was none for
her, save from God. Her lips moved, in prayer perhaps; and then she
murmured--

"Oh! it is cruel, Edwin, to try me so; and yet I must resist, if I
would not be a curse to you. In mercy leave me, whilst still I have
sense to feel that----we must part!--Edwin, go!"

His pallor was fearful and his eyes flashed as he bent one look on the
wan, suffering face lying on his shoulder; and then he pushed her from
him, saying in a loud voice--

"Mary Elton was right: you are a cold, passionless disciple of a
senseless code of doctrine!" and he walked towards the door.

Flora tottered to the sofa, fell heavily upon it, and lay there
motionless; but the turning of the door-handle roused her. She looked
up with a frightened expression; her eyes met Mr. Earnscliffe's in one
long, last, passionate gaze, and the door closed, shutting out at the
same moment from Flora her life's light and the material light of day,
for she had fainted.




CHAPTER VIII.


A little after eleven o'clock, Mrs. Adair and Marie returned from the
convent, and, as the latter opened the drawing-room door, she started
back, exclaiming "Mrs. Adair, see Flore!"

"Good heavens!" cried Mrs. Adair, as she rushed over to the sofa, where
Flora still lay unconscious; "what can have happened!" She guessed
that this fainting fit must in some way or other be connected with Mr.
Earnscliffe, and therefore she felt that it would be better not to call
the maid; so she said, "Marie, run and bring me cold water and _eau de
Cologne_, but do not tell any one of this."

Marie hastened away to get the desired restoratives, and when she
returned Mrs. Adair bathed Flora's temples with the cold water, and
held the _eau de Cologne_ to her nostrils, whilst Marie rubbed her
hands to try and bring a natural heat back to them.

When, at length, Flora opened her eyes, she found herself in her
mother's arms, and saw Marie kneeling beside her, chafing her hands.
She looked at them vacantly for a moment, then with a shiver reclosed
her eyes; but by degrees a slight colour came to her cheeks, and
the icy cold of her hands began to yield to the warmth of returning
circulation. Mrs. Adair saw that she was now really reviving, and she
told Marie to take away the cold water, and leave them alone. "Now, my
child," she said, as she kissed Flora, and smoothed back her tossed
hair, "try to tell me what has happened."

"He called me cold, passionless; he does not believe in me any longer,"
murmured Flora, as if to herself.

"Flora, darling, what is it all about? Has Mr. Earnscliffe proved
unworthy of you?"

Unconsciously Mrs. Adair had done the best thing in the world to rouse
Flora thoroughly, by thus seeming to blame Mr. Earnscliffe. She raised
her head, and for the first time looked at her mother intelligently, as
she said, "No, no; but it is all over between us;" and she sank back
into her mother's arms.

Mrs. Adair's heart bled for her idolised child as she clasped her to
it; yet she thought that it would be better to force her to speak at
once, and that she would be better afterwards, so she continued,
"But what has caused this, dearest? You must endeavour to tell me
collectedly all about it, as Edward must be told immediately; and if it
is right that he should do so, he will apply to Mr. Earnscliffe for an
explanation of his conduct, which certainly appears to me to be most
strange, for of course the cause of this break rests with him."

"Mamma," cried Flora, excitedly, "do not say a word against him,--he
is the soul of truth and honour. I--I am the only one in fault." She
stopped for a moment, and pressing her hands nervously together, she
added, "But you are right; I must try to give a collected account of
it all, or you will blame him, though heaven knows he deserves it not.
Oh, Edwin, Edwin!" her voice died away in a low wail, and she trembled
violently all over.

Mrs. Adair threw her arms round her again, and said, "My precious
child, I see that it is too much for you now. Let me take you to your
room, and after you have had some hours of rest you will be able to
tell me."

Flora made no objection; she seemed to be utterly indifferent as to
what she was to do, and without giving her mother any answer, she let
her take her to her room, and settle her as comfortably as she could on
the bed. Mrs. Adair arranged the quilt over her, and then, closing the
shutters, she said, "Now, darling, I am going to get you some quieting
drink, and when you have taken it, you will go to sleep, and awake
quite well."

Flora shivered--the thought of that awaking was so dreadful; but she
remained silent, and Mrs. Adair left the room. She returned, however,
after a short absence, with a strong sedative, which she made Flora
take, and then she seated herself beside the bed.

Flora was completely worn out by want of rest and violent agitation,
so that the sedative, aided by exhausted nature, caused her soon to
fall into a deep sleep; and when Mrs. Adair heard her heavy regular
breathing continue for some time, she stood up softly, and stole away.
She went to Marie, who was anxiously waiting to hear of Flora, and
told her that she had fallen asleep; then Mrs. Adair repaired to the
drawing-room to see her son, who had just come from his hotel.

In answer to his question of where the girls were, and what it was
that made her look so sad, she told him as much as she knew about
this unfortunate affair of Flora's. It quite enraged him, and he
hotly declared that no matter what Flora said, Mr. Earnscliffe must
have behaved in some very strange manner, for that he never saw
a girl so desperately in love as his sister was; therefore it was
evident that _she_ would never have broken off the marriage unless Mr.
Earnscliffe himself had forced her to do it. He would go at once to Mr.
Earnscliffe, and demand a full explanation.

Mrs. Adair was endeavouring to induce him to wait until Flora could
give them a tolerably clear account of what had occurred, for as yet
they were completely in the dark about it all, when the servant came
in, and handed Mrs. Adair a letter. It was from Mr. Earnscliffe, and
commenced--

    "MADAM,

        "I feel that it is due to myself to write you a statement of what
    my conduct to your daughter has been from the time that I declared
    my love to her. Before I obtained from her a promise that she
    would become my wife, I told her the history of my life, although
    any allusion to the past was intensely painful to me; but I was
    determined that she should know what the great misfortune of my
    life had been before she accepted me.

    "I told Miss Adair accordingly that years ago I had loved a
    beautiful girl and won her, but no sooner had I done so than I
    found that I was betrayed for another, and without ever seeing her
    again, I hurried out of England, leaving everything in my lawyer's
    hands. Miss Adair treated me _then_ with angelic trustfulness, and,
    as you are aware, consented to be mine.

    "Consequently I supposed that she accepted me fully understanding
    that it was after my marriage that I had been betrayed, and that
    I had got a divorce, for I had not the slightest idea that your
    Church arrogated to itself the power of making laws even for those
    who do not belong to it. But it seems that Miss Adair misunderstood
    me; she imagined that it was my betrothed, and not my wife, who
    had been false to me, until last night, when chance revealed to
    her the true state of the case; and this morning she deliberately
    informed me that she preferred to obey one of her Church's most
    daring and unreasonable fiats,--which declares that there is no
    such thing as divorce, even outside of its jurisdiction,--rather
    than act according to the dictates of reason, honour, and love, by
    fulfilling her promise to me.

    "I have written this letter of explanation in order to show that I
    had not, as appearances would lead one to believe, any intention of
    concealing my wretched marriage from Miss Adair; this would have
    been base deceit; and from such a charge you will, I am sure, as
    Miss Adair does most fully, exonerate me. Early in life one woman
    betrayed me; ten years later another heartlessly sacrifices me to
    prejudice! Truly I owe women no gratitude!

                "EDWIN EARNSCLIFFE.

    "Hotel de Douvres,

        "Rue de la Paix, Paris, June 14th."

"Poor, poor Flora! God help her!" exclaimed Mrs. Adair, as she
finished reading the letter, and handed it to her son, who in his turn
exclaimed, after having read it, "But how was it ever allowed to go so
far without your knowing that Earnscliffe had been married?"

"Edward, all retrospection is useless now," answered Mrs. Adair, sadly;
"but I do not think that any one has been to blame in this unhappy
case. Mrs. Elton introduced us to Mr. Earnscliffe, in Rome, as an
unmarried man, with whose father and mother her family had been very
intimate, but they had died many many years ago, and she had lost
sight of their son--he was a baby at the time of their death--until
she met him on the Continent. She spoke in high terms of his personal
abilities, his social position and fortune, and of these two latter
advantages we know she thinks a great deal. How could I suppose then
that it was necessary to make any further inquiries about him? And,
as he says in his letter, he gave Flora a history of his life before
he asked her to engage herself to him, which history she told me, but
of course as she understood it, or, indeed, misunderstood it. All this
misery has been caused by her unfortunate mistake; yet it was a most
natural one. Mr. Earnscliffe evidently did not _distinctly_ say that
it was his _wife_ who had been false to him; and Flora, supposing
everybody to know that the Church does not recognise the divorce law,
took it for granted that he had not been married, or else that he would
not have thought of asking her--a Catholic--to be his. The only thing
about which I was not satisfied was as to Mr. Earnscliffe's sentiments
upon religion, and I besought of Flora not to marry him unless he
would become a professed believer in Christianity, and at all events
to wait a year, and thus let him have time to study its doctrines. But
she would listen to nothing of the kind; he was in the true faith, she
declared, because he had such an ardent desire of the knowledge of
truth. From the first he consented to all the conditions required by
the Church. Poor child, she could not bear to insist upon his waiting a
year, and now she is obliged to send him away for ever. You, yourself,
Edward, would scarcely have been able to keep up, if you had seen her
as I did when we came in."

"Poor Flo! when can I see her?" he said, and furtively brushed away
a tear; then he added, "I see now, mother, that you are right,--no
one has been to blame; but it is one of the strangest and saddest
occurrences imaginable; it is really worthy of Lady Georgiana
Fullerton's title, 'Too Strange not to be True.' But tell me, when will
poor Flo be visible?"

"Not till the evening, at all events; it will be better for her to
remain perfectly quiet all day. You will come to dinner, of course."

"Yes; and there is nothing to be done now, I suppose; there would be no
object in my seeing Earnscliffe?"

"None in the world; it would only give him an opportunity of railing at
religion, and, as he says, at Flora's heartless sacrifice of his love
to prejudice."

"Then I may as well go away, and try to kill time as well as I can
until dinner; for of course you and Marie will be occupied with poor
Flo. Good-bye, then, for the present."

As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Adair sat down and wrote:--

    "MY DEAR MR. EARNSCLIFFE,

        "I beg to acknowledge the receipt of your letter, and to assure
    you that we all exonerate you perfectly from having had any intention
    to deceive us. Poor Flora's mistake was a most unfortunate one; but
    as soon as she learned what the reality was--how she learned it I
    do not yet know, for she has been unable to tell me anything--she
    could not have acted otherwise than she has done.

    "However great _your_ sufferings may be, _hers_ far surpass
    them;--she has a double weight of sorrow to bear: her own, and
    the greater one--that of knowing that she has inflicted pain on
    one whom she loves, and that he has ceased to believe in her.
    Her first words on being roused from the fainting fit in which I
    found her when I came in were, 'He called me cold, passionless;
    he does not believe in me any longer;' and then she relapsed into
    insensibility. If this is heartlessness, I leave it to you to judge.

    "Adieu, and believe me to be very sincerely yours,

                "CAROLINE ADAIR.

    "Paris, June 14th."

Having directed her letter, and desired it to be taken immediately to
the Hotel de Douvres, for Mr. Earnscliffe, she went up to Flora's
darkened room, where she found Marie watching beside the poor sleeper.

Mrs. Adair's note was handed to Mr. Earnscliffe, as he sat in his room
with folded arms and his head drooping upon his breast. He seized it
eagerly, tore it open, and glanced his eye over it; then crushing it
up in his hand, and with his teeth firmly set together, he muttered,
"Psha! let her Church, to whose senseless maxims she sacrifices me,
console her! But I will show what that Church is, how its teaching is
destructive of all the best qualities of the human heart and mind,
since it can make such a creature as Flora Adair was act in direct
contradiction to reason and love. It is too foolish to say that when a
man is married _only_ according to the laws of the established Church
of England, that that Church has not the right to annul its own act. If
Rome had had anything to do with my marriage, one could understand it;
but as it is--damnation, it is unbearable!" and he stamped about the
room,--then rang the bell furiously.

His servant came up with a startled look in his face, and the
expression of surprise to be read there increased as his master said,
"Desire my bill to be prepared, and have everything ready to start by
the night train for Strasbourg."

"That's done," he exclaimed, as the servant retired. "By to-morrow
I shall be in the Black Forest, and there I can stay for a day or
two, and draw out the plan of my book; then if I settle myself in the
neighbourhood of one of the large university towns, I shall not want
for help in the way of books; and converse with the German philosophers
will be pleasant and useful relaxation for me, so that in six months I
may hope to have it in the publisher's hands. Now I must write letters
to England, to countermand all my orders. Poor Earnscliffe Court! thou
art doomed ever to be deserted! ever to be without a mistress!"

Sighing deeply, Mr. Earnscliffe opened his desk and began to write.




CHAPTER IX.


At twelve o'clock that night--the hour when, on the previous one, they
had all met in the brilliant _salle_ of the Hotel de Ville--an express
train was whirling Mr. Earnscliffe away from Paris, Flora Adair was
walking restlessly up and down her room, and Mary Elton lay upon her
deathbed.

The doctor had just left her, after having, as gently as possible,
told Mrs. Elton that the last ray of hope for her daughter's recovery
was gone,--she was sinking, and now it was only a question of how long
she might hold out. Probably she might linger until the same time
to-morrow, but it was also possible that the end might come much more
quickly.

The night-lamp burned dimly, the nurse dozed in an armchair, and Mrs.
Elton knelt in despairing grief beside her dying child, her head
pressed down upon the bed-clothes, as she tried to smother the sound
of her convulsive sobs, and prevent them from disturbing Mary; and she
thought to herself, "I have killed her by letting her go to that ball.
I saw that she was not fit to go, and yet through weakness I allowed
it. Mary, my most precious child, my firstborn, do not leave me! What
can the others be to me, if you are taken? Great God, in pity give me
back this favourite one, or let me die with her!"

Mary was indeed Mrs. Elton's "most precious child;" she resembled her
father strikingly in appearance, as also in many points of disposition,
and far more than either Charles or Helena; therefore was she dearer
to her mother than they were. Her husband's memory was the passion of
Mrs. Elton's existence, as he himself had been whilst he lived; so now
she felt that to lose the child who resembled him most was like losing
all that remained to her of him, and to this was added the torture of
believing that she might have saved her if she had only been firm about
the ball. Her agony in her utter loneliness was piteous; her favourite
child was dying, and the other two were far away; they had been
telegraphed for, but neither of them could possibly have come to her as
yet. Helena was expected to arrive early in the morning, but Mrs. Elton
could make no guess as to when her son might come. He was quartered
far up in the north of Scotland, and of course he could not start
instantly on receipt of the telegram, as Helena would; he must wait to
get leave, and thus the time of his arrival could not be counted upon.

Mary scarcely ever spoke, save to ask, "Can Lena soon be here?" But
this question she repeated almost every hour, and each time it wrung
her mother's heart anew, for it showed her that Mary felt herself to be
dying, and that she feared she might not live to see her sister. Mrs.
Elton saw with dismay that this dread was worrying her beloved child,
yet she could do nothing to relieve it; and there are few sufferings
more difficult to endure than this feeling of powerlessness even to
give ease to one whom we love, although we must yield them up to the
grave in a few short hours.

Through the whole of that lone night-watch Mrs. Elton remained on her
knees beside the bed. Several times the nurse had tried to induce her
to sit down, but she never answered, or appeared even to hear her;
she seemed insensible to everything except the dying girl, but to her
slightest movement, or barely audible words, she was keenly alive.

At last, about five in the morning, a carriage was heard to stop at the
door. Mary quivered all over, and murmured, "Mamma, there is Lena; go
to her and tell her that she must not be frightened when she sees me.
Poor Lena, it is too bad to ask her to come almost from her honeymoon
to see me thus; and she has never looked upon approaching death before.
And you, mamma, you must not grieve so wildly for me: I heard your
sobs and passionate prayers all through the long night, but I did not
dare to speak to you, I was so afraid of exhausting my strength before
Lena came. Mamma, she is far more worthy of your affection than I have
been,--give it all to her, and she will repay you well. Go to her now."

"I cannot," murmured Mrs. Elton. "Nurse, go and receive Mrs. Caulfield,
and beg of her to wait for a few moments in the drawing-room;" and,
with an irrepressible sob, she added, as she clasped Mary's hand in
hers, "My own child, take me with you to your father! Life without him
and you will be too awful!"

"Shall I ever see him?" whispered Mary fearfully. "But it is cruel to
treat Lena thus. Mamma, go to her for my sake, and let me see her as
soon as possible, and then you must go and rest for a few hours,--I
insist upon it," she said with a faint smile; "and you know you cannot
disobey me, as it will be the last time."

Mrs. Elton turned away with a choking sensation in her throat, and left
the room.

From the time that Mary had been carried from the carriage to her bed
she felt that she had risked the last chance for her life, and lost it
in order to gratify her revenge and gloat over the sight of her rival's
misery; but even so she did not then regret it, for her triumph had
been so full and complete, and every other thought was for the moment
absorbed in the wish to see her sister; her affection for her being, as
we have said before, the one pure feeling which not even the terrible
passion of revenge could sully. But during the twenty-eight or thirty
hours that she had lain on her dying bed she had been haunted by grim
phantoms of terror regarding the unknown world to which she was going
so fast, and she began to feel that the success of her revenge was far
less sweet to think of than she had expected; now, however, Helena's
coming brought up vividly before her the remembrance of that miserable
night at Naples, and once more a flush of fierce satisfaction covered
her face, as she muttered, "Well, at least I paid him off to the last
farthing!" As these words passed her lips the door opened, and Helena
entered, with the tears streaming from her eyes.

"Darling Lena!" exclaimed Mary, but without attempting to sit up,
for the doctor had warned her that to do so would surely bring on a
recurrence of the hemorrhage--"how good you were to come so quickly."

Helena threw herself on the bed beside Mary, and kissed her again
and again, but she could not speak; and as Mary tried to soothe her,
her tears only flowed the faster, until at last the former said in a
broken voice, "Lena, think how you are trying me, and I have so little
strength left to talk to you, or even to listen to you. I think I hear
the nurse coming. Go and tell her not to come until you call her, and I
begged mamma to lie down and rest for a little; so once more, Lena, you
and I can have a _tête-à-tête_ chat, as in days of old."

Helena silently rose, and did as Mary desired her; then returning, she
seated herself beside the bed, and took her sister's cold hand in hers
and began to rub it, saying, "How cold your hands are, sister!--let me
warm them for you."

"They will never be warm again, Lena," answered Mary, with a sort of
smile; "but never mind that now, tell me about yourself. Are you as
happy as you expected to be?"

"Oh, Mary," rejoined Helena, trying to suppress her tears, "until I
received that miserable telegram my happiness was unalloyed, and I only
longed for the time when I could get you to come and stay with me, that
you might have the pleasure of seeing what your kindness and affection
had done for me; for had you not been all that you were to me, I should
never have had the happiness of being Harry's. Mary, you must live to
see your own work."

"Lena, how can you talk so! Has not mamma told you that by this time
to-morrow I shall no longer be with you?"

"Yes," sobbed Helena; "but while there is life there is hope--and I
_will_ hope."

"You _must_ not, Lena, for there is none; this is the second since----"
a spasm caught her breath, but she went on, although her voice was
evidently getting weak--"since that evening when you found me half
fainting by the stone bench."

"Mary," cried Helena, almost angrily, "you have treated me shamefully
in not letting me be told that you had an attack of this kind on the
night of my wedding; and I saw by mamma that she blames me bitterly for
having left you; she thinks that my doing so increased, even though it
did not cause, your illness; and in justice to me, Mary, you ought to
have written to me. I could have been with you all these weeks past
since Harriet's marriage, and I might have saved you; being in your
confidence, I could in some degree have prevented you from brooding
over the past until it has killed you. Why have you kept me away from
you, sister? But tell me what is all this about the ball, and Mr.
Earnscliffe, and Flora Adair? I could not understand anything from
mamma's account of it."

"You remember the first time in Rome that you spoke of those two names
together,--I said then that I would rather see him dead than loving and
beloved by her; then in Naples he spurned my love for her sake, and I
swore to be revenged; and I have been!"

"Mary, for God's sake stop!" interrupted Helena, with an expression of
horror; "it is too awful to hear the dying speak of revenge!"

But Mary resumed with increasing vehemence, "By chance I heard that
he had been married, and that his divorced wife was living. _I_ knew
then that _she_ could not marry him, and at the same time I was certain
that _he_ did not know enough of Catholics to be aware that this would
be a barrier, so in all probability he had not told her; therefore I
could easily make it appear that he had intended to deceive her, and
thus torture her doubly: and through my instrumentality, too, he should
feel the bitter agony of having his love rejected by the being whom he
loved. Lena, I carried it all out at the ball, and I saw them both
writhe under my blows! Ay, I paid _him_ off fully for that night in
Naples! Ah!----"

She half rose from her recumbent posture, and then fell back heavily.
Helena caught her in her arms and screamed, "Nurse!"

The nurse was fortunately in the adjoining room, and she ran to
Helena's assistance at once. She saw that her patient had only a
passing faintness; and under her experienced treatment Mary soon
rallied. Helena then asked her to leave them alone again, and she did
so, but gravely cautioned Helena not to allow her sister to excite
herself, as any violent agitation might be instantly fatal. Helena
promised to do her best to prevent it, and the nurse left them.

For a full hour more the sisters' conference lasted, and then Helena
went into the next room, murmuring, through her tears, "Nurse, desire a
clergyman to be sent for; and wait: I must write a note, which can be
left at its destination as the messenger goes to the clergyman."

Helena burst out crying afresh as she opened Mary's desk and tried to
write; at last she succeeded in scribbling these few lines:--

    "MY DEAR FLORA,

        "Poor dearest Mary we fear is dying. She would like to see you;
    so I hope you will come to us as soon as you can.

            "Yours affectionately,

                    "HELENA CAULFIELD.

    "Friday Morning."

As she gave the note to the nurse, Mrs. Elton came into the room, and
Helena told her that Mary wished to see a clergyman, and also Flora
Adair, and that the nurse had just gone to desire them to be sent for.
Mrs. Elton passed on silently into Mary's room, and it was only the
nervous quivering of her lips which told that she understood what had
been said to her.

Helena had hard work to make Mary consent to receive a clergyman, and
to see Flora Adair, in order to undo as far as she could the suffering
which she had inflicted on her by calumniating Mr. Earnscliffe, and now
she began to feel completely exhausted from fatigue and grief as she
lay back in the chair after writing the note. But she was roused by
Mrs. Elton, who lightly touched her shoulder, and said, like a person
speaking in a dream, "Mary says that you must go and take some rest,
and they will bring you breakfast." She rang the bell, and her own
maid answered it, to whom she said, "Take Miss Helena to my room, and
get her tea--breakfast--you know what to do." Then Mrs. Elton turned
away and went back to Mary.

Helena followed the maid into Mrs. Elton's room, and gladly lay down
upon the bed, as she said, "Margaret"--the maid was an old acquaintance
of hers--"if my husband comes--he went to an hotel to be out of the way
at first--show him in here, and also Miss Adair; of course you will
tell me at once if Miss Elton should get worse."

"Yes, miss--I beg your pardon--ma'am; and now I will go and get you
some breakfast."

"It will be useless to bring me anything but a cup of tea, Margaret."

After Helena had taken the tea she fell asleep, and slept for about an
hour, when she was awaked by a kiss, and the sound of somebody saying,
"Poor Cricket, how unlike itself it looks, doesn't it, Miss Adair?"

As she opened her eyes, and saw her husband and Flora standing beside
her, she exclaimed, "Harry, I am so glad that you have come, and Flora
too; but----" She covered up her face in her hands, and the tears
trickled through her closed fingers.

Margaret now came in, and said, "Mrs. Caulfield, Miss Elton has asked
for you."

"Say that I will be with her in a moment," answered Helena, springing
off the bed, and hastening after Margaret, as she said to Mr. Caulfield
and Flora, "Wait here for me."

She was only a few moments absent, and entering with her handkerchief
pressed to her eyes, she took Flora's hand and led her in to Mary, over
whose countenance the livid colour of death was fast spreading.

Flora felt awe-stricken as she thought that not six-and-thirty hours
had passed since she saw her in the ball-room, and silently she went
over and knelt down beside the bed, as Mary said in a hollow voice,
"Flora Adair, can you forgive me?"

"It was right that I should know it, Mary."

"Yes, that I understand; but can you forgive me for having tried to
lower you in his opinion by falsehood, and every means in my power, and
finally for insinuating to you that he was deceiving you by not telling
you of his marriage, although he knew that you could not be his wife in
the sight of your Church if that were known?"

Mary paused, and Flora, shuddering, said, "It was very cruel, the bare
suspicion of it tortured me; but I did not believe it, or it would have
driven me mad. But, Mary, what had I ever done to you that you should
have thus sought to harm me?"

"You gained the love of the man whom I loved with an overwhelming love,
and for you he rejected me.... Was this no cause to hate you? Revenge
became the object of my life, and I had it,--I saw _him_ suffer that
night at the ball even as he had made me suffer; but that longed-for
revenge has turned into bitterness, instead of sweetness, and my gentle
sister there has won me to better thoughts, and induced me to send for
you to ask your forgiveness, and to tell you distinctly what _I_ knew
all along, that _he_ did not know the Catholic rules about divorce. So
again I ask your forgiveness."

"You have it, Mary; although God knows you have made us both suffer
doubly!" Flora rose and kissed her forehead, but she almost started at
its cold, clammy touch, and Mary murmured, "Lena, it has been growing
dark to me for a long time, but now it is nearly night, so call mamma
and your husband; I must say good-bye to him,--I have not seen him
since your wedding"--Lena sobbed violently--"and the clergyman, he may
come too if you like; he is with mamma. But he cannot throw light upon
the darkness into which I am entering. O God!" and Mary moaned.

That moan was heard in the next room, where her mother, her
brother-in-law, and the clergyman were waiting to be called; and they
stood up and went into the sick room.

Surely we may draw a curtain over these last awful moments. Poor
Mary!... _her_ dying words might have been similar to those of the
great world poet--"Light, light, more light!"

Half an hour later Mrs. Elton was carried in a state of utter
unconsciousness from the room of her dead child, whilst Helena sobbed
away her grief in her husband's arms, and Flora Adair drove home more
saddened even than when she left it some two hours before.




CHAPTER X.


That evening Charles Elton arrived in Paris to find his sister dead,
and his mother stretched on her bed like a person in a trance, with her
eyes wide open, but apparently unconscious of everything that was going
on around her. She did not even speak or move when he went into the
room and kissed her. Some hours later, when he and Helena were speaking
in whispers about the preparations for the funeral, she, however,
started up suddenly, and said, "She must be taken to England,--we will
go with her and see her laid beside her father. Charles, you will
arrange all this." Then slowly and deliberately she left the room and
went into Mary's, where she remained day and night in spite of all
remonstrance, until the coffin was screwed down and carried away for
transportation to England. She gazed after it with tearless eyes as she
stood leaning against the bed from which it had been taken, but the
despair of her look and attitude was such that it awed Helena, who
was sobbing passionately, into silence, and rising from her knees she
went and wound her arms round her mother, and tried by her caresses to
soften the bitterness of her grief, but Mrs. Elton seemed to s

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