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

But he listened only to the promptings of his proud will, and strove to deny the Divine light enlightening the world by authoritative teaching.

He was too well schooled a thinker not to know that the fact of a formal divine revelation being once recognised it naturally followed that it should be transmitted in an unerring manner, and not be left to the changeableness of human opinion. He struck, therefore, directly at the basis of all positive revelation by endeavouring to show that the only authority which claimed to speak exclusively in the name of God, sacrificed to its own thirst for domination all the best and highest powers of mankind. In thus losing sight of the distinction between what is human and what is divine in religion—branding St. Peter as an unworthy teacher because he was "a sinful man"—and therewith of the holy precepts of charity, he condemned alike God and man, by seeking the divine guide in the human and—without an unerring teacher—unenlightened conscience. In so doing he flattered pride and self-sufficiency—those two great sources of error in the world—and hence he obtained the erring world's applause.

When his book was finished he left Gottingen and crossed the Alps into Italy; there he joined in the more active struggle between authority and its antagonists. Nevertheless, he was not satisfied with himself, nor could he bring himself entirely to sympathise with the persons and actions of those whose cause he had espoused and so ardently endeavoured to defend.

The image of Flora Adair, moreover, constantly rose up before him, and thinking of her as he had known her in all things, save in her tenacious clinging to her religious faith, he felt her softening influence often stealing upon him. It was a miserable weakness, he would try to persuade himself; and yet it was something which in his inmost heart he loved. It led him always, he saw, to better and more peaceful thoughts; so true is it that "God is a centre of love towards which the weight of love directs every creature."

These, however, were but fugitive and passing thoughts, yet they awakened and kept alive in him that desire for good, that thirst after what is true, which is the ever-blessed fruit of all real love.

At length he yielded to a strange and increasing yearning which he felt to go to Capri. "I shall find there something real," he would often say to himself, "and little Anina's joy will gladden my heart...."

And what is like the joy of a faithful people? In vain do they pretend to it who are without faith and hope in the world. The sunny smile, even more than the sunny sky, is the charm which attracts our less joyous wanderers to the faithful Italian people. What wonder, then, that Mr. Earnscliffe found his old love returning with the happiness which his presence seemed to create around him in Capri? Anina's joy and that of her parents, however, was not without some alloy, since they all saw with pain his altered appearance, and his habitual expression sterner even than of old.

His affection for Anina seemed unchanged, and notwithstanding his more silent and reserved general manner, he liked to have her with him as much as ever, although he did not laugh and talk with her as he had formerly done. One day she timidly asked him if he were ill, "because," she said, "he looked so sad and grave now?"

"No," he answered, "I am not ill, carina; but some one whom I loved dearly has made me very unhappy."

"How wicked it is of any one to make il caro Signore unhappy!" exclaimed the child. "But I will ask the Madonna to pray that he may be happy again!"

"Never name the Madonna to me again, Anina," said Mr. Earnscliffe with a dark frown, "if you do not wish to offend me!"

The child wondered greatly as to what he meant by this, and for a long time did not venture to disobey the command, but all the more did she implore her loved Madonna to pray for his happiness.

During his quiet sojourn at Capri, Mr. Earnscliffe heard of his wife's death, and there, too, he received Flora's letter. His pride took fire even at the trustful love which she had shown to him. It was too much for him to receive with the meekness and thankfulness which it deserved, and so by turns he battled with and yielded to the sweet delight which it foreshadowed to him, as it recalled all the happiness which her confiding affection had given him from the well remembered evening at Achensee to that of the fatal ball in Paris.

As our hero's struggle with himself continued and his egotism was from time to time overcome, a soft light would steal into his eyes, and he would stretch out his arms longing to clasp Flora to his heart again and for ever; but that brightening—like the lightning's flash across a stormy sky—was gone almost as soon as seen, and left behind it only darkness. One day, with a look of proud despair, he turned away his head from the letter which lay before him, and muttered—"No, no! I am not so love-sick as to trust again to one who was so ready to sacrifice me to a senseless regulation of what she calls religion! Flora Adair, you shall be torn from my heart whatever it may cost me!"

He seized the letter and crushed it in his hand. After a few moments of seeming thought, however, he threw it, all crushed as it was, into a corner of his desk, and locked it up. Like Count Azo, he was now, indeed, bearing within him "a heart which would not yield nor could forget."

There were times when evidences of the heroic trust produced by the religion in which Flora Adair believed, crowded before his mind. These testimonies Mr. Earnscliffe had seen in the Catacombs, in history, in the world around him, and, lastly, in Flora's sacrifice of happiness to principle. But pride chased even these away, and his unbending will again and again perverted his better but weaker judgment. "It is impossible!" he would exclaim, "that I have been mistaken after all these years of thought and study! No! I see what this is: it is a weak clinging to a woman whose prejudice is stronger than her love; but I will not yield to it! She shall know that I have sufficient strength to bear wretchedness and loneliness even rather than accept the second place in her heart!" Yet the thought of that letter lying crushed in the corner of his desk haunted him. He longed to look upon her writing again—to read once more all those fond expressions of her constancy; for he was forced to admit that, at least, she had been constant; but he refused himself even that gratification.

In this turmoil of his heart and mind Mr. Earnscliffe became a more ardent partisan than ever of Italian independence, and we find him at Sorrento, after an interview which he had come there to seek with one of the leaders of that party on the previous Friday. He was about to return to Capri, and even as he spoke with Mr. Blake he was expecting the arrival of Paolo and Anina, as he had promised the latter that she should accompany il babbo whenever he came to fetch him home. In mixing himself up with all this party spirit, Mr. Earnscliffe's will had betrayed his judgment into a contradiction of his former respect for things established, his veneration for time-honoured institutions, and the wisdom which experience had tested.

It was an endeavour to justify his new opinions to himself, and to quiet the misgivings which he now so often felt, that had led him to the conversation in which we now find him engaged.

Having reasoned in his book against the existence of any Divine law promulgated in mankind by a living authority, he was endeavouring to persuade Mr. Blake—and perhaps himself—that opinion, or, as he sometimes more speciously called it, conviction and conscience, being the only guide in matters of Divine government, by a stronger reason it was the only authority in human things, and that, therefore, "the voice of the people is the voice of God." So far had he already, by the revolt of his will, drifted and well nigh stranded upon the quicksands of revolution!

Mr. Blake was not a yielding listener; he was an older man than Mr. Earnscliffe, and one of those who distrusted the modern notions of progress and liberty; moreover, he did not believe that the same government is good for different peoples, and in his estimate of such things he took large account of "the age and body" of the nations governed. He had read de Maistre, and was strongly inclined to think with him that "Toute nation a le gouvernement qu'elle mérite." He disapproved of the Italian revolution, not in a religious, but in a political point of view, and as the work of foreigners. It shocked his conservative mind to see the uprooting of so much that time had honoured, and principles, rights, and duties treated as if they were things of nought.

"I do not like your revolutionary men," he continued, "much better than their opinions. I find them for the most part gain-seekers for themselves and their followers. It is the result of egotism in all time, and to me a pretty sure sign of wrong-doing. I am not of the Pope's religion, although but a century ago my ancestors were, and there is much in it that I cannot comprehend; but it has one charm for me which I confess is great—those who espouse this cause in general are thoughtful and steadfast, ever ready to make any sacrifice for their principles. It is a great test, and a great proof of sincerity."

"Sacrifice! You call it sacrifice? Why, surely their's is the worst of all bondage, the enslaving of the heart, the mind, the whole being; and to what? To a system which governed the dark ages, and which our brighter civilisation has outrun,—the resolute enemy of all progress and enlightenment!"

"Whatever the system may be—and it is too great a question to draw hasty conclusions about—the present manner of dealing with it is, to my mind, unwise and unjust, and I must repeat, the men who are acting against it do not attract me by exhibiting what I consider to be the necessary virtues of true patriotism. We hear much about confiscation, spoliation, and self-interest in this new era, but steadfast adherence to settled principles, and respect for law and order, have become bywords here."

"'The greatest happiness of the greatest number' is the object of all true patriotism; this I believe to be the object of these men, and therefore I espouse their cause."

"So far so good," replied Mr. Blake; "but something remains which you all, I think, lose sight of; add to it, 'for the greatest length of time,' and then you will surely find strong motives for the self-sacrifice which I find wanting in these too-hastily-formed theories. 'The greatest happiness of the greatest number' is a phrase easily made use of to express 'the greatest happiness of myself and those who think with me.' It is the sacrifice of the present to the future, if necessary, that calls forth true devotedness. Will your patience permit me to give you a striking illustration of this, which I was reminded of but yesterday in a letter from my niece, and which is still uppermost in my mind? It is of a young lady who has sacrificed her heart, her earthly happiness, and, as I greatly fear, even her life, to this very principle."

"I shall listen to you with pleasure, but do not expect me to attach much value to such sacrifices. When women take up particular opinions they cleave to them with far greater obstinacy even than men. Weakness, you will grant me, is generally obstinate!"

"There is not much of weakness, as you will see, in what I am going to tell you:—

"My young friend and a gentleman whom she met abroad fell in love with each other, and, unlike the usually uneven course of true love, all went smoothly until within a fortnight of the celebration of their marriage, when she learned that her lover had been married before, and that his divorced wife was still living. Poor girl! her religion declares that there can be no such thing as divorce, so she had to choose between her faith and the earthly happiness already within her grasp. Well, she was true to her religion, and made the necessary sacrifice of the present for the future life! Her lover left her, as I am told, in great indignation, and she came home to Ireland looking broken-hearted. She rarely visited anywhere; and my niece, an old schoolfellow of hers, was almost her only companion. In what, as I suppose, was a fit of selfish revenge, the man wrote a book, which, it seems, gave her greater pain than all, since she gathered from it that her very steadfastness had been made the cause of his bitter sarcasm against all that she held sacred.

"One day the newspaper announced the death of his wife, and my niece was filled with joy in the hope that her friend's troubles would now be at an end; but no, the gentleman, it appears, was not so constant as she had been: he was now free to marry, but he did not come back to her. It is quite painful to watch her calm outward demeanour, and yet see, what is so evident, that a worm is in her heart. Poor child! they say she is in a decline, and the doctors have prescribed for her that last resource, a winter in the south. I travelled as far as Paris with her and her mother, and left my niece with them. I could not bear to take away that pleasure from her. They wait there for some family event—a marriage—and then come on to Italy. Now this steadfastness in what she believes to be true is what I call a cardinal virtue, carried to the point of heroism! If she dies, which is not improbable, it will be very like martyrdom. What do you think of it? Judging from the effect to the cause, we can hardly help venerating a principle which produces such effects. When you can show such in favour of these modern theories, I may perhaps be inclined to think better of them; as it is, I see everywhere a display of selfishness, rather than this devotedness."

Every word that Mr. Blake uttered fell upon Mr. Earnscliffe as a bitter reproach and a sharp punishment. He had no need to ask that heroine's name,—he knew it almost from the beginning. A crowd of contending feelings rushed upon him as Mr. Blake proceeded; at last he murmured to himself, "And this it is which, in my selfish pride, I have spurned and mistrusted!"

When Mr. Blake ceased speaking, Mr. Earnscliffe, with a sudden start, exclaimed, "Yes, this is something to admire; and the cause which produces it in such a creature as Flora Adair must be good! But do not tell me that her health is in real danger, that would be too much!"

"Good heavens, sir! what is all this?" cried Mr. Blake, shocked by the scared expression of Mr. Earnscliffe's face. "Do you, then, know Flora Adair? Is she a relation of yours, that you should be so startled on hearing this news of her?"

"Relation! No, bear with me, my dear sir, I am the unworthy cause of all her suffering!"

"God be praised, then, that I have been led to see you! I have always felt that there must be some misunderstanding in this matter. Cheer up, sir, all may yet be well!"

The door opened, and a waiter came in to say that the boatman, Paolo, was waiting to see sua Eccellenza.

Mr. Earnscliffe took Mr. Blake's hand, and pressed it warmly. "I can never repay you for what you have unknowingly done for me! I must leave you now. Shall I find you here to-morrow? At three I will wait for you. Let me count upon your secresy for the present, and until to-morrow adieu!"

"God is a centre of lore towards which the weight of love directs every creature." The weight of love had all but overcome even the unruly will of Mr. Earnscliffe. How amply would Flora Adair have been repaid for all her suffering could she but have seen the power of her love now working in that proud man's heart! But love's brightest conquests are unseen, unknown even, save in that trustful consciousness felt only by those who truly love....

Having directed that Paolo should wait a moment for him, Mr. Earnscliffe turned into the long corridor of the hotel. His heart was too full, its flood-gates were yielding, the battle with his pride was nearly won. Was joy or sorrow uppermost? He hardly knew; yet it was the forecoming of joy, the dawn of hope outstripping the darkness of his gloomy night! Not the heart only, but the mind also, is drawn by love; and, as his heart thrilled at the consciousness of Flora's love, so his mind, no longer trammelled by his haughty will, not only began to recognise the greatness of her steadfastness under severe trial, but the justice too of its cause.

Drawn along for a time by this foreshadowing of coming happiness, he turned at length to himself, and saw the obstacle which had before shut out the vision of Flora's heroism to him. That obstacle was himself—his own pride, his selfishness, his uneducated will, "weakened and inclined to evil," as is the common lot of all mankind. Almost overwhelmed with these conflicting emotions, he returned to Paolo and Anina, who were standing outside waiting for him.

As he approached them the child held out her little hand, and said gaily, "Dear signore, now that we are at Sorrento, will you not come and say one little prayer to our Madonna with me? Please me greatly, signore, and come with me before we return!"

Ah! who shall tell all we owe to these little ones!... The signore was in no frame of mind to refuse Anina's request; nay, he even felt a secret pleasure in yielding to it. It was a shrine hallowed by that religion which had called forth Flora's great trust in its eternal truth; he knew, too, that she had the highest veneration for the Mother of the Saviour of men!

These thoughts were passing in his mind as he suffered the child to lead him along. "And why am I incapable of such heroism?" he asked himself. "Why have I no such trust even in myself? Why have I not her faith?..."

They had entered the church, and as they crossed the threshold Anina let go his hand, and went and knelt before the statue of the Madonna. She made the holy sign, and then closed her hands to pray.... "Why am I so little in my own estimation before this peasant child?" again thought the signore. "Why can I not be like her, and pray?"

"La conversion," writes Bossuet, "est une illumination soudaine." It was the Saviour of mankind who said, "Lo! I stand at the door and knock; if any man will hear my voice, and will open the door, I will come in and sup with him and he with me." The door was open—the proud man had been already led to acknowledge his insufficiency to himself, to envy even a little child's simple faith. The rays of grace had reached his heart, now no longer closed by pride, and light and heat had entered there together. A recollection came to him of words read long, long ago: "Ask and receive, that your joy may be full." He yielded to the heavenly invitation, and he, too, fell upon his knees and prayed for guidance, light, and love!...

It has been said that if an insect could pray to us when we are about to tread upon it, its prayer would excite in us great compassion. The more lowly the place whence the lamentations of the heart arise, the more certain is the success of its prayer. It was "the lowliness of His handmaiden" which the Lord "regarded," when He "magnified" her whom He declared to be "blessed among women!"

Mr. Earnscliffe's heart had become humble and meek, and before he returned to Capri with his dear little Anina, his "soul," too, had begun "to magnify the Lord, and his spirit to rejoice in God his Saviour!"

CHAPTER XVI.

The light which had dawned upon Mr. Earnscliffe showed him, indeed, the sanctuary wherein truth was to be found, but it showed too how much was required of him before he could be admitted within its precincts.

He who had passed in judgment the works of the great sages of old had now to bend to instruction in the simple truths which every Christian child knows; and he who had never acknowledged any other judge over his actions save his own proud will, had now to unfold even his erring heart's most secret thoughts to the apparently human tribunal at which he had so often scoffed.

Nevertheless he quailed not before the ordeal, nor tried to turn away his eyes from that truthful—yet to him dreadful—mirror, wherein he saw, as in a magnifying glass, the greatness of his erring; the terrible evil which his book might do in the world, and all the suffering which he had so cruelly inflicted upon one who loved him with rare devotedness, and to whom, in spite of himself, his heart had ever clung with passionate attachment.

How vividly did the memory of their last interview rise up before him as he remembered Flora's sad prophetic manner, when she said in answer to his bitter reproaches, "It would be fearful to think that such a sacrifice as mine should be made in vain! Truth must dawn upon you at last, though I may not live to see that day, and then, Edwin, you will do me justice."

His pulse seemed to stand still as he thought of what Mr. Blake had told him—of the more than possibility that her words might be fully verified—that she might die, just as he had learned to know the true beauty and value of the treasure which he had so madly thrown away.

A feverish impatience to see her again took possession of him. "Yet," he thought to himself, "I must not go to her until I can take with me the hard won flag of faith, and lay it at her feet as the glorious trophy of her heroism. This very day I will go to Père d'Aubin, and ask him to explain what is still dark to me in the faith for which she has so valiantly suffered."

Père d'Aubin, or as the people called him, Padre d'Aubini, was a Frenchman, who, when comparatively a young man, had been forced to leave his country by ill-health, and although he was now quite well again, he made no exertion to get himself removed from Capri.

His venerable appearance and genial manner had often attracted Mr. Earnscliffe's attention. From a few accidental conversations, too, which he had had with him, he knew him to be a man of no mean acquirements, and one who must have seen much of the world in his earlier days. Yet there he was, devoting himself to the spiritual care of poor illiterate peasants, and making it seem that to be with them and to do them good was happiness to him, although deprived of home and friends and all real companionship. Heretofore he had been an enigma to Mr. Earnscliffe, who could not ascribe his devotion to the priesthood, as he habitually did that of others, to ignorance, or desire of self-aggrandisement.

Père d'Aubin might well have been called learned, yet he sought not a field where that learning could have been displayed, and have gained for him power and fame. What then was it that rendered him apparently happy in the humble, simple life which he led on this poor island?

This question was one of the many riddles which by degrees were being solved for Mr. Earnscliffe; and he felt that he could have no better guide in the path of truth than Père d'Aubin.

On arriving at his hotel his first work was to open his desk, take out Flora's letter which he had thrust into one of its corners, and press it to his lips. After a moment or two, however, of indulgence in old and sweet memories, he said, "But I must hasten on with the great work which is before me; then I will go to her and——and, yes I feel it, she will return me good for evil; the measure of her love and goodness will exceed even the measure of my offences."

Great was Père d'Aubin's wonder when his simple untrained servant burst into his room and whispered in an important tone, "Il gran Signor Inglese."

Père d'Aubin, however, rose to receive his unexpected visitor, with that dignified courtesy of manner which so characterised him; and his surprise was soon changed into joy as he learned why Mr. Earnscliffe had thus sought him. Then with sincere emotion he bade him be welcome—thrice welcome, to the home of his eternal Father.

As Père d'Aubin gradually unfolded to him the science of Christianity, he began to understand the Saviour's words, "To you it is given to know the mysteries of the Kingdom of Heaven, but to them only in parables"—for now indeed he found the key to all the living mysteries which he saw carried on and perpetuated around him, and which not all the philosophers of ancient or modern times had ever been able to explain to him.

It would be vain to say that all his difficulties were over now—that the ascent from doubt and negation to the portals of supernatural truth was henceforth plain and easy. On the contrary, every step on that upward road required a new effort—an effort made too at the cost of some old feeling or preconceived idea which early association and habit had rendered dear and familiar. But Mr. Earnscliffe did not want for courage, and his will being now submissive, he was able to recognise the proofs which he had hitherto chosen to ignore,—so bravely he fought "the good fight."

It was only after a conference of several hours that he left Père d'Aubin, but during that time the great victory had been gained, although he felt that there were many points upon which he still required much instruction. Yet the time was very short, as he was anxious to be able to sail for Marseilles without delay.

Accordingly he again sought Père d'Aubin at an early hour the next morning, and remained with him until he was obliged to go in order to keep his appointment with Mr. Blake.

With emotion, such as perhaps few men can ever feel, was Mr. Earnscliffe's heart brimming over as he entered Mr. Blake's room and related the effect which his conversation of yesterday had had upon him. How it had all at once illumined his mind and brought about his seemingly sudden conversion,—"only seemingly sudden," he continued, "for it was but the full development of thoughts and feelings which have for a long time been knocking at my heart, but to which I, in my great pride, deemed it weakness to listen. Once more I thank you for having made me see myself as I am, and for having thus helped to break down the barriers which separated me from truth and happiness. Now, perhaps, Flora may yet be mine."

Mr. Blake's good-natured interest in the happiness of his niece's friend prevailed over his natural feelings of annoyance upon being told that he himself had been instrumental in this work, and he exclaimed heartily, "Upon my soul, I can't be very sorry for this, though of course I think you are deluding yourself sadly in going so far. It will be such joy, however, to that poor girl that it would be almost cruel to her to try and convince you of the extravagance of your present feelings. I suppose you intend to start for Paris immediately."

"Yes, I go by the direct service to Marseilles to-morrow evening. My object in coming here to-day was twofold: to thank you for the priceless good which you have done me, and to ask you where the Adairs are staying in Paris. I would ask you too for more information about her health, only that I dread to hear unfavourable answers."

"And much better not to ask me, my dear sir, as I could only tell you what the medical advisers say,—and it is quite plain that they cannot do much for her; but I have little doubt that you will prove a far more efficient doctor in her case than any of them, and under your care I dare say all the bad symptoms will gradually disappear. I have not told you, however, where they are staying,—at the Hotel de Douvres, Rue de la Paix. They are waiting for the marriage of a Mademoiselle Arbi with a countryman of ours—Lord Barkley. It will take place, I believe, the end of next week."

"Ah! so little Marie Arbi is going to be married! She was to have been Flora's bride's-maid,—now I suppose it will be the other way. But I must not think of all that now. I shall be in Paris before then at all events; and God grant that it may be as you say, that I who have caused Flora's illness may have the power to cure it!"

Mr. Earnscliffe buried his face in his hands and remained silent for a few minutes; then standing up, he said in a husky voice, "Mr. Blake, you see how unfitted I am for any companionship save that of my own thoughts. To-morrow morning I am to be received into the Church; I suppose I must not ask you to be present at such a ceremony, but I will pray for you then as for one of my greatest benefactors. I may depend upon you, I am sure, not to name me even when you write to your niece; and now good-bye, and may God bless and reward you!"

They pressed each other's hands silently, for neither felt inclined to speak. Great agitation affects even unconcerned bystanders, so Mr. Blake could not witness unmoved that of Mr. Earnscliffe.

There are in the lives of some persons such thrilling extremes of joy and sorrow that it is difficult to write of them without appearing to use extravagant language. One of these extremes Mr. Earnscliffe felt as he repaired on the following morning to the little church of Capri, to enter fully into the communion of the faithful.

In the humble, unpretending sanctuary, adorned only by the natural flowers with which the loving hands of Maria and Anina had decked it, knelt the once proud, scoffing Earnscliffe. Behind him were "poor, ignorant" Italians; but before him, on the altar steps, stood the priest of God, who, having administered to him the sacraments of Baptism and Penance, was now about to admit him to the Divine Feast which our heavenly Father bade His servants to prepare for His children on their return home. To portray worthily even the outward features of the scene in that little church would require the pencil of a Beato Angelico.

"The joy of a faithful people" could now indeed be seen sparkling in the expressive countenances of the humble witnesses of this august ceremony; and at its close there was scarcely a dry eye in the whole church. Almost immediately after it was over Père d'Aubin was obliged to hurry Mr. Earnscliffe into the sacristy in order to save him from their tumultuous congratulations; and as the good père pressed him in his fatherly arms, and called upon God to bless him with all good gifts, Mr. Earnscliffe fairly sobbed like a child.

A gentle knock was heard at the door: Père d'Aubin opened it, and there stood Anina, trembling with eagerness to see her dear Signore, and carrying in her hand the little statue of the Madonna which he had given her long ago.

Père d'Aubin looked round at Mr. Earnscliffe to see if he wished that she should be admitted, but he said aloud, "Vieni figlia mia,—my little guardian angel, I do believe, who gained for me the blessed Madonna's intercession!"

Anina sprang into his arms, saying, "You see, Signore, I have brought her statue with me, because now I know you will not be sorry that you gave it to me."

"Sorry! Ah, no!" he exclaimed, as he reverently took the statue from her and placed it on the table.

A feast had been prepared in the garden of the priest's house for the poor people; but Anina said that they were all waiting to see the signore before they would begin the repast; "And will the Signore not come?" she added, pleadingly.

"Yes, carina," he answered, "but I can only stay a moment, as I must start for Naples immediately. You remember, little one, that I told you I should be obliged to go, but I will come back very soon, and, I hope, bring with me a lady whom you must love even better than you love me."

The child shook her little head at this, and gently drew the signore towards the garden. Père d'Aubin accompanied them in compliance with a look from Mr. Earnscliffe, which meant "Come with us, for I depend upon you to get me away quickly."

Accordingly he and Père d'Aubin soon left the good Italians to their feasting, and walked slowly back to the hotel.

As Mr. Earnscliffe received his spiritual father's parting benediction, he murmured, "Pray that all may be well with Flora, and she will know how to thank you for what you have been to me."

Marie's marriage was celebrated some days earlier than had been originally intended, in order that the Adairs might be free to leave Paris as soon as possible.

At nine o'clock on the morning of Saturday, the 15th of October, the wedding party assembled in the Church of St. Thomas d'Aquin. The little bride looked pale, but charmingly pretty, in her long flowing dress of rich white satin, and veil of delicate lace, which descended nearly to her feet.

Near her stood her first bride's-maid, Flora Adair. She too was pale, but, unlike Marie, no joyous light beamed from her eyes to redeem that paleness; and, as the ceremony proceeded, it seemed only to increase.

At the close of the Mass, and as Lord Barkley led his now blushing bride down the aisle, Flora whispered to Colonel de St. Severan, "Will you take mamma and Mina in your carriage, and let me return to the hotel. I do not feel strong enough to be at the breakfast, but if I can I will see Marie before she goes away. I must tell mamma, and then, I hope, you will help me to get home quietly."

Colonel de St. Severan made some remonstrance, but as Flora—after saying a few words to her mother—looked up in his face, he saw that she was scarcely able to stand, and quickly drawing her hand within his arm, he took her at once to the carriage, and desired Marie's maid to go with her to the hotel.

When they arrived there, Flora thanked the maid for having left the gay scene to accompany her, desired the coachman to drive her back, and slowly went upstairs.

That wedding had been, indeed, too much for her. She only just reached the sofa in time to save herself from falling; feebly she loosened the strings of her light tulle bonnet, and let it drop unheeded upon the floor, and murmured, "Edwin! if I could only see you once more, and you would believe in me, I should die happy! But perhaps he has ceased to be angry with me—ceased even to think of me! Yet no, he is not one likely to forget; it was not forgetfulness that made him so cruel as not even to acknowledge the receipt of my letter. Ah! how differently he felt when he gave me this!"

Flora took from the little table beside her a beautifully bound and illustrated edition of Schiller's "William Tell," and sought out that scene between Rudenz and Bertha, the opening lines of which were so imprinted on her heart that she needed not a book to recall them to her memory; yet she loved to read them over and over again, out of his present, and dream of the happy evening when he spoke them to her.

To-day, however, as she came to the last line, she burst into a fit of sobbing, and the page became wet with her tears. At length, exhausted by her own emotion, she fell asleep....

Meanwhile, Mr. Earnscliffe had travelled post-haste, or rather steam-haste, from Naples. He reached Marseilles late on Thursday evening, and the following night he took possession of his old Paris quarters, in the Rue Castiglione—the Hotel de Londres.

That night seemed to him an eternity—an eternity which separated him from the object of all his hopes. Vainly he tried to still the beating of his heart, so as to consider calmly what he should do in the morning. Should he go at once to Mrs. Adair, or should he write to her?

But neither of these plans pleased him,—he could not think of anything to say or to write to Mrs. Adair, nor indeed of aught save Flora herself; and thinking of her put every other thought to flight, for it conjured up visions which made him feel hot and cold by turns, as they varied from bright to dark and dark to bright.

Thus the night dragged through, and morning found him still more feverish and incapable of forming any definite idea of how he was to get over the interview with Mrs. Adair. He had quite discarded the idea of writing—and knew not how to reach Flora's presence; but see her he must, and as soon as possible, for he could bear this suspense no longer.

He, of course, knew nothing of the change about Marie's wedding, and naturally supposed that the Adairs would certainly be at home about ten in the morning. Much after this his impatience would not permit him to wait.

The distance from the Rue Castiglione to the Rue de la Paix was so short that Mr. Earnscliffe preferred to walk; he hoped, besides, that the air and exercise would tend to calm him, yet it was in a hardly steady voice that he asked at the Hotel de Douvres for Madame Adair.

The concierge looked to see if the key was in its appointed place, and not seeing it, he answered the question in the affirmative, and indicated the étage and number of their apartment.

Tremblingly Mr. Earnscliffe knocked at the door, but he heard no answer. Again he knocked,—still no answer. Could the concierge have been mistaken about their being at home? They might have gone out and have taken the key with them.

A sickening feeling of disappointment crept over him, and he was moving away, when it occurred to him that this door might only be an outer one, and that consequently his knocking might not have been heard, even if they were at home.

He went back and turned the handle. It was an outer door, and closing it behind him, he advanced to an inner one which was partly open.

The sight which that half-open door disclosed to his view arrested his steps on the very threshold, and he stood for a moment like one transfixed.

There was Flora, in that strange, half-bridal costume, stretched upon the sofa, seemingly almost lifeless. Those closed eyes—that pallor—what did it all mean? And striking his forehead with his clenched hand he murmured, "O God, make not my punishment greater than I can bear!"

Then stealing softly over to the sofa he knelt down beside her and listened with rapture to the low sound of her breathing, even whilst he marked the hectic appearance of her complexion; and well he remembered how different it was formerly!

He tried to keep himself quiet in order not to disturb her, but as he looked at the little thin hand, resting upon the open book as if pointing even in sleep to those words of Rudenz', he could not resist the temptation to touch it with his lips.

Even sleep could not deaden Flora's sense of that electric touch; she started up, and gazing at him as one risen from the dead, cried, "Edwin!"

He, too, sprang to his feet, held open his arms, and forgetting all his intended prayers for pardon, he merely exclaimed, "My ever loved one! your words have come true—your sacrifice has won for me the light of Divine truth, and at last I do you justice! Flora, will you come to me now?"

To her, his presence, his words, were like the rays of a fierce sun, which darted in at her eyes, at her ears, and piercing to her very brain, made her reel with delight, and she sank insensible into his arms.

We have all read the fable of the statue into which life was infused by the strength of the sculptor's passion. Thus did the ancients symbolise the power of love. May we not then justly infer that Flora did not remain very long insensible in Mr. Earnscliffe's arms! And afterwards, as she listened to his recital of the dawning and progress of that supernatural light which now shone upon him, and recognised throughout her own influence in leading him to it, full indeed was her cup of happiness—happiness such as she could never have known had she not purchased it so dearly!...

To live in the enjoyment of fame and honour is not necessarily the reward of a brave soldier, and how often is the bravest cut down in the full flush of victory! When perhaps he has achieved some glorious deed, and is revelling in the proud consciousness of having served his country, the fatal blow falls, and with a last struggle he yields up the life which had just become so doubly dear to him.

Even so is it with the bravest soldiers in the great battle of life itself. The joys of earth were not the especial reward promised to them, and as they too are revelling in delight over some victory, so great that they had not dared to look forward to its achievement upon earth, they are often called upon to relinquish the sweet human happiness already within their grasp. It is the final test of courage and sacrifice which the Divine Commander asks at their hands, in order to crown all their past brave deeds, and entitle them to a still higher place in the realms of unfading glory and bliss, where the souls of those who have truly loved here below will be united, to part no more, but to endure for ever in God.... Such a triumph of the spirit over the flesh is great indeed, but oh! how painful to our poor weak human nature! Therefore we will not stay to witness it, but will bid Flora Adair and Edwin Earnscliffe good-bye in their short hour of ineffable happiness.

THE END.