"Of course you did not—you did not wish to acknowledge that you were going to meet the Adairs!"
"Really, Miss Elton, for the third time to-day you astound me more than I can say; but as you have named the Adairs, will you tell me why you took such trouble to make me believe that Mr. Lyne was to be married to Miss Adair,—and, of course, you knew as well as your sister that she had refused him?"
"Are you blind, that you do not see what has urged me to this?"—She had evidently lost all self-control, as she stopped walking, and stood opposite to him with her flashing eyes fixed on his face. What more she might have said or done, had not the sound of an approaching step caught her ear, it would be difficult to tell. She added hurriedly, "Go now to Flora Adair, and win her love if you can; but in the hour when you feel most sure of her, or when you only wait for religious rites to make her yours for ever, may she be torn from you—more, may she play you false—may her hand strike the blow which shall crush your heart, even as mine has been crushed to-day! Now go!" She seized his hand, and for an instant her fingers closed upon it like a vice; then she let it go with a start as if it had burned her, and, turning away, she darted down a side walk.
Mr. Earnscliffe stood like one transfixed, until the step which had been heard in the distance now sounded close to him. Looking round, he saw Helena Elton, who exclaimed, in a frightened tone, "Mr. Earnscliffe! what does all this mean? Where is Mary?"
"Go to her as quickly as you can," was his answer,—"she left me in a state of fearful agitation; but believe me that, intentionally, I would not have caused her a moment's pain." He put out his hand absently: Helena understood that he meant to take leave of her, and placing hers in it, she said, "I do believe it, Mr. Earnscliffe, and do not judge poor Mary harshly; you at least should be indulgent towards her."
"Fear not, Miss Elton; as you say, I at least can never use her harshly." He pressed Helena's hand and left her. She went to seek her sister, while he walked slowly back to the house.
That day had been a day of revelations to him, and pain and pleasure were so strangely mingled in those revelations, that he preserved his calmness only with a strong effort. He entered the drawing-room to say good-bye to Mrs. Elton, but she was not there; then he rang for the servant, and said, "Will you be so good as to tell Mrs. Elton that I came in to say good-night to her as I am obliged to go at once; but as she is not downstairs I do not wish to disturb her."
"Please, sir, let me tell Mrs. Elton that you are going."
"Thank you, no, I cannot wait." So saying, he walked into the hall. Thomas opened the door, and as it closed behind him, he felt that he had crossed the Eltons' threshold for the last time.
The carriage was at the gate, and he drove direct to the shore.
The stars were crowding fast into the clear sky, and the moon was shedding forth her pale rays, when Mr. Earnscliffe reached the boat. Such a scene must be witnessed to be understood. To those who have seen the Bay of Naples on such a night memory will hold up her mirror, and they will see again the dim outline of the gracefully-curving shore, Vesuvia's dark and awe-inspiring shadow, and the deep blue waters upon which the moonbeams glance like silvery darts; and to those who have not seen it imagination will paint a no less vivid picture—but to them is unknown the balmy air, the charm, the beauty of an Italian night, and nowhere, perhaps, as well as in Naples and Venice, is it so completely seen and felt in all its unrivalled beauty. It is lovely, too, in its inland scenes: how lovely those can truly say who have known what it is to stand upon a balcony at "the witching hour," and look down upon a woody dell with myriads of busy fire-flies gleaming through the dark foliage, every branch, every twig covered with those brilliant and living lamps,—'tis nature's illumination, and in what does she not excel?
O Italy! thy beauty, thy poetry, thy loving memories are surely more than adequate to counterbalance the many great but material disadvantages which one meets with in thee....
But we have drifted away from the subject of our chapter, and deserted Mr. Earnscliffe, to whom we must now return.
He got into the boat—the sails were filling, for with the fall of day the wind had veered round, and promised them a quiet and favourable passage—threw himself upon the cushions, and took off his hat, as if he felt that he could more thoroughly enjoy the lovely night when there was nothing between him and the starry world above. Paolo saw that he looked strangely pale, and asked the same question which his little daughter had done in the morning, "Is sua eccellenza ill?"
"Grazie, amico, sto benissimo," told a different tale from the listless abstracted one with which he replied to Anina. That smile, and a certain softness in the tone of Mr. Earnscliffe's voice, made Paolo feel that sua eccellenza came back a happier man than when he set out for Naples. And so he was, although pain and pleasure were closely mingled in his sensations; but, at least, the future was no longer quite a blank to him; there was something to hope for—something, as Mary Elton had said to him, worth struggling for. He did not consider himself in love with Flora Adair, but he felt that she did occupy his thoughts almost exclusively, that everything connected with her interested him deeply, and he could not help smiling as he remembered all the ingenious arguments which he made use of to account to himself for that interest. Then, too, came the remembrance of the delight which he felt when he heard that she had refused Mr. Lyne, and he murmured to himself, "Yes, I will go to Venice, try to meet the Adairs, and if——" Ah! what visions rose after that if?... They were like mental lullabies, and under their soft influence he fell asleep and dreamed.
He dreamed of winning Flora's love, of the happy life which was to begin for him with her at his side; ... but suddenly a change came over the picture—Mary Elton seemed to stand between him and Flora, with a countenance full of passionate anger and yet of triumph, as she cried out, "I warned you!"... He made a movement to clasp Flora, but she seemed to shrink away from him and fall. This startled and awoke him, but so real was the impression which the dream left upon his mind that he exclaimed in Italian, "Catch her, Paolo—she will be drowned!"
"What does sua eccellenza mean? There is nobody drowning."
"Thank God!" he muttered, with a long-drawn breath of relief as he reseated himself. Then he said to Paolo, "You see I have been dreaming, amico."
"But not un sogno sinistro, eccellenza? that would be a bad omen indeed, at this hour of the night, and by moonlight too," answered Paolo, eagerly.
"It was probably the sleeping with the moon shining full upon my face which caused me to dream," he replied, without saying whether the dream was a sinister one or not. Paolo did not seem to be satisfied with this answer, and said gravely, "Oh eccellenza, it is very unlucky!... May you be preserved from all evil!"
Mr. Earnscliffe smiled, but he would have preferred that Paolo had dwelt less upon his fears about the dream; for although not generally superstitious, he could not shake off the gloomy impression which it left upon him. All his bright visions had vanished, and in their place came painful reminiscences of poor Mary Elton. He would have given much to have been able to feel sure that she would forget him and be happy again; but something whispered to him that it would not be so—that, whether in good or evil, she was not one likely to change, and she had given proof of how strong a woman's feelings can be. Perhaps, also, there was mixed up in his pity for her a latent, almost a superstitious dread of her as he had seen her in his dream. Then he thought of Anina—of how he was to tell her that he intended to leave Capri immediately, and the thought of the child's grief made him shrink from facing it; yet he felt that it would be cruel in him to go away without telling her: no, that could not be—and then it was that he felt how fond he had become of the beautiful child.
Beauty in women had naturally a most powerful attraction for him, yet for years he had been shut out from the enjoyment of it by his blighting belief in their falseness. This, in his estimation, overclouded all their loveliness. "Beauty in a woman," he would say, "being so overclouded, is less worthy of admiration in her than in a statue; in this, at least, there is no deception—we find here all that we can expect, namely, regularity of outline and one fixed expression." But in Anina he saw living beauty combined with perfect artlessness, and it won his heart at once; then, too, her ardent affection for himself and desire to be with him had its own charm for the lonely rich man. She had been quite a companion to him in his wanderings about the island; he had taught her to read, and with a feeling of sadness he recalled the pretty lighting-up of her expressive face whenever he praised her; and again, how charmingly penitent she used to look when he chid her for inattention. And he had to tell her that there must be an end to all this, and doubted that even the beautiful present which he was going to give her would console her for his departure. He felt that her grief would probably not be of very long duration, but he feared that it would be sharp and violent, and it pained him to think that he was to be the cause of it. All this brought him to the conclusion that the sooner the leave-taking was over the better; so he resolved to go the next day.
It was very late when they touched Capri. As Mr. Earnscliffe wished Paolo good-night, he desired him to come to the hotel in the morning at six, and to bring Anina with him.
But two hours remained before sunrise, yet even for that short time Mr. Earnscliffe could not rest; his head was tossing about upon his pillow until about four, when he got up—no unusual hour in Italy during the fine season—and ordering his coffee at half-past five, he went out and bathed.
Soon after his return, and by the time he had finished his light breakfast, Paolo and Anina had arrived—he had learned from his master that anti-Italian virtue, punctuality.
Mr. Earnscliffe told Paolo that he wanted to speak with him; as the child left the room, he said, "Paolo, I asked you to come to me this morning in order to tell you that I mean to give you my boat——"
Paolo looked delighted and exclaimed, "Sua eccellenza, è troppo buono."
But Mr. Earnscliffe went on without noticing the interruption—"And if you will name any means by which you can be permanently advanced in your trade, it shall be done; but for this, perhaps, you would like a little time for consideration—if so you can speak to Dr. Molini, and he will communicate with me.... I am obliged to leave Capri to-day."
"O eccellenza, questo maladetto sogno—I knew it was the sign of coming misfortune."
"Not so, amico; the dream has nothing to do with my going away, and it shall not be a misfortune to you—you shall not lose by it."
"It is not that, eccellenza, which I meant by misfortune. It was the Blessed Madonna herself who sent you to us; and now that you are going, we shall feel as if she were taking something precious from us; besides, what could ever be the same to me as being in your service? You have treated me—the poorest fisherman in Capri—almost as your equal; and that day when the signore laughed at my story bound me to you for ever. I felt that I could die for you, eccellenza. Dio, how shall I tell la moglie e la bambina?"
Mr. Earnscliffe, with an Englishman's dislike to any show of feeling, turned away his head to hide any traces of emotion which might have been seen on his countenance, for he was deeply touched by Paolo's sorrow. After a few moments' silence he said, "Believe me, Paolo, I value your affection more than I can say, and I would do anything to make you happy."
"Then, signore," interrupted Paolo eagerly, "let us go and live near you in Napoli?"—poor Paolo never thought of anything beyond Naples—"and I can be your boatman still."
"But, amico, I am not going to live in Naples; I am going to travel." Paolo's head drooped, and Mr. Earnscliffe continued kindly, "But I promise you that you shall see me again if I live. And now, Paolo, go to Maria and consult with her about what you would wish me to do for you."
"Ah! signore, we could not consult about anything to-day; we can only think that the Madonna is taking one of her best blessings away from us."
"Well, as I said before, you can speak to Dr. Molini after I am gone, and he will write to me."
Paolo saw that Mr. Earnscliffe meant this to terminate the interview, and he asked at what hour sua eccellenza would want the boat; but Mr. Earnscliffe answered that he would not require it, as he was going by the steamer.
"Then I shall never row sua eccellenza again," exclaimed Paolo, giving way to violent demonstrations of grief.... This was all extremely painful to Mr. Earnscliffe, and so contrary to all his natural, or, rather, national, notions of what grief ought to be; yet he could not be brusque to Paolo, for he saw that, although it appeared most unseemly to him, it was real and natural in the excitable Italian, but he said gravely—
"Paolo, it is a man's part to be strong, and not to give way to feeling as women do, and for my sake you must subdue all this. Think how you grieve me by making me thus feel that I give you pain. Now addio, I must go to the bambina."
"But I shall see sua eccellenza again, surely? He will come to say addio to Maria?"
"Yes, but I shall expect you both to be very calm,—al rivedersi dunque!"
Mr. Earnscliffe gently turned away, and taking the case which contained the statue for Anina, he left the room. Paolo slowly followed him. At the hall door they met the child, and taking her by the hand Mr. Earnscliffe drew her on quickly so that she might not see her father's emotion.
After a short walk along a pretty rocky path they came to a kind of creek formed by the rocks, so as to be completely shaded from the sun; here he sat down and opened the box, displaying to Anina's longing eyes a little white temple; the roof was arched and supported by four columns, round which ran scrolls of lilies painted on a blue ground and bordered with gold; inside, on a pedestal, was a small, but, for its size, beautiful figure of the Madonna, draped in a blue cloak starred with gold.
Mr. Earnscliffe looked upon the Madonna as being nothing more than a good woman to whom superstition had given an undue and almost a Divine celebrity; but, in imagination, no one could form a more poetical idea than he did of the purity and beauty surrounding the mother of an incarnate God; therefore, he had chosen the best representation of this idea that he could find.
Anina's delight was unbounded. She literally danced round it, repeating, "Come è bella, bellissima!" Then throwing her arms round Mr. Earnscliffe, she half smothered him with her gratitude.
"Listen to me, carina," he said, gently unfolding her arms from his neck. His grave tone made her look up wonderingly at him, and he went on. "I want you to give me a reward for having brought you the Madonna. Will my little one give it to me?"
"Oh, signore!" and her little face was nestled on his shoulder.
"Then you will give it to me, carina. But I am going to ask a great deal. It is to promise that you will not fret very much if I tell you that something you love dearly is to be taken from you."
"But what is it, signore, that you are going to take from me? Not the Madonna?"
"Not the Madonna, certainly; but you have not given me the promise. Will you not be very good, and not cry too much?"
"Si, signore."
"Then, carissima, you must remember that promise when I tell you that I am going away to-day."
Alas for promises! Anina's answer was to burst out crying as though her little heart would break, and then through her sobs she murmured, "No, no, non va via il caro signore; he told me so yesterday?"
"Yes, carina, but afterwards I heard something which obliges me to go. This is not keeping your promise, my child. I hoped that your beautiful Madonna would console you, and I will come back some day, Anina mia, sia buona."
He put his arm round her waist and kissed her, but she hid her face on his shoulder, and sobbed so violently that he saw it was vain to attempt to quiet her now, and that all he could do was to take her home and leave her; time he knew would calm this violence of childish grief. With his disengaged hand he put the little temple into the box, and said, "Come, my child, take your Madonna, and let us go home." But Anina made no movement to take it, and he said, "Then you do not care for her. I may throw her into the sea."
"Oh, give her to me, signore," she cried, stretching out her hand for it. "I will pray to her every day for you, and perhaps she will send you back to me."
He had not told her before, and now he could not tell her, how worse than useless he thought those prayers; yet her affection for himself, mingled as it was with her devotion for the Madonna, touched him almost in spite of himself, and giving her the box silently, he took her by the hand and led her home.
It was the same path down which he had carried her when first he saw her; and her parents, too, were sitting at the door as on that evening; but now sorrow, instead of joy, was to be seen in their faces as they rose to receive him. Maria threw herself at his feet, crying and muttering a great deal, in which la Madonna and dolore were the only words that could be distinctly heard.
"Maria," exclaimed Mr. Earnscliffe, "you are surely not going to give la bambina such a bad example!" and, turning to Anina, he added, "Show your Madonna to la madre, my child."
The trembling little hands began to undo the lid, and Mr. Earnscliffe said in a low tone, "I must wish you addio now, amici, siate felici." He pressed a hand of each; then bent down and gave Anina a hurried kiss, and said, "Take her, Paolo." He turned and walked away as fast as he could.
Paolo held Anina, who struggled to get free and run after Mr. Earnscliffe, whilst Maria knelt down, and in an excited tone called on the Santissima Madre di Dio to guard and protect him in life, and after death to lead him to her Divine Son in the bright heavens above.
Mr. Earnscliffe heard it, and for the moment their lively faith in the influence of a mother, even over a Divine Son, appeared to him to be strangely beautiful. That scene often recurred to his memory, and he scoffed not at it, but his heart yearned towards the poor superstitious Capri fisherpeople.
Two hours later the steamer was bearing him swiftly away from their island....
To the Piazza San Marco, in all its beauty and grandeur,—the richest jewel of the Adriatic's bride,—we must now turn. It is about nine at night; and beneath the long lines of arcades the gay shops and caffès are brilliantly lighted up. Their illumination—for, indeed, it is like one—contrasts well with the darkness of the great Piazza upon which they give; for, although from the centre of every arch—and there are in all nearly a hundred—there juts out a gracefully-curved branch, bearing a lighted lamp, they are but as faint glimmers in that vast space, making mysterious solemn shade of all around, especially, as now, when there is no moon to be seen in the deep blue and star-spangled vault above. The dark mass of San Marco's basilica, the campanile, the adjoining Piazzetta, with the Ducal Palace, the two columns of oriental marble, surmounted by the bronze lion of St. Mark and the statue of St. George, still guarding that port where, in days of old, so many proud galleys sailed in triumph; and opposite, across the Grand Canal's dark watery road, rising as if from the water's midst, the dim outlines of San Giorgio in Maggiore and Santa Maria di Salute:—it is, indeed, a combination unrivalled in the world!
In the centre of the Piazza an Austrian band is playing; and round the caffès are seated crowds of people sipping coffee or eating ices. Among them are Mrs. Adair, Flora, and Marie Arbi.
When last we saw them they were in Florence with the Blakes and Pentons; but now they are alone, and their friends far on their way towards England.
During the time they spent there, Mr. Barkley was much attracted by Marie, and was constantly at her side; that is, as constantly as he could be without rendering his attentions marked. He invariably tried to keep either with her or with Flora, on the principle, it may be supposed, that if one cannot be with the especial favourite, the next best thing is to be with her intimate friend; at all events, it prevented observations being made. Had there appeared to be anything serious in his manner, Mrs. Adair would naturally have considered herself obliged to interfere, as Marie must be given up to the de St. Severans free from any entanglement; but Mr. Barkley managed so well that it would have been difficult to say which he liked best, Flora or Marie, although they were nearly three weeks in Florence, and met almost every day.
But what were Mr. Barkley's real feelings? Was he only amusing himself, or was it something deeper? Yes, it was something deeper; he loved Marie as he had never loved before or would ever love again, even though he should not marry her, which was very probable, as there would be many difficulties in the way, and he was one who was more likely to succumb to difficulties than to bear up against and conquer them.
He was the only son of an Irish nobleman, who—as unfortunately so many do in the sister island—had lived beyond his income, got his property deeply into debt, and trusted to his son's making a rich marriage in order to clear it. Edmund Barkley himself, in a vague way, gave in to this idea. He thought that fortune would be a most desirable addition to the charms of the future lady of his choice; but, being fastidious to a fault, he had hitherto found all the heiresses of his acquaintance unattractive, and answered the parental urgings to his marrying quickly with, "Time enough, father; the right heiress has not appeared yet. And if she should not appear at all,—well, I suppose, as a pis aller, I must take one of those whom you have named; but to make up my mind to that will require a good long run of freedom." So he kept his liberty, and went from flower to flower until he met Marie, and—never imagining that the little unsophisticated African girl could really touch his world-proved heart—he dashed into a brisk general flirtation with her; when, one day, to his great dismay, a sad truth dawned upon him. He caught himself dreaming day-dreams of Marie presiding in his ancestral halls, and charming everybody around her with her naïve grace, and her sweet, wild voice warbling her simple ballads, which she sang with such feeling that all who love music rather as the highest expression of language than of harmonised and learned combinations—as speaking to the heart rather than the judgment—would prefer her singing to that of the finished pupil of a fashionable London master. Marie's history, too, had taken a strong hold of his imagination; and even more,—although, perhaps, unknown to himself,—there was a feeling that this little creature, so unequal to himself in intelligence and education, had acted with a degree of strength and heroism of which he was incapable; so that, almost involuntarily, he looked up to her as something above him, loving her at the same time with the protecting love of a man for gentleness and innocence.
This discovery set him thinking:—"Marie has no position, and of course not much fortune; she is not even St. Severan's child, so he may not give her anything.... It will never do for me; I must think no more about her in this way. Adieu, then, sweet Marie; would that it could be otherwise, but it cannot. So, once more adieu, my bright little fairy!"
After these musings he took up a novel which lay on the table; but Marie would not be dismissed from his thoughts in this summary manner. He saw her face multiplied in the pages of the book instead of its printed characters. He closed it and thought he would try a little music. He went into the saloon, where there was a piano, and began to play some of his favourite reveries; but insensibly he glided into the melodies which Marie used to sing, and which he knew so well. Then the sound of her soft voice began to ring in his ear; and he ceased to play that he might better listen to those clear young tones which were sounding, not on his ear, but in his heart.... "Devil take it!" he exclaimed aloud, and starting up from the piano; "I have never allowed myself to be really caught by this little wilding! Yet it looks horribly like it.... I see I must keep away from her!"
He shut down the piano, and went back to his own room; then he took up the novel again, muttering, "Novels must certainly be gone to the bad when they can't amuse a man for half-an-hour! I remember the time when I could sit for hours over them." Mr. Barkley did not seem to remember that he, perhaps, was changed rather than the novels.
There came a knock at the door. He lazily drawled out, "Entrate." In came his sister with her cloak on, and, seeing him lying in an armchair in his dressing-gown, with a novel in his hand, she exclaimed—
"What are you about, Edmund? Are you not coming?"
"Where, may I ask?"
"You cannot have forgotten that the Adair and Blake party have got permission to see San Donato—Demidoff's Villa—and have asked us to go with them? We are to call for one of the girls at eleven. You know, the laying out of the grounds is said to be very beautiful, and the house itself gorgeous. There are collections of paintings, statues, and I know not what, to say nothing of the charms of living statues, Master Edmund—eh?"
Here was a test for his newly-formed resolution of avoiding Marie. What a pleasant vista his sister's words had called up, of wandering in the grounds of San Donato with Marie—getting purposely separated from the others, and only finding them after a needlessly long search; but it was just what he ought to keep clear of; and he felt irritated with Mrs. Penton for thus putting the temptation before him. However, he would be strong—he would sternly resist it—and in accordance with this determination he answered gruffly—
"I can't go and expose myself to such a sun as this. I have a headache."
Mrs. Penton turned round from the survey which she had been making of herself in the glass, and looked at him laughingly as she said—
"What's up now, Edmund? Have the little African's charms palled already?"
"Damn it!" he muttered, with uncontrollable irritation.
"Damn what, Edmund?" asked his sister, laughing more than ever. "San Donato or me? or perhaps the little African?"
"How tiresome you are, Maria! I told you that I could not go because I had a headache, and the sun is so awfully strong to-day."
"Of which I believe as much as you do. You were quite well an hour ago. The headache is nothing but a sham. Perhaps you have got some new innamorata; but come: the little African is not so bad after all. She will do once in a way; and you know at first you certainly were a little épris in that quarter."
"For pity's sake, Maria, go to San Donato, and leave me in peace! How teasing women can be! What a happy fellow I am not to have a wife!"
"It strikes me, my dear sir, that you are anything but a happy fellow this morning. Now I am going; but tell me first, what has made you so bearish?"
"If I am bearish, I think the best thing you can do is to get out of my way at once."
"I quite agree with you. You might tear me to pieces if I remained much longer in your den; but I daresay, when this fit has passed over, you will regret that you did not come with us. Indeed, I should not be astonished if you were to follow us, if only for the pleasure such a vain creature would take in seeing the little African's bright eyes look brighter still when you appear."
Mrs. Penton retreated after this sally, but called out from the door—
"Good-bye, dear! I hope some kind fairy will soon transform you back to a man! Shall I send the little African to you? and then you and she could play 'Beauty and the Beast' over again?"
She closed the door as Mr. Barkley dashed his book into the opposite corner of the room, and began to walk up and down in a state of laughable irritation, declaring that women were the plagues of a man's life, and that he wished they were all kept locked up and out of the way, as in the East. Having given utterance to this charitable wish towards the fair sex, he threw off his dressing-gown, dragged on a coat, and, seizing his hat, he went out and walked to the Belle Arti, quite forgetful of his asserted headache and dread of the sun. Beato Angelico, at least, could not fail to absorb his attention.
Alas for il Beato! His pictures could teach no grand lessons to his admirer to-day. His beautiful angels, lovingly leading the enfranchised spirits of their earthly charges over flower-clad meadows to the heavenly Jerusalem, only suggested to Mr. Barkley how delightful it would be to be wandering thus in the shady alleys of San Donato with Marie; and he felt more than half inclined to curse his folly in having refused to go.... At last, tired even of Beato Angelico, he left the Accademia; and as he walked home, he began to think seriously that he had behaved like a fool. "After all," said he to himself, "St. Severan might give her a fortune, and then I don't see why I should not marry her! Why should not an African chief be as good as an Irish one? and that's all my father is, I suppose. In any case, the birth question would easily be got over, if it were not for that damned money; and if it were not for my father, I would marry her, fortune or no fortune. But that is all for the future: there is no good in making one's self miserable about it now. 'Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof.'... If I thought that Maria would not tease me unmercifully, I declare I would do as she said—follow them to San Donato. By-the-bye, though, the sun has got all clouded over, and dread of its heat was my excuse for not going; now that it has disappeared, I can go without any sacrifice of dignity, and I am glad to see that Maria does not think I really care for little Marie; if she did, she would try to keep me away from her, instead of laughing at me about her.... And so here goes for a pleasant day." He called a carriage, and drove to San Donato.
Thus ended Mr. Barkley's resolution to avoid Marie, and thenceforth he struggled no more against the stream, but let himself float gently down, enjoying the present, and, as far as possible, shutting out all thought of the future. The spoiled child of his family and of the world, he was too much accustomed to self-indulgence to refrain from pleasing himself because of the possible pain which he might inflict on others,—in fact, he never thought about it. Intentionally, he would not render any one unhappy,—how much less Marie; yet he was in a very fair way of so doing by this thoughtless gratification of his own wishes....
At length arrived the last evening of their stay in Florence. The Adairs and the Blakes spent it at the Pentons'. Marie, as usual, sang a good deal; but she remained seated at the piano after she had ceased singing, until Flora went over to say that it was time to go away, when the latter saw to her astonishment that Marie's eyes were full of tears, and Mr. Barkley—he had been standing by her all the time trifling with the music—was looking down at her with a very unmistakable expression of intense interest. He tried to say something light about the pain of leave-taking in general; but as Flora raised her eyes from the tearful Marie, and looked earnestly at him, he coloured, and exclaimed in a low tone—
"Forgive me, Miss Adair! I know that I ought to have kept away, and I tried—indeed, I did!—but it was too strong for me!"
"I do not know what all this means, Mr. Barkley," answered Flora, gravely; "but it appears to me difficult to explain satisfactorily. Mignonne, dry up those tell-tale tears, we are going now."
"Oh, Flore!"—and Marie leaned her head against Flora as she pressed her handkerchief to her eyes.
"For your own sake, Marie, try not to let it be seen that this leave-taking affects you so much," whispered Flora, and, turning to Mr. Barkley, she spoke to him for a few moments on some indifferent subject, so as to give Marie time to recover herself; then, seeing that she had dried up the tears and only looked pale and dejected, she said, "Come now, Mignonne," and they joined the others who were wishing the Pentons good-bye.
Mr. Barkley said he would walk home with them, and took care to get Flora to himself. He then told her that he had yielded to the temptation of being with Marie, persuading himself that perhaps he might be able to marry her after all; and as a salve to his conscience, he had determined not to utter one word of love to her. The last evening, however, had been too much for him, he forgot all but his love and his yearning desire to know if it were returned. He now bitterly blamed himself for not having had the strength to go away at first, and, more than all, for his conduct on that evening.
"It was particularly reprehensible in you, Mr. Barkley," answered Flora, "to speak to Marie as you have done, knowing that she is not with her own friends."
"I know it, Miss Adair, and, until this evening, I assure you that I scrupulously avoided"—and this was literally true—"anything like love-making."
"Even so, Mr. Barkley, your determination not to speak of love to her was only a splitting of hairs; you felt that you loved her, and were not without hope that she might respond to that feeling; nevertheless, although you know that you could—would is perhaps the more fitting word—not ask her to marry you now, you continued to seek her society. Was it honourable?"
"I can only say again, I know but too well how much I am to blame, but will you make no excuse for the power of temptation?... Believe me, I would give worlds to marry her."
"You would give worlds to marry her," replied Flora, with a bitter smile, "yet there is no real impediment; surely there is a strange inconsistency in this? God knows how far I would go in excusing any yielding to strong temptation, but I cannot excuse any one for inflicting pain on another when it only requires a resolute act of his will to avoid it."
"By heavens, Miss Adair, it is true that I would give worlds to many Marie—I beg your pardon—Miss Arbi; and I would do so, fortune or no fortune, were I my own master, but my father would disinherit me if I married in opposition to his wishes; he has already told me so, and I could not ask any one to marry me on nothing."
"I don't believe that your father would disinherit you, Mr. Barkley, you, his only son, his idol, and the future lord. But pray do not imagine that I want you to marry Marie. I only speak thus because it is laughable to hear a man say that he cannot ask one whom he professes to love, to marry him unless she has a certain number of thousands, because, forsooth, his father will disinherit him! But as far as regards Marie, I would greatly prefer that you did not marry her, unless it be that her affections are very deeply engaged, and this I hope there is no great fear of. You have not treated her well, Mr. Barkley, and I do not think that you are suited to each other. I doubt if your happiness would be of very long duration."
"Oh, Miss Adair!"
"Spare me a lover's rhapsody, please, and take a word of advice from me: try to forget Marie, as I trust and believe she will forget you;—but here we are at the hotel, so good-bye."
"You are dreadfully hard upon me, Miss Adair, but it is no use to talk of forgetting. I love Marie, and shall ever love her, truly!"
"Then act like a man gifted with a free will," answered Flora, as she entered the hotel.
Flora and Marie slept in the same room, so, before going to bed, the former heard a tearful confession of love and sorrow from poor gentle little Marie. The wretched weakness of her lover's conduct seemed to have no effect upon her, although to Flora it appeared despicable, and she thought to herself, "Such an one would not do for me; he whom I shall love must be strong and great, even in his faults. He must be one of whom I could say
However, it must be my work now to comfort poor Mignonne."
She endeavoured to rouse her by talking of her dear papa, Monsieur de St. Severan; of how grieved he would be if she were to return to him after so many years, looking pale and melancholy, when he expected to see her in the bloom of youth and happiness; and urged her, for his sake—and for all their sakes—to struggle against this, her first experience of love's trials.
At length Marie said—speaking French, as she invariably did when very earnest, but we will give the substance in the vernacular—"Yes, Flora, I know it is very wrong to grieve so, to repine at what I suppose God sees is good for me. I know that I ought to be content to be unhappy if He wills it, but it is very hard at first, Flora...."
"Hard? Oh how hard, first or last! But you bear it like a saint, Mignonne! I could not bear it as you do; it would be a hard struggle with me to submit to the power which deprived me of the person I loved best, even before I had known the bliss of being his companion."
"Ah! It is very nice to be happy," murmured Marie through her tears, "but, if le bon Dieu sees that it is better for us not to be so, we ought to be satisfied, ought we not?"
"Ay, and it is comparatively easy for a little angel like you to be so, but for me it would be a fierce battle...." Were Flora's words prophetic? "However, that has nothing to do with the present hour, the duty of which is for you to go to bed, dearest."
Marie's tears broke out afresh, but she allowed Flora to unfasten her gown and help to undress her. When she was in bed Flora kissed her and said good-night. Marie clasped her arms round her, and drawing her face down to her own, murmured, "Flore, what should I do without you?"
"Better, perhaps, than with me, Mignonne," answered Flora, somewhat brusquely, in order to hide the inclination which she herself felt to cry. Marie's gentleness in her sorrow was so plaintive. "I am not saint enough to know how to console you with religion as another might do, I can only feel for and with you, darling, so good-night again."
At last Marie sobbed herself to sleep like a tired child, and next morning the hurry and fuss of departure prevented her sad face and red eyes from being observed. It was not a pleasant morning to Flora; she was losing her friend Maria Blake, and she knew that she should miss her sadly. On Marie she looked as one does on a pretty, loving child, but she could not make a companion of her as of Mina,—and how great is the loss of one with whom we can talk on the different subjects that most occupy our thoughts,—one with whom we can really have an interchange of ideas!... This Marie certainly could not be to Flora, for she did not think much on any subject, or read much except of light literature. She had no lack of intelligence and quickness, but she was by nature averse to application; she worked beautifully and was very fond of it,—it did not hinder her from giving vent to all her innocent gaiety of disposition in chattering about all sorts of little nothings. These were the things which made Flora think that Marie was not suited to Mr. Barkley; she would be to him a little attendant, loving, laughing sprite, ready to work for him, to do anything for him, in short, but to be a real companion to him; and Flora feared that when the first charm of Marie's beauty and caressing manner had become familiar to him, he would tire of living without one who could interest herself in, and, as it were, take part in, his pursuits, and that by degrees he would begin to leave her alone, and seek elsewhere that interchange of ideas which he could not have with her.
Thus, after they left Florence, it was rather a gloomy time for both girls, but the various sights of Bologna, Parma, Milan, and Padua—in each of which towns they made a short stay on their way to Venice—were good distractions, and Marie's light, buoyant nature was not one to which the absence of a loved one rendered everything sunless, so that sometimes she would be as gay as possible, although at others large tears might have been seen rolling slowly down her cheeks, as on the lovely night when she sat in the Piazza San Marco.
The band was playing a beautiful though somewhat sad serenade,—all conduced to a soft melancholy which was deeply felt by Flora as well as Marie; but her own name—"Miss Adair!"—pronounced by a voice whose music she loved, perhaps, too well, sent the blood flushing to her cheeks, and made her eyes sparkle as she exclaimed, "Mr. Earnscliffe!"
How inexpressibly sweet she thought his smile was as he shook hands with her. Then he turned to speak to Mrs. Adair and Marie. She felt too astonished, yet delighted, to speak, but Mrs. Adair said, "Well, this is a surprise! We thought you were in Naples."
"So I was, but as I have not any ties to any one, or to any place, my movements are often sudden and changeable. I began to find it rather hot, so I determined not to spend the summer in Italy, but I wished, before leaving it, to have another look at Venice,—it is so beautiful. Is it not, Miss Adair?"
"Yes, this Piazza alone contains a world of beauty and interest."
"Quite true, it has indeed been the scene of stirring deeds. We have but to look upon that gorgeous Ducal Palace to recall them, and with a shudder we think of the fearful dungeons with which it is connected by the fatal Bridge of Sighs, and half expect to see the terrible state barge gliding swiftly and noiselessly to the dark Lagunes where some poor wretch is about to be consigned to a watery grave.... Oh, Venice is one vast romance!"
He looked at Flora as if he expected that she would continue the conversation; but she did not want to speak, she only wanted to be allowed to sit there and silently enjoy the luxury of listening to him. Finding that she did not answer, he said, "How strange it was that on the very night of my arrival I should chance to see you!"
These words recalled to her the night when she had last seen him, and she replied with a smile, "I wonder that you stopped to speak to us, as we are all ladies. Do you remember the harsh condemnation which you pronounced upon women in general at Mrs. Elton's ball? And I have not seen you since!"
"So, Miss Adair, you have not then forgotten my unfortunate speech to you?"
"I could not forget it, it was so sweeping and severe upon us."
"I fear I was very rude. Will you forgive me?"
"Personally, I have nothing to forgive, but as one of the sex, I must repeat, you were very unjust to us."
"I believe so now, sincerely; at least I know that there are exceptions to what I then said, as you"—his voice was lowered so that there should be no possibility of its reaching any other ears than hers—"proved on that very night; therefore, you, personally, have a great deal to forgive."
Flora blushed deeply as she looked up at him in wonder. "What can he have heard?" she asked herself.... Just then the band stopped playing and went away, so that this sotto voce conversation could not be continued.
The loiterers in the Piazza now began to disperse. Mrs. Adair stood up as if she wished to go home, but Flora said, "How I should like to see the Lagunes at night!"
"Then let us go now," said Mr. Earnscliffe; "there could not be a better night for seeing them than this dark and starry one, and my gondola is at the steps of the Piazzetta. Shall it be so, Mrs. Adair?"
"The girls would like it," answered Mrs. Adair, "so I suppose we must go."
... What a happy closing to the evening did Flora find in that row in the gondola! How vividly did Mr. Earnscliffe's language call up the past,—the far-famed Doges of other days; the hapless Marino Faliero, the father of the Foscari; great "blind old Dondolo."... Byron and Shakespeare lent their aid; Shylock and Antonio seemed to walk again on the Rialto; ... bravos lurked behind dark buttresses for the coming of their victims; ... lovers fled in the close-curtained gondole from cruel guardians to some freer shore.... Mr. Earnscliffe did indeed make Venice "one vast romance" to Flora, the spell of which was hardly broken by his taking leave of them on the steps of the Hotel Zucchese.
What a delightful yet wakeful night did Flora spend in thinking over the events of the evening!... When Mr. Earnscliffe's voice fell upon her ear she was musing sadly on the weariness of life, and the emptiness of its ordinary pleasures. And if perchance one did get a glimpse of something like real enjoyment, it came, she thought, only to vanish. But the vibration of that voice put to flight all her blue devils, or rather transformed them into bright airy spirits with rosy wings.... And now as she lay awake in bed, she kept repeating over to herself all that she could remember of that last hour's conversation. It was a habit of hers this repeating over to herself conversations which had given her great pleasure: it recalled the tones and look which accompanied the words; it was a clinging to, and an effort to reproduce that which had filled her heart with delight.
Unfortunately for Flora, she did not love religion so as to find in it a centre round which all her thoughts and actions could revolve; and without such a centre—as we have seen—she found existence wearisome. For a while, indeed, her faith had been a little tottering; but, happily, this momentary wavering had been conquered. From the time when she first began to think upon such subjects, she felt that there could be no medium between mere Rationalism and Faith in a Divine teaching authority upon earth, or Christianity in all its fulness.... She thought and read, until reason itself—aided by God's grace—showed her that the Authority which had existed and grown with the growth of mankind—like all life, of which God alone can be the author—must necessarily be Divine; ... that Religion—or the tie which re-unites fallen man to God—had been revealed by God from the beginning; ... that it is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever; ... that this Divine Word, spoken to the Patriarchs—written by Moses—in the fulness of time became Incarnate, and left the Spirit of Truth itself to lead that Divine teaching Authority into all Truth, and will so lead it until the end of time.... In this faith she now believed with unshaken firmness, yet she had none of the practical piety of Marie.
Most applicable to Flora are Lady Georgiana Fullerton's beautiful words in "Lady Bird."... Speaking of characters in whom a craving for excitement is a disease, she says—"There is but one cure for it, call it what you will: self-education, not for this world, but for the next. The work of life understood; perfection conceived and resolutely aimed at; the dream of human happiness resigned, and in the same hour its substance regained; the capital paid into the other world, and the daily unlooked-for interest received in this."... But to "resign the dream of human happiness" is just what Flora finds it so hard to do, especially on that night when lying with unclosed eyelids, and a happy smile hovering about her lips, she whispered over the words which had been such music to her during the evening, and then added, "How nice it would be if I could die now before this brightness has faded out of my life, as it will do so soon!... What a mercy it would be not to have to go back to the old, weary, objectless life again!"
You see, reader, how faulty a character our heroine is: she could toil patiently for anything which she prized highly, and at no self-denial would she hesitate in order to attain the goal; but passive submission to suffering, or even to the absence of happiness, tried her sorely. Byron says strongly, but truly—