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
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."
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
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 Crœsus, 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 manœuvring 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.
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."