"So you have already found out the way to make me do what you like!"
"Then you will come? Oh, thank you!"
"And you must come and dine with us," said Mrs. Elton; "then we can go late to the ball."
"Of course I cannot refuse you after granting my young friend's less congenial request. At what hour do you dine?"
"Our usual hour is seven."
"Then I shall not fail to be with you by that time."
Soon after Mr. Maunsell left them, and Mrs. Elton said, "Really, Mary, I am quite uneasy about you; you look dreadfully flushed and excited, and that fit of coughing was almost convulsive. I must take you to Dr. O——; and I do not think that I can allow you to go to the ball. I did not like to oppose you while Mr. Maunsell was here, but now that we are alone, I am sure that I have only to appeal to your own good sense in order to induce you to give it up, especially as I know that you do not care about balls."
"But I do care about this one," cried Mary eagerly—however, she continued in a calmer tone as she saw her mother look at her in amazement—"and please to let me go to it; afterwards I will see any doctor you choose. This ball is the first amusement that I have felt a wish to partake of since Lena's marriage, and to prevent me from going to it will only be a new cause of irritation."
"Well, I suppose it is the lesser of two evils to let you go, since you have set your heart upon it; but why is it so? You never liked balls before. There is something altogether strange about you—something that I do not understand, and that your grief for Lena does not account for; that would not make your cheeks flush, nor your eyes flash as they do now. What is the cause of it all, Mary?"
"God knows! Derangement of the nervous system, I suppose. But talking about it, mamma, can do no good; it can only increase the evil. Wait till the ball is over, and then try what doctors can do for me," answered Mary gloomily, as she hastily left the room.
Poor Mrs. Elton was sadly perplexed. She saw that there was some secret influence at work within Mary's heart, yet she feared to question her any farther, as it seemed to increase her excitement so much, and in vain she tried to form any clear idea of its cause. A faint suspicion crossed her mind that Mr. Earnscliffe had something to do with it; and as she thought over the events of the last few weeks it struck her that since that day when he dined with them at Naples Mary had never been quite herself, and this wild desire to go to the ball, after she heard that he was to be there, seemed to corroborate it all. The result of these meditations was to render Mrs. Elton sad, and thoughtfully serious, as she said to herself, "Since William's death, I have had no thought on earth but to make my children happy and prosperous in the world, yet I do not appear to have succeeded. Lena has made a poor match, in opposition to my wishes, and Mary has some secret sorrow preying on her; yet how carefully I trained them to avoid all romance and love nonsense, and I thought at one time that Mary, at least, was a model of sense and discretion; but I fear it is impossible to think so any more. Can my teaching have been false? Oh, my children, do not make me feel that I have been to blame in your regard,—you for whom alone I have lived through these long twelve years of widowhood!" Then with a sigh she stood up, and went to Mary's room to ask her what she would like to do for the afternoon.
"To drive," was Mary's laconic answer. She had evidently given up the projected visit to the Adairs. And well she might; for there was nothing to be gained from it now. The tale which Mr. Maunsell had told was to her as if she had been suddenly shown a mine of gunpowder, over which her victims were unconsciously walking. She felt that she had but to apply the match to it in order to blast their happiness to atoms; and she revelled in this coming triumph of her revenge. Her excitement was almost uncontrollable; it was killing her by inches, and she knew it; but she could not relinquish her triumph. Come what would, she must go to the ball and fire the mine; after that she resolved to give herself up altogether into the hands of a doctor, and perhaps, even then, she thought it might still be time to save her life.
Mary, having so many Catholic relations, knew—what Mr. Earnscliffe did not—that Flora Adair, according to her religion, must look upon a man who had got a divorce, but whose wife was still living, as a married man. Therefore it was that Mr. Maunsell's revelations filled her heart with such savage delight. She pictured to herself Flora's misery on hearing it; her struggles between love and religion; Mr. Earnscliffe's entreaties, reproaches, and final despair and indignation; and she laughed bitterly as she thought over each detail of the suffering which she was about to inflict. And if she could only make Flora believe that Mr. Earnscliffe had intended to deceive her,—to marry her, although he knew from the first that it would be no marriage to her,—then, indeed, would her revenge be complete.
The eventful night arrived. But when Mary went up to dress she felt so ill that she could scarcely stand, and as she sighed heavily her mouth became full of blood. She spat it out hurriedly, and taking a bottle of lavender drops, she put it to her lips, and held it there until she felt herself reviving. She then put it down and corked it up, saying, "I hope to-morrow will not be too late to see Dr. O——. But too late or not, I cannot help it now; I must go on and take my chance for the rest." She rang for her maid, and began to dress.
When she went into the drawing-room in her flowing white dress, covered with light gauzy blue draperies, old as he was, Mr. Maunsell looked at her admiringly, and said, "You are as good, my dear, I hope, as you are handsome."
"But I am not, Mr. Maunsell," she answered impetuously; and her voice trembled, for his words affected her strangely, and she did not speak again until they were in the midst of that most brilliant of sights—a ball at the Hotel de Ville in Paris; its vast salles one blaze of light, which together with the fountains, trees, and flowers, formed a scene of fairy-like splendour.
The Eltons had not been there much more than a quarter of an hour when the Adair party arrived, with Mr. Earnscliffe, and another gentleman whom Mary did not know. Mrs. Adair was leaning upon the strange gentleman's arm, and the two girls followed with Mr. Earnscliffe. Mary longed to pounce upon her prey; but she considered that it would be wiser to defer the final stroke until she could get Flora separated from the others. However, she might go and speak to them at once; so she said, "Mamma, there are the Adairs. Shall we go and join them?"
"If you like, dear," answered Mrs. Elton, watching her narrowly to try and discover if Mr. Earnscliffe had really anything to do with her feverish state of excitement. And when they got to the Adairs she did imagine that she saw Mary's hand tremble as she shook hands with him, whilst he scarcely touched hers. Mrs. Elton felt convinced that there was some mystery connected with him, and resolved to speak to Mary gravely about it to-morrow. She was so occupied with her own thoughts that she scarcely noticed Mrs. Adair's saying to her, "Allow me to introduce my son, Mr. Adair, to you, Caroline."
She bowed half mechanically, but recollecting herself, she said, "Oh, we must shake hands, Mr. Adair. Your mother and I are old friends; we knew each other as girls. And here is my eldest daughter, Mary. You have heard of her and her sister Helena from Flora, I dare say."
"If he has not," thought Mary, as they shook hands, "he will hear of me from her. So he has come over for the wedding! But he might have spared himself the trouble, I can tell him. There will be no wedding, or else his sister must abjure the errors of Popery; but heaven forbid that she should do so, for then my revenge would be frustrated!" and her eyes glared on Flora.
Flora did not see that angry glance, but Mr. Earnscliffe did, and he could not bear it. He felt that he must get Flora away; and turning abruptly to her he said, "May I have the pleasure of dancing with you, Miss Adair?"
It was a valse! Flora looked at him in astonishment, but took his offered arm; and he led her away quickly into the crowd of dancers. Flora could not understand it. She knew that he seldom danced himself, and that he did not like her to valse; therefore she had determined never to do so again, although she saw nothing objectionable in it. What, then, could have come over him to-night to make him propose dancing it with her himself? And almost before she had time to recover from her astonishment he whirled her round and round at such a pace and holding her so tightly that she was quite out of breath when they stopped after a very few minutes of it. He piloted her out of the crush towards one of the fountains, where they found a nice shady seat close at hand, and she was very glad to sit down. He stood before her, looking at her anxiously, and said, "I fear I have tired you, Flora."
"Not tired me," she answered with a smile; "but you have put me somewhat out of breath. And now do tell me what made you dance to-night? I thought you disliked dancing,—valsing especially."
"Valsing is not disagreeable sometimes," he returned gaily. "But the truth is that I wanted to get you away from those people; and I could think of no other way of doing it but by proposing to dance. How heated you look; where is your fan?"
"I gave it to mamma to hold for me whilst I arranged my necklace, just before you asked me to dance."
"Then I will go and get it for you. I saw Mrs. Adair sit down near to where we were standing."
"I do not want it, Edwin. Stay with me."
"Yes you do, dearest; you look so hot. I shall be back in a moment;" and he hastened away. But he would not have gone had he seen Mary Elton approaching from the other side, leaning on Mr. Maunsell.
"So here you are all alone, Flora," said Mary, going up to her.
"Yes," replied Flora. "Mr. Earnscliffe has just left me to go and get my fan from mamma. I was heated after valsing."
"But, nevertheless, I dare say you enjoyed it with such a partner. And now let me wish you joy, Flora; I did not like to do it while there were so many by." Flora blushed, but made no answer, as she wondered how Mary had heard of her approaching marriage; and the latter continued, "But I did not know that you Catholics recognised the law of divorce, even for those who are not in your Church?"
Flora felt a sensation of icy cold creeping over her as she asked with a gasp, "What do you mean, Mary?"
"Why, of course Mr. Earnscliffe has told you that he was obliged to divorce his wife about two months after their marriage, and that she is still living, and the wife of his rival. Mr. Earnscliffe's friend here, Mr. Maunsell, knew Mrs. Earnscliffe very well."
Surely, even in this moment of her triumph, Mary must have felt a touch of pity as she saw poor Flora's eyes close, and large drops of perspiration burst out on her forehead; but with a supreme effort at self-control, Flora opened her eyes, and looking at Mary, said, "You were right when you supposed that we Catholics do not recognise the law of divorce; but what this has to do with Mr. Earnscliffe I can't see, for I have never said, nor has he, that there was any engagement between us. Now, adieu for the present," and Flora turned away her head. Mary thought she saw Mr. Earnscliffe coming, and not wishing to meet him just then, she drew Mr. Maunsell away, but looked back with an almost pitying glance at Flora, and murmured to herself, "She is a brave girl! How she tried to bear up in order to save him from the imputation of having deceived her! Yet the bare thought of it must rankle in her heart. My revenge is working well!"
Meanwhile, Flora was writhing under this overwhelming blow. There was not a ray of comfort for her on any side, and the javelin of distrust which Mary had so cleverly barbed was lacerating her heart, although she struggled with all her might to cast it from her. But did not this fatal disclosure clearly explain Mr. Earnscliffe's hitherto unaccountable dread of Mary Elton? To know that she must either give up him whom she loved, or her religion, was—heaven knows!—torture enough; but it would be nothing in comparison to being forced to believe him to be unworthy of that love—a deceiver, in short; that would be agony! and she exclaimed within herself, "No, it is not so,—he is true, if heaven is true!"
At this moment Mr. Earnscliffe returned with the fan, but as he saw Flora leaning back with closed eyes, and a look of terror in her face, he cried, as he threw himself on the seat beside her, "Flora, speak, are you ill? What is the matter?"
She looked at him earnestly, but did not answer; that look, however, was enough to make her feel, "Yes, he is true, and I cannot give him up."
"Flora, dearest," he called again, "answer me! What is the matter with you?"
"The heat, or something, has been too much for me. Take me home, Edwin," she said, in a low, plaintive voice.
"You must take something first—wine—champagne—what shall I get you?"
"Oh, do not leave me again, Edwin!"
"Flora," he exclaimed, "something has happened during my absence which has put you into this state; tell me what it is?"
"How hot it is," she murmured, putting her hand to her forehead.
"Good God! Flora, you are not going to faint, I hope." He stood up hastily—"Take my arm, and let us get out upon one of the balconies; the air will set you to rights."
She took his arm silently, and leaned heavily upon it, as she passively allowed him to lead her where he liked. As soon as they got to the balcony he put his arm round her waist, and said, "Now, my precious one, tell me, what is it all about?"
She did feel a little revived, and it was so sweet to stand there in the cool night air, with his strong protecting arm round her; but how could she tell him what had happened? Yet she must do it, if it were only to have her faith in his truth confirmed, so at last she said, "Mary Elton"—she felt his arm tremble; it made her start, and she asked, in a piteous tone of voice, "Edwin! what has made you dread Mary Elton?"
"Go on, finish what you were going to tell me," was his only answer.
To obey him was like an instinct to Flora, and she began again timidly, "Mary Elton and a Mr. Maunsell—I think that was the name she said—came to me while you were away, and they began to talk of your—your marriage, long ago."
"Well, dearest, but why should this affect you so? You remember, I told you all about it at Achensee; how, a short time after I had obtained possession of one whom I believed to be a treasure, I discovered that she had betrayed me. Of course you understood that I got a divorce immediately; indeed, I told you that I put the case into the hands of my lawyers at once, and left England."
Flora forgot everything else in her wild joy at this perfect vindication of his truth, and she buried her face on his shoulder; but she was roused by his saying, as he placed his right hand on her head, "Darling, you have not yet told me what it was that so frightened you."
She shook all over as the sad reality was recalled to her, and his utter unconsciousness of what the fact of his first wife being still alive was to a Catholic, increased her pain, as she answered, "I have been very stupid, Edwin,—you did tell me everything of your past life, with your own truth and honour, but I misunderstood you. I thought that she of whom you spoke as having betrayed your love, was only your betrothed, not your wife, and—and—" she could get no further, and Mr. Earnscliffe said, quickly, "Flora, I don't understand you. What difference does that mistake make to you? Do you love me less because my misfortune has been deeper than even you supposed?"
"Love you less, Edwin!—more—more if it were possible, but—" the words came slowly, and with great agitation—"there is no—no such thing as divorce in the eyes of—of a Catholic!"
It was like an electric shock to him, and his voice trembled with emotion, as he cried, "But I was not married as a Catholic; your laws cannot affect me! Flora Adair, you are not going to give me up for this,—it can be but mere prejudice!"
Flora fell from his encircling arm on her knees to the ground beside him, murmuring, as she clasped his hands in her own, "Ask me nothing to-night,—I am bewildered and half maddened; take me to mamma now, and to-morrow morning come to me and you shall know all. God help me!" and Flora moaned aloud.
"Flora," he cried again, raising her from the ground, "do you expect me to be able to pass the night in such suspense as this? If you are half maddened now, what should I be by that time? But here are people coming; I must take you out of this place. Can I not see you to-night in your own house?"
"No, Edwin, that cannot be, unless I tell mamma and my brother, and then perhaps they would never let me see you again. Do you wish me to tell them?"
"No, no. I suppose it must be as you say. But if you fail me—oh, Flora, Flora!"
He said no more, but the agonised tone of his voice rang in Flora's ears with a dull, heavy, crushing sound, and she whispered—
"Take me to the cloak-room, and then go for mamma and the others. I shall escape observation better in that way. Tell mamma that I do not feel well."
Mr. Earnscliffe silently did as Flora desired, and before many minutes her party joined her; but Mr. Earnscliffe did not come with them. They got into their carriage and drove home. Flora hurriedly said good-night and went to her own room; and now that she was at last alone, and free from restraint, "all the winds" of passion did indeed
which was about to be waged in her heart.... Will she come forth from that war victorious, although wounded and heart-broken? or conquered and fallen? Will her one mainstay—her firm conviction in the truth and the divine authority of her religion—carry her triumphantly through it? or will she sink under the enemy's sharp blows from want of that child-like love and confidence in the goodness of God which would have blunted their edge? Ah, who can tell? It is a fearful test to be called upon to dash away the cup which human happiness is "uplifting, pressing, and to lips like" hers! Let us, then, follow her into her room and watch the warfare's course.
She fastened the door, threw aside her cloak, and tearing off her pearl necklace—a gift of Mr. Earnscliffe's—as if its clasp round her neck were choking her, she walked up and down the room with rapid steps, and her hands nervously pressed together. At last she exclaimed—
"Great God! it is as if Thou didst sport with the heart of Thy creature! It would seem as if it were to crush that heart with tenfold force that Thou didst lead me through a youth of deep yearning after some object worthy of devoting myself to unreservedly, until I met one who filled the void; and then after opening up to me a vista of happiness and of a blessed work to be accomplished—that of healing his wounded spirit and leading it to the knowledge of truth which it has so long sought for in vain—Thou callest upon me to give him up, and not only that, but at the same time, with my own hand, to inflict on him a blow which will cast him back into darkness and despair! Is this love or justice?"
She stopped short in her quick walk, and stood before the window gazing out on the now quiet, deserted avenue, and then she raised her eyes slowly to the blue starry sky above, as if, indeed, she would cry with Promethus—
With a groan she turned away, threw herself upon a chair, and covered up her face with her hands; but after a few minutes she took them down, and said slowly—
"But let me try to think calmly.... Perhaps I have been too hasty in at once supposing that I must give him up. Marriage, except among Catholics, is not a sacrament: it is merely a civil contract made by law, and 'what the law can make it can break' is an old-established maxim, therefore Edwin is evidently free." She paused; but again she resumed her soliloquy. "Yet the Church, I know, does not recognise the law of divorce even among those who are not her children; but if that decree be against reason, justice, and charity, am I bound to submit to it? It could not be a good deed to drive him to despair, and that, too, without being able to give him any sufficiently sound reason—at least, any which would appear so to him—for my conduct. He would think that my love for him was not strong enough to make me give up—as he would call it—a mere prejudice of my education. It would only make him hate, and keep him away from, religious truth. No, I cannot do this. There is no really good reason why I may not be your wife, my beloved, and that I will be! So now it is decided, I will marry him; and having begun the night in true heroine style, with a wild rhapsody, I had better finish it like a rational person and go to bed. But how I wish that he had never been married, or that she" (Flora gave her no name) "were dead!"
She stood up, took off her ball dress, put on her dressing-gown, and began to take down her hair.
Has the battle, then, been fought and lost? Is Flora about to fall from light to darkness? Will she be false to her own principle? Will she cast herself into the chaos of uncertainty and shifting opinion from which she would have drawn her lover? Does she forget, when she says that her refusal to marry him would keep him away from religious truth, that if she does marry him, she places a stronger barrier than ever between him and it? Yet stay, the battle is not quite over; even if the enemy has gained possession of the colours for the moment, they may be regained by the poor combatant.
Flora had just finished unweaving the thick plaits of her hair, when she impetuously dashed it back from off her face, exclaiming, as she resumed her pacing up and down the room—
"What sophistry all this is with which I have been endeavouring to satisfy myself! Religion declares that there can be no divorce but in death; and Edwin Earnscliffe's—ah!—wife lives! Therefore, it is vain to try to compromise between my religion and my love. I must choose between them; and, O God, what a choice! Fool that I was! I said that to refuse to marry him would keep him away from religious truth; but do I not know that to consent to it is to deny the principle of certainty, and to force him, even for my sake, to shut his eyes to truth? and thus I should be a curse instead of a blessing to him, not only in time, but in eternity. Edwin, I must bear your reproaches and your misery; but I cannot be a curse to you! No—no!" And she fell upon her knees before an ivory crucifix which stood on a little side table, murmuring, "My God! now teach me to do Thy will!..."
And there let us leave her to find strength and grace, whilst we return to the Hotel de Ville to see what has become of Mr. Earnscliffe.
When he left Flora in the cloak-room, he lost not a moment in seeking out Mrs. Adair, with whom, fortunately, he found her son and Marie, so that there was no delay in looking for any of the party, and they at once hastened down to Flora. But Mr Earnscliffe had scarcely delivered her message, when he felt his arm touched, and turning round he saw Mary Elton standing beside her mother, who was sitting talking to some ladies near her.
"Mr. Earnscliffe," Mary said, in a low, impressive manner, "do you remember that I gave you a rendezvous that night in Naples? I am here to keep it now. Will you take me into the refreshment-room?"
But without waiting for an answer, she took his arm. The touch of her hand was like the sting of an adder to him. In common politeness, however, he could not shake it off, and to avoid attracting attention he moved on, but did not speak.
Mary's eyes burned like two balls of fire as she looked at Mr. Earnscliffe silently for a moment or two; but with her iron will she kept down the fire which was raging fiercely within her, for there must be no scene, she must be outwardly cool and collected so as not to lose any of the triumph of her revenge; and again she spoke in measured accents. "Yes, Mr. Earnscliffe, I told you that night to dread me in the hour when you only waited for religious rites to make Flora Adair yours, and I promised to be near you then, so you see I have kept my word. That night you spurned me for her sake—I who had known and loved you before you ever saw her—and I swore, if it were in human power to do it, that I would tear her from you. I have done that work to-night, and you will now know what it is to have your love spurned and cast aside by your own idol for the sake of some senseless code of doctrine. And to render my revenge more full and overflowing, I have planted in her heart the thorn of distrust by making it appear that you intended to deceive her by concealing your former marriage."
"Fiend as you are," he exclaimed in a tone of suppressed passion, "you have not succeeded in that! My peerless, trusting Flora believes in me at this moment as fully as ever——"
"How do you know that?" she interrupted eagerly.
"Because I have spoken to her since you have been trying to poison her mind against me."
Mary's coolness began to give way. Was it then possible that Flora would disappoint her of her revenge by giving up her religion rather than her lover? and she cried hotly, "And will she marry you all the same?"
Mr. Earnscliffe ground his teeth with rage. He could not answer that question confidently. He hesitated, and in a moment all Mary's coolness came back to her. She guessed how it was: that Flora had been too confused to give any decided answer, but at the same time that he dreaded she would not marry him; and from that instant Mary felt sure of her revenge. So, resuming her calm, mocking tone, she said, "To-morrow, I suppose, you will go to her, and your 'peerless, trusting Flora' will say to you, 'I am very sorry, but my Church will not allow me to marry you,' and your love, your misery, and your reproaches will not be able to win from this passionless disciple of her Church's teaching a single concession. It is I, too, who have brought all this to bear, in order to requite you for your appreciation of the gift which I once bestowed upon you; and my thanks are adequate, are they not, Mr. Earnscliffe? Now take me back,—I have had all the refreshment which I wanted."
Mr. Earnscliffe did not trust himself to answer. He feared to lose all mastery over himself, for if ever a man could be tempted to forget himself, he was then. Every member trembled with the intensity of his passion as he muttered under his breath, "Demon, and worse than demon! and yet I must allow her to go unchained."
As soon as Mary saw that they were near her mother, she let go his arm, and making him a mockingly gracious bow, she said, "Good-night, Mr. Earnscliffe, and happy dreams." He hurried downstairs, and dashing on his opera hat, which he had in his hand, he walked out into the Place, without ever thinking of asking for his coat, and it was between five and six in the morning when he appeared at his hotel door in full ball costume.
In the mean time Mary Elton stood for about five minutes beside Mrs. Elton without speaking, and then said abruptly, "There is Mr. Maunsell, mamma; ask him to have the carriage called, and let us go home."
Mrs. Elton had been speaking to some old acquaintances whom she had unexpectedly met a few moments before, but now she looked up at Mary to see what had caused this sudden fancy, and she felt really frightened at her appearance. There were two deep red spots on her cheeks, and her eyes glittered with a strange light. Mrs. Elton said, "Mary, you ought not to have been allowed to come to this ball; would that I had not consented to it; however you are right in wishing to go home now," and she beckoned to Mr. Maunsell to come to her, and asked him to get the carriage called.
When they stopped at their own door Mr. Maunsell got out first, then Mrs. Elton, but Mary did not move, and her mother called, "Mary are you asleep?"
No answer came, and Mrs. Elton exclaimed, "A light, for God's sake!" The servant pulled out one of the carriage lamps and held it inside, and there, with her head thrown back upon the cushions, and blood trickling from her lips, they saw Mary.
"Oh my God!" cried her poor mother, whilst Mr. Maunsell and the servant took Mary out of the carriage and carried her upstairs. Mr. Maunsell bent down his ear to catch some words which she was trying to utter, and as well as he could make out they were, "Telegraph for Lena."
The great Dr. O—— was instantly sent for, telegrams to Helena and Charles were despatched, and all that human skill or care could do was done to save Mary; but while waiting for the doctor's sentence to be pronounced and Helena's arrival from Ireland, we shall turn our attention to our heroine and the coming interview with her lover.
On this fatal morning after the ball, when Flora went into the breakfast-room, where her mother and Marie were before her, the former exclaimed as she kissed her, "My child, what is the matter? You look very ill; are you so?"
"No," answered Flora, speaking hurriedly to cover her intended équivoque, "not now; but I certainly did suffer during the night. Neuralgia is dreadful torture. But where is Edward?"
"Oh, he desired us not to wait breakfast for him, as he would probably be very late, and we are going out early."
"For what?" asked Flora, listlessly.
"Oh, you méchante Flore!" cried Marie; "I do believe that you have forgotten the—the—prise d'habit—what you call it in English?—at the Sacré Cœur to-day."
"You are right; I had forgotten it. But at all events I cannot go: I have an appointment for this morning."
But Marie had no notion of letting her off so easily, and she said with a pout, "With whom then, Flore? You were not free to make a rendezvous for this morning when you had already promised to come with us; it would disappoint me so, and you do not wish to make pain to your Mignonne, Flore; is it not so?"
"It is impossible, Mignonne; I expect Mr. Earnscliffe," replied Flora shortly, and oh, how difficult she found it to utter that name calmly!
"O ce Monsieur Earnscliffe! You cede everything to him, Flore. But why not see him in the afternoon? Remit him until then. You can come very well if you like; can she not, Mrs. Adair?"
Flora looked at her mother so appealingly, as she would say, "Spare me, by ending this discussion," that Mrs. Adair said with a smile, "Oh, Marie, you are too hard upon her. Remember who it is that you ask her to give up for the reception; and she is tired from suffering and not sleeping last night; so we will not tease her any more, but go to get ourselves ready, and leave her love-sick highness to herself and her beloved." Mrs. Adair stood up, and taking Marie by the hand, she drew her along with her, and left the room.
As the door closed on them Flora sank back in her chair with a deep sigh. How many home-thrusts had she not received in that short time! and from those who would have done anything in their power to save her from pain.
When she heard their descending steps, and the drawing up of the carriage which was to take them to the Rue de Varennes, she went to the window and saw them drive away. Then turning back to the table, she drank off the cup of strong tea which had for so long remained untouched before her, rang to have the breakfast things taken away, and proceeded to her own room. Opening the armoire, she took out a box of exquisitely inlaid woods, and placed it upon the table. She raised the lid, and disclosed to view a perfectly fitted jewel case, with numerous and costly ornaments reposing in their velvet beds. But three of these were unfilled. Did she seek their occupants as her eyes wandered round the room, and rested finally on the pearl necklace and bracelets lying on the dressing-table, where they had lain since she took them off last night? Yes, it was these which she sought; but what stinging memories of that night's awful struggle did they call up! It almost seemed as if the struggle were going to begin over again, as, clasping her hands together, she cried, "It is too much! I cannot—cannot do it!" And once more she impatiently walked up and down the room....
What! after the murmured "My God, now teach me to do Thy will!" and the hours passed on her knees before the crucifix, does she fall back into the old rebellious feelings? "It is very unheroine-like, very imperfect!" we hear our readers exclaim. And it is quite true; but we did not promise them a heroine even bordering on perfection. We know that it would be much more according to the general style of tale-writing to represent our heroine, after she has made the sacrifice, as a picture of sad, touching resignation, thinking beautiful thoughts about the sorrow and trials which are sent to us by an all-loving heavenly Father, receiving them without a murmur because they come from Him; but, alas! as we are painting from reality, we cannot draw Flora different from what she is—one capable of making grand sacrifices, but unable to bear patiently the incessant pricking of that crown of thorns which now pressed her brows. To be really resigned, to endure without repining, hour after hour, and day after day, the weight of a great abiding sorrow, requires ardent faith and sensible love of God. All this Flora had never possessed; her faith had always been more or less beset by struggles, and now has come the crowning one, which may never cease but in death. For her indeed,
Suddenly she stood still and said, "Is this the way in which the heroes of old sacrificed themselves to save their country? And shall I be less brave than they were when the sacrifice which I am called upon to make is one required by God, and made to save—although he will not understand it now—him whom I love? No, no; even though their sacrifice was far less than mine; for they died, and were at rest, whilst I live to suffer. But, fiat!"... She took the necklace and bracelets and put them into their places; her fingers seemed to cling to them. Ah, how happy she was when she put them on last night! and now—but she was determined to be strong, and hastily closing the box, she carried it into the drawing-room and seated herself on the sofa.
Reader, do you know what it is to listen for a step whose sound makes all your pulses throb; to long for it, and yet dread it; to shudder if you think you hear it, and yet sink back with a feeling of weariness and disappointment if it comes not? If you do, we need not give any description of what Flora's feelings were as she sat in the drawing-room awaiting the arrival of Mr. Earnscliffe, for you know them by experience, and if you do not, a description of them would be useless, for words could never give you any true idea of the reality.
Her state of suspense was ended at last; the servant opened the door and announced "Monsieur Earnscliffe." She stood up, but remained leaning with one hand on the arm of the sofa, not daring to look at him. He advanced towards her, and in a constrained tone said, "Well, Flora, how are we to meet?"
"Edwin!" and she raised her eyes to his.
The look of suffering in her face put to flight his assumed coldness, and putting his arm round her waist, he kissed her forehead, drew her down on the sofa beside him, and said, "My poor darling! you look wretchedly ill; and no wonder, if you have passed as miserable a night as I have done. Those dreadful words of yours at the ball haunted me, and presentiments of evil gave me no rest; but now that I am here they do not dare to assail me as before. Now that my Flora has had time to think calmly over our case, I am sure she will be to me like a good enchantress, and break all these dark spells; will she not?"
Flora could not speak. Each word of his was driving in the sword deeper and deeper, and she was not deceived by his apparently cheerful conclusion, for she knew how agitated he must be when his "deep-toned voice faltered" as it did now. What could she say? How was she to begin? And the longer the silence continued, the more difficult did it become to her to break it. Mr. Earnscliffe, however, did that for her, as he said suddenly, "Flora, you asked me last night what caused my dread of Mary Elton,"—his lips literally grew white as he named her, and the hoarse tone of his voice made Flora look wonderingly at him,—"and I did not answer you; but now I think it right to do so, as it might appear that it proceeded from fear of her telling you about that unhappy divorce, although in reality I could not have had any dread of that, believing as I did that you understood it all perfectly before you promised to be mine."
"Edwin, I did not doubt you, though appearances were so strongly against you."
"I know it, dearest; but it is better that you should be aware of what my real feelings were in regard to her. I offended her, but through no fault of mine, and in revenge she did all she could to keep me away from you; but when she saw that that was not possible, she swore, if it were in human power, to tear you from me. I had suffered so much from a woman before, that this threat of another's had a strangely powerful effect on me, and caused that morbid, and it seemed unreasonable, dread of her. I considered myself bound in honour not to tell you all this until now that she has openly interfered to separate us. But she will fail if you are only true to me, if you prove yourself to be what I have ever thought you—the first, the noblest of women, in mind as well as in heart."
She looked up at him, and her lips moved, but no words could be heard; and she shook her head as if to say, "I cannot;" then let it fall back on the cushions of the sofa.
"For God's sake, Flora, say something! I can bear this no longer. If you love me, tell——"
"If? Oh, Edwin!"
Her tone was so heart-broken, that he exclaimed, "Forgive me, Flora; but you madden me.... In pity speak!"
He took her hand and held it tightly in his.
"Then, Edwin," she said, with a kind of gasp, "you must try to listen to me quietly, and, above all, do not interrupt me, for I have scarcely strength to get through the miserable task which lies before me; yet it must be done. I tried to convince you in past happy days that there was to be found on earth that which you had so long sought for in vain, namely, an unerring source of truth; and its voice declares that there can be no divorce between those whom God has joined. Therefore, were I even wicked enough to be ready to barter my own soul for the intense earthly happiness of being yours, I must not do it for your sake; for if I did I should be only a curse to you—a curse which would prevent you from ever possessing the light of truth, that light which alone can satisfy your great mind. No, think it not, my beloved—even such unreserved love as mine could not satisfy you, unless you could look forward with undoubting hope to the continuance and perfecting of our happiness in an eternal union; then it would be bliss indeed! But as it is, my very worship of you forces me to say that we must part."
Her voice sunk almost to a whisper as she uttered the last word, but Mr. Earnscliffe heard it all too plainly, and for a moment he remained silent as if stunned; then dashing away her hand, he stood up, and looking at her almost with scorn, exclaimed—
"For my sake, indeed! You might have left that out; it is truly adding insult to injury. But I have deserved this for trusting, loving again a woman. Fool that I was to imagine that I had found one whose mind and heart soared above their little world of petty triumphs, of inane occupations, and hemmed in by weak prejudices and laid-down maxims. You were only a deeper actress than the generality; yet, Flora"—his voice softened almost unknown to himself—"your acting was fearfully real; but the first obstacle has unmasked you." He paused for a moment, but then burst forth again:—"Yes, you are worthy of your sex.... Where is now that love which could brave death itself for me? It seems that it is not strong enough to get over that narrow-minded prejudice of your Church which says that I am married. As for what you said about your love causing you to act thus, and your being a curse to me if you did not do so, by preventing me from possessing the light of truth, it is too nonsensical. It cannot be the voice of truth or charity which tells you that you ought to break, to drive to desperation, the wounded heart which you had won and promised to heal, rather than to infringe an unreasonable regulation of your Church; and this, forsooth! was the Church of which you so wished me to be a member, and of whose truth you had in some degree convinced me! But this puts the finishing stroke to my wavering belief in your 'goodness of God.' Adieu, Flora! this is your work. You found me bereft of hope, but a calm fatalist; you send me from you a blasphemer."
He turned away, and walked towards the door. Flora lay like one in a trance; those bitter, cutting words appeared to have deprived her of consciousness. But again he turned, looked back, hesitated, and hastily retracing his steps, he knelt before her, saying—
"Flora, with all the strong power of my manhood have I loved you!—do I love you! Send me not from you to despair!" and the proud man almost sobbed.
Flora started up, and, grasping his outstretched hands, she cried—
"My own beloved! in mercy recall not those dreadful spirits with which I struggled the long night through—rebellion, infidelity, and all their satellites; for, as your terrible reproaches rang in my ear, they seemed to crowd around me with renewed strength; they borrowed your words, they spoke with your voice, they looked with your eyes. How, then, resist, with all my own feelings aiding them in trying to drag me from that standard to which I must cling, or else be the cause of your ruin as well as my own? Reproach me and treat my words with scorn as much as you choose, but nevertheless it is true that it is the intensity of my love for you which, with God's grace, gives me strength to act thus; and you will feel this some day, Edwin, though I may not live to see it, for it would be too dreadful to think that such a sacrifice as mine should be made in vain. Truth must dawn upon you at last, and then you will do me justice."... She let go his hands, and pointing to the jewel-case, she murmured—"It is mine no longer, Edwin: when may I have it sent to you?"
He sprang to his feet, exclaiming—
"You might have spared me that at least, Flora. Do what you like with the baubles; give them away—what you will—but I cannot have them: they would be like coals of fire burning into my heart."
He strode to the other end of the room in a state of fierce agitation, and Flora felt that she was growing very weak, that she could not bear up much longer; leaning heavily on the table upon which the casket stood, she held out her right hand, and in a faltering voice muttered—
"It must be said.... Edwin—good-bye!"
He seized her hand, looked into her eyes yearningly for an instant, then suddenly he caught her round the waist, clasped her to his heart, and whispered—
"Must I go now, Flora?"
It was an ordeal for her. Could she tear herself from those fond encircling arms, and raise her head from that dear resting-place on his shoulder? Her colour came and went, and his breath fanned her cheek as he bent over her to catch the longed-for leave to stay. It was the supreme moment of her long struggle, and opening her closed eyes, she looked wildly round as if to ask for help; but help there was none for her, save from God. Her lips moved, in prayer perhaps; and then she murmured—
"Oh! it is cruel, Edwin, to try me so; and yet I must resist, if I would not be a curse to you. In mercy leave me, whilst still I have sense to feel that——we must part!—Edwin, go!"
His pallor was fearful and his eyes flashed as he bent one look on the wan, suffering face lying on his shoulder; and then he pushed her from him, saying in a loud voice—
"Mary Elton was right: you are a cold, passionless disciple of a senseless code of doctrine!" and he walked towards the door.
Flora tottered to the sofa, fell heavily upon it, and lay there motionless; but the turning of the door-handle roused her. She looked up with a frightened expression; her eyes met Mr. Earnscliffe's in one long, last, passionate gaze, and the door closed, shutting out at the same moment from Flora her life's light and the material light of day, for she had fainted.
A little after eleven o'clock, Mrs. Adair and Marie returned from the convent, and, as the latter opened the drawing-room door, she started back, exclaiming "Mrs. Adair, see Flore!"
"Good heavens!" cried Mrs. Adair, as she rushed over to the sofa, where Flora still lay unconscious; "what can have happened!" She guessed that this fainting fit must in some way or other be connected with Mr. Earnscliffe, and therefore she felt that it would be better not to call the maid; so she said, "Marie, run and bring me cold water and eau de Cologne, but do not tell any one of this."
Marie hastened away to get the desired restoratives, and when she returned Mrs. Adair bathed Flora's temples with the cold water, and held the eau de Cologne to her nostrils, whilst Marie rubbed her hands to try and bring a natural heat back to them.
When, at length, Flora opened her eyes, she found herself in her mother's arms, and saw Marie kneeling beside her, chafing her hands. She looked at them vacantly for a moment, then with a shiver reclosed her eyes; but by degrees a slight colour came to her cheeks, and the icy cold of her hands began to yield to the warmth of returning circulation. Mrs. Adair saw that she was now really reviving, and she told Marie to take away the cold water, and leave them alone. "Now, my child," she said, as she kissed Flora, and smoothed back her tossed hair, "try to tell me what has happened."
"He called me cold, passionless; he does not believe in me any longer," murmured Flora, as if to herself.
"Flora, darling, what is it all about? Has Mr. Earnscliffe proved unworthy of you?"
Unconsciously Mrs. Adair had done the best thing in the world to rouse Flora thoroughly, by thus seeming to blame Mr. Earnscliffe. She raised her head, and for the first time looked at her mother intelligently, as she said, "No, no; but it is all over between us;" and she sank back into her mother's arms.
Mrs. Adair's heart bled for her idolised child as she clasped her to it; yet she thought that it would be better to force her to speak at once, and that she would be better afterwards, so she continued, "But what has caused this, dearest? You must endeavour to tell me collectedly all about it, as Edward must be told immediately; and if it is right that he should do so, he will apply to Mr. Earnscliffe for an explanation of his conduct, which certainly appears to me to be most strange, for of course the cause of this break rests with him."
"Mamma," cried Flora, excitedly, "do not say a word against him,—he is the soul of truth and honour. I—I am the only one in fault." She stopped for a moment, and pressing her hands nervously together, she added, "But you are right; I must try to give a collected account of it all, or you will blame him, though heaven knows he deserves it not. Oh, Edwin, Edwin!" her voice died away in a low wail, and she trembled violently all over.
Mrs. Adair threw her arms round her again, and said, "My precious child, I see that it is too much for you now. Let me take you to your room, and after you have had some hours of rest you will be able to tell me."
Flora made no objection; she seemed to be utterly indifferent as to what she was to do, and without giving her mother any answer, she let her take her to her room, and settle her as comfortably as she could on the bed. Mrs. Adair arranged the quilt over her, and then, closing the shutters, she said, "Now, darling, I am going to get you some quieting drink, and when you have taken it, you will go to sleep, and awake quite well."
Flora shivered—the thought of that awaking was so dreadful; but she remained silent, and Mrs. Adair left the room. She returned, however, after a short absence, with a strong sedative, which she made Flora take, and then she seated herself beside the bed.
Flora was completely worn out by want of rest and violent agitation, so that the sedative, aided by exhausted nature, caused her soon to fall into a deep sleep; and when Mrs. Adair heard her heavy regular breathing continue for some time, she stood up softly, and stole away. She went to Marie, who was anxiously waiting to hear of Flora, and told her that she had fallen asleep; then Mrs. Adair repaired to the drawing-room to see her son, who had just come from his hotel.
In answer to his question of where the girls were, and what it was that made her look so sad, she told him as much as she knew about this unfortunate affair of Flora's. It quite enraged him, and he hotly declared that no matter what Flora said, Mr. Earnscliffe must have behaved in some very strange manner, for that he never saw a girl so desperately in love as his sister was; therefore it was evident that she would never have broken off the marriage unless Mr. Earnscliffe himself had forced her to do it. He would go at once to Mr. Earnscliffe, and demand a full explanation.
Mrs. Adair was endeavouring to induce him to wait until Flora could give them a tolerably clear account of what had occurred, for as yet they were completely in the dark about it all, when the servant came in, and handed Mrs. Adair a letter. It was from Mr. Earnscliffe, and commenced—
"Madam,
"I feel that it is due to myself to write you a statement of what my conduct to your daughter has been from the time that I declared my love to her. Before I obtained from her a promise that she would become my wife, I told her the history of my life, although any allusion to the past was intensely painful to me; but I was determined that she should know what the great misfortune of my life had been before she accepted me.
"I told Miss Adair accordingly that years ago I had loved a beautiful girl and won her, but no sooner had I done so than I found that I was betrayed for another, and without ever seeing her again, I hurried out of England, leaving everything in my lawyer's hands. Miss Adair treated me then with angelic trustfulness, and, as you are aware, consented to be mine.
"Consequently I supposed that she accepted me fully understanding that it was after my marriage that I had been betrayed, and that I had got a divorce, for I had not the slightest idea that your Church arrogated to itself the power of making laws even for those who do not belong to it. But it seems that Miss Adair misunderstood me; she imagined that it was my betrothed, and not my wife, who had been false to me, until last night, when chance revealed to her the true state of the case; and this morning she deliberately informed me that she preferred to obey one of her Church's most daring and unreasonable fiats,—which declares that there is no such thing as divorce, even outside of its jurisdiction,—rather than act according to the dictates of reason, honour, and love, by fulfilling her promise to me.
"I have written this letter of explanation in order to show that I had not, as appearances would lead one to believe, any intention of concealing my wretched marriage from Miss Adair; this would have been base deceit; and from such a charge you will, I am sure, as Miss Adair does most fully, exonerate me. Early in life one woman betrayed me; ten years later another heartlessly sacrifices me to prejudice! Truly I owe women no gratitude!
"Edwin Earnscliffe.
"Hotel de Douvres,
"Rue de la Paix, Paris, June 14th."
"Poor, poor Flora! God help her!" exclaimed Mrs. Adair, as she finished reading the letter, and handed it to her son, who in his turn exclaimed, after having read it, "But how was it ever allowed to go so far without your knowing that Earnscliffe had been married?"
"Edward, all retrospection is useless now," answered Mrs. Adair, sadly; "but I do not think that any one has been to blame in this unhappy case. Mrs. Elton introduced us to Mr. Earnscliffe, in Rome, as an unmarried man, with whose father and mother her family had been very intimate, but they had died many many years ago, and she had lost sight of their son—he was a baby at the time of their death—until she met him on the Continent. She spoke in high terms of his personal abilities, his social position and fortune, and of these two latter advantages we know she thinks a great deal. How could I suppose then that it was necessary to make any further inquiries about him? And, as he says in his letter, he gave Flora a history of his life before he asked her to engage herself to him, which history she told me, but of course as she understood it, or, indeed, misunderstood it. All this misery has been caused by her unfortunate mistake; yet it was a most natural one. Mr. Earnscliffe evidently did not distinctly say that it was his wife who had been false to him; and Flora, supposing everybody to know that the Church does not recognise the divorce law, took it for granted that he had not been married, or else that he would not have thought of asking her—a Catholic—to be his. The only thing about which I was not satisfied was as to Mr. Earnscliffe's sentiments upon religion, and I besought of Flora not to marry him unless he would become a professed believer in Christianity, and at all events to wait a year, and thus let him have time to study its doctrines. But she would listen to nothing of the kind; he was in the true faith, she declared, because he had such an ardent desire of the knowledge of truth. From the first he consented to all the conditions required by the Church. Poor child, she could not bear to insist upon his waiting a year, and now she is obliged to send him away for ever. You, yourself, Edward, would scarcely have been able to keep up, if you had seen her as I did when we came in."
"Poor Flo! when can I see her?" he said, and furtively brushed away a tear; then he added, "I see now, mother, that you are right,—no one has been to blame; but it is one of the strangest and saddest occurrences imaginable; it is really worthy of Lady Georgiana Fullerton's title, 'Too Strange not to be True.' But tell me, when will poor Flo be visible?"
"Not till the evening, at all events; it will be better for her to remain perfectly quiet all day. You will come to dinner, of course."
"Yes; and there is nothing to be done now, I suppose; there would be no object in my seeing Earnscliffe?"
"None in the world; it would only give him an opportunity of railing at religion, and, as he says, at Flora's heartless sacrifice of his love to prejudice."
"Then I may as well go away, and try to kill time as well as I can until dinner; for of course you and Marie will be occupied with poor Flo. Good-bye, then, for the present."
As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Adair sat down and wrote:—
"My dear Mr. Earnscliffe,
"I beg to acknowledge the receipt of your letter, and to assure you that we all exonerate you perfectly from having had any intention to deceive us. Poor Flora's mistake was a most unfortunate one; but as soon as she learned what the reality was—how she learned it I do not yet know, for she has been unable to tell me anything—she could not have acted otherwise than she has done.
"However great your sufferings may be, hers far surpass them;—she has a double weight of sorrow to bear: her own, and the greater one—that of knowing that she has inflicted pain on one whom she loves, and that he has ceased to believe in her. Her first words on being roused from the fainting fit in which I found her when I came in were, 'He called me cold, passionless; he does not believe in me any longer;' and then she relapsed into insensibility. If this is heartlessness, I leave it to you to judge.
"Adieu, and believe me to be very sincerely yours,
"Caroline Adair.
"Paris, June 14th."
Having directed her letter, and desired it to be taken immediately to the Hotel de Douvres, for Mr. Earnscliffe, she went up to Flora's darkened room, where she found Marie watching beside the poor sleeper.
Mrs. Adair's note was handed to Mr. Earnscliffe, as he sat in his room with folded arms and his head drooping upon his breast. He seized it eagerly, tore it open, and glanced his eye over it; then crushing it up in his hand, and with his teeth firmly set together, he muttered, "Psha! let her Church, to whose senseless maxims she sacrifices me, console her! But I will show what that Church is, how its teaching is destructive of all the best qualities of the human heart and mind, since it can make such a creature as Flora Adair was act in direct contradiction to reason and love. It is too foolish to say that when a man is married only according to the laws of the established Church of England, that that Church has not the right to annul its own act. If Rome had had anything to do with my marriage, one could understand it; but as it is—damnation, it is unbearable!" and he stamped about the room,—then rang the bell furiously.
His servant came up with a startled look in his face, and the expression of surprise to be read there increased as his master said, "Desire my bill to be prepared, and have everything ready to start by the night train for Strasbourg."
"That's done," he exclaimed, as the servant retired. "By to-morrow I shall be in the Black Forest, and there I can stay for a day or two, and draw out the plan of my book; then if I settle myself in the neighbourhood of one of the large university towns, I shall not want for help in the way of books; and converse with the German philosophers will be pleasant and useful relaxation for me, so that in six months I may hope to have it in the publisher's hands. Now I must write letters to England, to countermand all my orders. Poor Earnscliffe Court! thou art doomed ever to be deserted! ever to be without a mistress!"
Sighing deeply, Mr. Earnscliffe opened his desk and began to write.