CHAPTER II.
A week is quickly passed in Meran in visiting the different places of interest in its neighbourhood--all so rich in the beauties of nature, yet richer still in the memories of the late war of independence in 1809, when Tyrol's children, headed by her peasant-hero, Andreas Hofer, rose in defence of their religion and their liberty, and with rare heroism maintained the struggle almost single-handed for several months—Austria having withdrawn her troops from Tyrol in the August of 1809—against the united and disciplined forces of France and Bavaria.
Close to the town are the hill and castle of Zeno, both so called because St. Zeno was consecrated in the chapel which, with the exception of one of the entrance towers, is the only part of the castle still standing. Looking from its summit over the broad range of the Janfen mountains—whose passes were defended like so many Thermopylæs—and the valleys which gave birth to those brave defenders, we cannot help recalling the following beautiful words of a German writer: "A wild river rushes by the castle-topped hill of Zeno, and in vain do the red roses bend lovingly over it, as if to soothe its foaming waters with their kisses; in vain do the fig-trees spread over it the soft shade of their fresh green leaves; unheedingly it dashes on with a deep sullen roar. What sort of a river is it then? How comes it that the lovely flowers and the soft balmy shade cannot win it to anything like peace and rest? Ah! that river is the Passer! Does it then entone an eternal lament over the heroes whose lullabies it once sung, or is it that with unbridled fury it dashes on to the Etsch, so that, in union with it, it may look upon the land where the Sandwirth of Passeier laid down his heroic life."
A little more distant from Meran is the Schloss Tirol, the ancient residence of the country's princes, and from which it takes its name. There, too, it was that Hofer and Hormayer—Tyrol's simple mountain son, and proud Austria's baron—met on terms of equality to consult over the means to be taken in order to preserve the country's newly-won freedom. Then the castle of Schönna, magnificently situated at the entrance of the Passeier valley, now in possession of Archduke John's son, the Count of Meran, and many others scarcely less remarkable. But exceeding all other spots in interest is the Sandwirthshof, the birthplace and home of Andreas Hofer, the pure noble-hearted patriot whom Napoleon—to his everlasting shame—condemned to death and caused to be shot in Mantua on the 20th of February, 1810.
Thus from Meran our friends made excursion after excursion, and Mr. Earnscliffe almost ceased to struggle with his daily increasing admiration for Flora Adair; yet he rarely betrayed it by word or look, even whilst wandering by her side through scenes where almost every hill and castle made her eyes light up with enthusiasm, as she talked of the deeds connected with them. He delighted in exciting her about her favourite Tyrolese, and as they stood one evening a little in advance of Mrs. Adair and Marie, leaning over the rocky bridge which runs into the lovely valley of Kinele, with the sun's golden rays illuminating its narrow defile, he began to tease her about them, and spoke somewhat disparagingly of the Passeier peasants in particular, as a stupid, stolid race—with the exception of Andreas Hofer, of course. She looked up at him exclaiming—
"Oh, Mr. Earnscliffe, you cannot mean what you say! The people who combine unsurpassed bravery with the softest compassion of a woman's heart cannot be called 'stolid.' Was there ever a war so remarkable for deeds of heroic humanity as this peasants' war? You know, of course, the grand act of the Passeier, Sebastian Prünster, when he was one of the outpost watchers on the hill above Volders—how, when he struck with the butt end of his gun the Bavarian soldier who had crept close up to him through the underwood in order to shoot him, he felt horror-stricken as he saw him rolling towards the precipice, and at the risk of his own life dashed after him, caught him up in his arms, and carried him to the soft grass above, and having staunched his wound and given him bread and brandy to restore his strength, cried, 'Ass that thou art! what brings thee up here? Flee as far as thou canst from me. It pains my inmost heart to think that I should be obliged to kill thee thus without any good cause.'... How those who loved Sebastian Prünster must have gloried in him!"
Flora had never seemed so charming to Mr. Earnscliffe as now. She ceased speaking and stood with her slight figure drawn up triumphantly, and one little hand resting on the ridge beside her. He looked at her for a moment in silent admiration, and then, bending low over her hand—low enough for his lips to have touched it, but they did not—he murmured, more to himself than to her, "What would not any living man give to hear himself so spoken of by you!"
The sound of these words fell faintly on Flora's ear, and she scarcely dared to believe that she heard aright; nevertheless she blushed as she turned away, saying, "They are waiting for us."
This was their last evening in Meran; the next day they commenced the crossing of the Brenner to Innsbruck. If Flora's enthusiasm for her favourite Andreas Hofer and his brave followers had been excited by visiting the peaceful haunts of their early days in the dark Passeier valley, what must it be now when passing over the very sites of some of their most wonderful victories! And after spending some days in Innsbruck, the focus and hotbed—the Marathon of Tyrol, as it has been called—of that glorious war, they set out for Munich by the Achen and Tegernsee route. Two hours of train travelling took them to Jenbach, and thence an open carriage was to convey them to Achensee, their journey's end for that day.
About three o'clock they drove up to the pretty rustic little inn called Scholastica, which stands at the top of the lake; and after an hour or two spent in resting and dining they went out to explore the beauties of Achensee, and as the best way to do so they were told to row up to the other end of the lake and walk back along its shore. As they rowed slowly, and stopped every now and then to feast their eyes on its loveliness, it was tolerably late by the time they got out of the boat. Mrs. Adair and Marie walked on at once along the path which leads back to the hotel; but Mr. Earnscliffe and Flora stood gazing silently on the scene before them.
What pen could give a true idea of Achensee at any time?... It would indeed be rash to attempt to describe it on such an evening as this, when it lay bathed in a flood of mellow light shed from the golden slanting rays of the setting sun. What words could paint that lake, so closely shut in by mountains as to be almost hidden within their bosom—their peaks towering one above another with their still snow-covered summits glowing with the rich red tints of the dying day; the lengthening shadows creeping over its deep blue waters, and gathering round Flora Adair and the object of her love, as they stood on its brink?
Well do we know the indescribable beauty of Achensee on a fine evening at sunset, for we too have stood on its brink at that hour, gazing into its waters, and watching the shadows flitting over them, but
"Alone the while,"
that is, with the heart's void unfilled save by a vague ideal. What must it be to stand there beside the one all-absorbing love of one's life! And Flora knew what that was now, as she leaned against a tree with her hat in her hand, the light breeze ruffling her luxuriant hair.
"Miss Adair," exclaimed Mr. Earnscliffe, suddenly, "can you not picture to yourself in such a scene as this the interview between Rudens and Bertha in Schiller's 'William Tell'?... Oh! I can feel with Rudens as he says,
"Könnt ihr mit mir euch in das stille Thal
Entschliessen und der Erde Glanz entsagen—
O, dann ist meines Strebens Ziel gefunden;
Dann mag der Storm der wildbewegten Welt
Ans sichre Ufer dieser Berge schlagen—
Kein flüchtiges Verlangen hab' ich mehr
Hinaus zu senden in des Lebens Weiten—
Dann mögen diese Felsen um uns her
Die undurchdringlich feste Mauer breiten,
Und dies verschlossne sel'ge Thal allein
Zum Himmel offen und gelichtet seyn!"[1]
Flora, as if in a sort of dream, began Bertha's answer—
"Jetzt bist du ganz——"
She stopped suddenly, and got very red.
"Why do you stop, Miss Adair?" asked Mr. Earnscliffe, eagerly. "Why break the charm which you shed around me—that of being with one who responds to each implied thought and feeling?"
"I see that we have been carried away by Schiller's beautiful poetry even to the forgetting that mamma and Marie have preceded us by some minutes towards home. Pray let us make haste to overtake them," answered Flora, blushing more than ever, and moving away. Mr. Earnscliffe was at her side in a moment, and said, "Yes, we will follow them, but as we go you must hear me, Miss Adair. I can wait no longer to have my fate decided. Over each hill and through each dale of this lovely land have I wandered before, but never until now have I felt its beauty to the full; never until now have I known—to use your own poet's words—the 'soft magic' of having one, the beloved of my heart near me,
'To make every dear scene of enchantment more dear,'
Flora, will you hear me?"
She made a slight motion of assent, but did not look up, and he continued, "Yet I must not ask you for an answer until I have given you—though painful be the task—a short sketch of my life, so that you may know me as I really am before you decide for or against me, and also that hereafter none may have the power to tell you aught of my earlier days that you have not already heard from my own lips.... Left an orphan, whilst still almost a baby, I was consigned to the guardianship of an uncle, and most honourably did he fulfil the trust; but I could no more love that imperturbable, just man, who was coldly kind upon principle, than fire and water could blend. He was not married, so I had no aunt or cousins to whom I could attach myself, and it was a joy rather than a grief to me that I was sent to school when very young. I applied with unusual ardour to study, and gloried in the power which I possessed of being first among my companions, and in my facility for mastering foreign tongues.... I lived among the ancients—those master spirits of old who by their nobility of soul rose above the debasing vice of their age, and stood forth as bright examples of the great power of man's own mind and will unaided and unrestrained by the fetters of modern society or Christianity. Thus I passed from a studious, dreamy youth, to man's estate. I was ardent and enthusiastic, full of glowing ideals of moral beauty and excellence, and, with all the prestige of high birth and wealth to assure me a favourable reception from the world, I was launched into the vortex of London life. I tasted of all its pleasures; I was courted and sought after; yet by most people I was looked upon as being
'Among them, but not of them; in a shroud
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts.'
But what cared they for that? I was rich and successful, and was, therefore, to be flattered. At Lady M——'s ball—"... he paused, covered his eyes with his hand as if to shut out the stinging memories which now thronged before them; he mastered himself and went on, ... "Pardon me, even now I cannot recall that time without a shudder, and only dare to pass cursorily over its events.... Well, as I said, at Lady M——'s ball I saw one who then appeared to me to be beautiful, and was introduced to her; I was completely captivated. I imagined—ah, now I know, 'twas only imagination—that I loved her with a deep, true passion. I won her,—but scarcely had I time to congratulate myself on my conquest when I discovered—oh, that I should have to tell it!—that I had been deceived, betrayed by her; that she had accepted me only for my wealth and position, whilst her love was another's. To resolve to separate from her for ever was a moment's work, and I confided to the care of my lawyers all the necessary arrangements, and left England, to escape at least from the scene of my misery, and the rankling consciousness that men were laughing at the proud exalté Earnscliffe, who had been caught by the light beauty; then I awoke from the dream of careless enjoyment in which I had been living.... The face of nature in its calm repose seemed to mock at my wretchedness. Everything gave testimony of a creative power; but of justice, of love, in that dread power, I could see no trace.... I had not asked for life; I had done nothing knowingly to merit the curse which had fallen upon me. Why then was I subjected to a betrayal which blighted my every hope, dried up all the sources of happiness from which I used to drink?—for my belief in truth and goodness had been shattered.... I asked for what had I been created? Why doomed to bear unasked-for existence?... I sought eagerly for comfort in religion, but I could find none. What consolation could any man's interpretation of Scripture give me, since everything they said was vague and varying? I longed for some universal certainty—something upon which to lean with one's whole weight, but nowhere could I find it; the more I sought, the more incomprehensible did everything appear to me, seeing all around as Lamartine says, 'evil where good might be.'—At last with wearied brain and aching heart I gave up the search. To end my life seemed to me to be a cowardly thing; to plunge into dissipation, as Byron did, beneath me; so I resolved to be henceforth self-sufficing; noble and true, because such qualities alone make man great; but trusting in none, believing in nothing, and above all, not in a woman.... Such has been my life for the last ten years. But a few months ago there came a break in its terrible monotony—I met you! Accustomed as I was to be flattered and fawned upon by young ladies as a good match, your severe remark upon what I said to Mrs. Elton at Frascati made me almost start with surprise, and during the time when I considered myself bound to visit you and try to relieve the wearisomeness of your imprisonment, I studied you as something new—unknown before. I became interested in the study, nevertheless I would not admit to myself the possibility that I could be attracted by a woman. I persuaded myself that I merely felt a curiosity about you; then I fancied that I had discovered you to be just like the rest of your sex, heartless and false, and, in spite of all my theories about not caring for you, I mourned over the supposed discovery. But a light was suddenly thrown upon your conduct, and you came out brighter than ever from under the cloud.... I followed you on chance to Venice; I watched you closely day after day in your family circle; I saw how little the ordinary bagatelles and vanities which sum up the existence of most women occupied you, and I felt drawn towards you as to a kindred spirit; yet I dreaded to trust a woman again, and I struggled hard indeed before I yielded to the charm of loving you. But resistance was useless; the more I tried to think of you as of others whom I had known, the more I found you different, and at last I gave up the struggle. Now I am yours wholly and entirely. Refuse not then to receive the poor shipwrecked traveller, who, having confessed to you all his faults and misfortunes, clings to you as his last anchor of hope on earth.... Flora do not hesitate—speak."... He caught her hand and pressed it tightly in his own.
The rush of wild delight, which thrilled through every portion of Flora's being at having thus offered to her a happiness so intense that she had not dared to expect it, was so great, that for a moment it deprived her of utterance; but raising her glistening eyes to his, she gave him such a smile that he asked for no words to interpret its meaning, and drawing the already imprisoned hand within his arm, he held it there clasped to his heart, as he exclaimed—
"My Flora! this moment repays, nay, overpays me for all that I have suffered!... But why do you tremble? Are you afraid of me? Have you not faith in me?"
It cost Flora an effort to speak—to shake off the exquisite emotion which the warm clasp of his hand caused her to feel; but surely any lover would have thought it an answer worth waiting for when at length she said—
"You might as well ask me if I had not faith in my own existence. All that I am afraid of is the intensity of my happiness."
"Generous Flora! not one word of doubt, although I could not offer you—what alone is worthy of you—a heart's first homage; and yet in very truth I might say that I never really loved before. Now, indeed, can I forgive and forget that faithless one——"
"And I can thank her for having left you free to offer me the treasure of your heart, and to receive mine in return whole and untouched—friendship only has it known until now! But 'tis all that I have to give, for fortune I have none, nor—as you see—beauty, and this last I would that I had for your dear sake."
"But you have it for me, Flora. Your beauty I would not have exchanged for that of a Venus di Medici!"
"Nay, turn not flatterer, or I shall be forced to begin to doubt. But tell me, why did you treat me so icily when we met you at the Farnese Palace—to say nothing of the celebrated night at Mrs. Elton's?"
"So even then you noticed and felt my change of manner, Flora?" he asked in a low, thrilling tone, as he bent down and tried to get a full look at her face; but he could only see the bright red colour spreading even over her neck as she quickly turned away her head, and said gaily—
"Why, that is worthy of an Irishman! You answer my question with another, which I certainly shall not take any notice of; and now please to reply to mine."
"You shall be obeyed, my little queen.... The day before I met you at the Farnese Palace, Mary Elton told me that you were going to be married to Mr. Lyne, adding that, indeed, you could not afford to refuse such an offer as his. Prone as I was to believe that all women were ready to sell themselves, I scarcely doubted this to be true, although I knew that you did not particularly like Mr. Lyne. Then everything seemed to confirm it. I met you with him the next day at the Farnese Palace, and at Mrs. Elton's ball. He was constantly at your side. I saw you together apart from everybody else, talking eagerly. At last he stood up, and held your hand in his for a moment before leaving you, and I believed this to be the signing of the sale. I left Rome more embittered than ever against women; but a chance—a blessed chance—showed me how utterly mistaken I had been. I learned from Helena Elton that Mr. Lyne had proposed for you, but that you—with a truth and courage rarely to be found in woman—had refused him, rich as he was, and although you yourself were portionless. Oh, Flora! how my heart bounded to you from that moment! Now you know all, and you see that I not only love you ardently, but that I have at the same time the highest esteem for you. Come to me and be the chosen companion of my heart and mind, for in you I pay homage to a heart superior and a mind equal to my own!"
"It is worth living for alone to hear such words! But, again, I must chide you for flattery and exaggeration, as it was both to say 'a mind equal to my own.' No: mine is not equal to yours—a woman's very education forbids it. Had you said that I possessed a mind capable of understanding and following yours it might have been true. Believe me, it is a woman's truest glory to admit the great superiority over herself of him whom she loves. What repose it is to trust entirely in a higher being than one's-self,—to know that henceforth you will be my lawgiver and teacher; for you will have much to teach me.... But how sweet will such lessons be!"
"How could I have ever dreamed that I loved before, oh, my dearest!"
"I can scarcely answer that question; but we all know how tempting a bait is beauty of person to you lords of the creation—is it not so? But time wears, and I have much to say before we reach the hotel. You have told me all your feelings on religion. Another would shudder at such a disclosure, and perhaps be scared from loving so daring a spirit; but I must love you, whatever be your faults. I believe I almost love your faults themselves, because they prove what the strength and grandeur of your character is; but I do shudder for you! How fearful it would be to think of such a soul as yours lost for all eternity, and like this glorious sun above us only shedding forth the rays of its light and power for a few short hours on earth, then setting into darkness, but unlike the material sun, never to rise again. This must not, shall not be if power or prayer of mine can aught avail!"
Her face flushed and her eyes lit up with the light of that long concentrated love which now burst its bonds. To Mr. Earnscliffe it was irresistible. He clasped her round the waist, drew her to him, and—let Bulwer speak for us—"and still and solitary deepened the mystic and lovely night around them. How divine was that sense and consciousness of solitude! How, as it thrilled within them, they clung closer to each other! Theirs was that blissful time, when the touch of their hands clasped together was in itself a happiness of emotion too deep for words!"
At length Flora said, as she walked on with his arm still encircling her waist, "Yes, I do hope that I may help you more than any theologian to reach the one great source of truth. Let me say a few words of my own experience.... Like you, when at school I delighted in study, and enjoyed being first among my companions. This, added to a cold although invariably polite manner, caused me to be looked upon by the rest as proud and haughty, setting myself apart from them. But I was indifferent to others; study and the approbation of one of my mistresses, whom I dearly loved, were everything to me, and as far as it went, I was perfectly happy within those dear convent walls. My sorrow at leaving them was great; but I could not spend my life there. I too one day awoke from a dream of careless, thoughtless happiness. That day came when I left school to enter upon a young lady's inane existence. I felt, as Schiller says, that 'empty occupation cannot fill the soul's void; there is a deeper happiness, there are other joys!' Balls, visits, promenades and needle-work—what could they give to satisfy the heart or the mind? The people whom I met in society wearied me; I longed for something different. Then I sought for rest and contentment in religion, but I found them not; and weary of the present and dreading the future, I too asked, 'Can life be a gift? Where am I to find the justice and goodness of God of which I am told? Is it not He who has made me what I am, and why, why render me incapable of finding contentment in the ordinary occupations of those with whom He chose to cast my fate?' All the other stumbling-blocks to human reason—predestination, the origin of evil—followed in the train of these thoughts; I was on the verge of losing all faith; but grace and the teaching of one of God's own ministers, one to whom I must ever owe the deepest gratitude, saved me. He showed me the evidences and truth of the Fall of man—that key to all knowledge of him; he proved to me the existence of a Divine teaching Authority, by which man could learn his end, and the means of attaining it; he made me see how absurd was the attempt of finite reason to measure itself with the Infinite; and he summed up all in these words, as he pointed to the crucifix, 'Will you refuse to believe in the goodness of Him who gave his only Son to die on a Cross for your sake? And, trusting to that goodness, can you not wait patiently until the few short years of life shall be over, and all shall be made clear as noonday to you? On the other hand, if you will not wait, if you refuse to submit your reason, what will you gain? You say that you are not happy now: will it make you happier not to believe in eternal happiness, and throw away all hope of attaining it?'... How true was all this! I could not doubt the life or divinity of our Saviour: history itself proves it too clearly; then how could I deny the great testimony of love given in His Crucifixion? Again and again recurred to me that question: 'What will you gain if you refuse to submit your reason?' Nothing, absolutely nothing: nay, more, I began to see that to dwell on these subjects, which are above, not against, human reason, could only lead to misery and perhaps to madness; and I determined to question no more, but to believe.... 'Easier said than done,' perhaps you will answer.... True, it is easier said than done, but at least it is possible in the only religion which bears the impress of Divine foundation, the only religion which dares to attribute to itself the delegated authority of God, and say, 'So far and no farther shalt thou go.'... Study that religion, examine the proofs upon which its authority rests; but you must go to that study, that examination, with the full determination that as soon as you recognise its Divine foundation, you will trust to faith, and not to finite reason. I know it will ever be rebelling, but those rebellions must be crushed down with a firm hand. We cannot all be simple loving disciples like little Marie, but we can do our utmost, and say, 'My God, I am what Thou hast made me; accept then what I can give Thee.'"
She ceased speaking, and for a few moments they both remained silent; then Mr. Earnscliffe said gravely, "I will make the examination which you desire, with all earnestness and sincerity, and God only knows how I have longed for truth and certainty; but I could not venture to give you much hope that your wishes and my own will be crowned with success; nevertheless, you have done more towards making me a believer, my Flora, than any theologian, even though you admit that your mode of persuasion is second-hand; but you speak from your own feelings and experience, and not from theory, and with such an advocate how could I reason coldly?"
A look of love so inexpressibly tender rested on Flora, that her heart thrilled again with the intensity of her happiness. But at this moment they caught sight of a figure coming along the shady walk, now dimly lighted by the pale rays of the rising moon, and Flora gently disengaged herself from Mr. Earnscliffe's encircling arm. The approaching figure turned out to be Marie, who, as soon as she saw them, cried out, "Where are you gone? You have been so long time, Mrs. Adair is tired waiting you."
Flora could not think of any answer to give, but Mr. Earnscliffe said with mock gravity, "It is not at all wonderful, Mademoiselle, that we have been a long time coming, for we have had such a fall; and if I could only tell you what we fell into, you would not be astonished at our delay."
"Oh! vraiment," said little simple Marie, "I am so sorry; I hope Flore has not done herself harm. Relate me all that please."
"Never mind him, Mignonne; it is not true," said Flora, as well as she could speak from laughing.
Something, a nameless look about them both, suddenly struck her, and she exclaimed, "J'y suis maintenant, he means that—as you other English say—you have had a fall into love."
Flora, half indignant and half amused, said, "I declare you are too bad. I wonder what you will say next. But let us make haste to mamma; she must indeed be tired of waiting, and pray, Mignonne, do be sage. I assure you"—with a gay glance at Mr. Earnscliffe—"that our conversation has been awfully serious;—death, judgment, hell and heaven, are not more solemn subjects than those upon which we have conversed."
She took Marie's arm and hurried on, followed by Mr. Earnscliffe, who said, "This is not fair, Miss Adair; you surrendered yourself prisoner at discretion to me, and then on the first occasion you run away from me."
She laughed, but hurried on more than ever to the open space before the hotel, where Mrs. Adair was sitting admiring the silvery moonlit lake. "At last!" exclaimed Mrs. Adair as they came up; "I was almost getting frightened about you; and now let us go in and prepare for tea, which is no doubt ready."
Accordingly they went in, Flora managing that her mother and Marie should precede her, so that she might linger a moment to get one more fond clasp of Mr. Earnscliffe's hand and look of love. Then she too went in.