CHAPTER VI.
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
"Leap forth, each hurtling each,
Met in the wildness of a ghastly war,"
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—
"O majesty of earth, my solemn mother!
............ Earth and Ether,
Ye I invoke to know the wrongs I suffer."
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."