CHAPTER XVI.
The light which had dawned upon Mr. Earnscliffe showed him, indeed, the sanctuary wherein truth was to be found, but it showed too how much was required of him before he could be admitted within its precincts.
He who had passed in judgment the works of the great sages of old had now to bend to instruction in the simple truths which every Christian child knows; and he who had never acknowledged any other judge over his actions save his own proud will, had now to unfold even his erring heart's most secret thoughts to the apparently human tribunal at which he had so often scoffed.
Nevertheless he quailed not before the ordeal, nor tried to turn away his eyes from that truthful—yet to him dreadful—mirror, wherein he saw, as in a magnifying glass, the greatness of his erring; the terrible evil which his book might do in the world, and all the suffering which he had so cruelly inflicted upon one who loved him with rare devotedness, and to whom, in spite of himself, his heart had ever clung with passionate attachment.
How vividly did the memory of their last interview rise up before him as he remembered Flora's sad prophetic manner, when she said in answer to his bitter reproaches, "It would be fearful to think that such a sacrifice as mine should be made in vain! Truth must dawn upon you at last, though I may not live to see that day, and then, Edwin, you will do me justice."
His pulse seemed to stand still as he thought of what Mr. Blake had told him—of the more than possibility that her words might be fully verified—that she might die, just as he had learned to know the true beauty and value of the treasure which he had so madly thrown away.
A feverish impatience to see her again took possession of him. "Yet," he thought to himself, "I must not go to her until I can take with me the hard won flag of faith, and lay it at her feet as the glorious trophy of her heroism. This very day I will go to Père d'Aubin, and ask him to explain what is still dark to me in the faith for which she has so valiantly suffered."
Père d'Aubin, or as the people called him, Padre d'Aubini, was a Frenchman, who, when comparatively a young man, had been forced to leave his country by ill-health, and although he was now quite well again, he made no exertion to get himself removed from Capri.
His venerable appearance and genial manner had often attracted Mr. Earnscliffe's attention. From a few accidental conversations, too, which he had had with him, he knew him to be a man of no mean acquirements, and one who must have seen much of the world in his earlier days. Yet there he was, devoting himself to the spiritual care of poor illiterate peasants, and making it seem that to be with them and to do them good was happiness to him, although deprived of home and friends and all real companionship. Heretofore he had been an enigma to Mr. Earnscliffe, who could not ascribe his devotion to the priesthood, as he habitually did that of others, to ignorance, or desire of self-aggrandisement.
Père d'Aubin might well have been called learned, yet he sought not a field where that learning could have been displayed, and have gained for him power and fame. What then was it that rendered him apparently happy in the humble, simple life which he led on this poor island?
This question was one of the many riddles which by degrees were being solved for Mr. Earnscliffe; and he felt that he could have no better guide in the path of truth than Père d'Aubin.
On arriving at his hotel his first work was to open his desk, take out Flora's letter which he had thrust into one of its corners, and press it to his lips. After a moment or two, however, of indulgence in old and sweet memories, he said, "But I must hasten on with the great work which is before me; then I will go to her and——and, yes I feel it, she will return me good for evil; the measure of her love and goodness will exceed even the measure of my offences."
Great was Père d'Aubin's wonder when his simple untrained servant burst into his room and whispered in an important tone, "Il gran Signor Inglese."
Père d'Aubin, however, rose to receive his unexpected visitor, with that dignified courtesy of manner which so characterised him; and his surprise was soon changed into joy as he learned why Mr. Earnscliffe had thus sought him. Then with sincere emotion he bade him be welcome—thrice welcome, to the home of his eternal Father.
As Père d'Aubin gradually unfolded to him the science of Christianity, he began to understand the Saviour's words, "To you it is given to know the mysteries of the Kingdom of Heaven, but to them only in parables"—for now indeed he found the key to all the living mysteries which he saw carried on and perpetuated around him, and which not all the philosophers of ancient or modern times had ever been able to explain to him.
It would be vain to say that all his difficulties were over now—that the ascent from doubt and negation to the portals of supernatural truth was henceforth plain and easy. On the contrary, every step on that upward road required a new effort—an effort made too at the cost of some old feeling or preconceived idea which early association and habit had rendered dear and familiar. But Mr. Earnscliffe did not want for courage, and his will being now submissive, he was able to recognise the proofs which he had hitherto chosen to ignore,—so bravely he fought "the good fight."
It was only after a conference of several hours that he left Père d'Aubin, but during that time the great victory had been gained, although he felt that there were many points upon which he still required much instruction. Yet the time was very short, as he was anxious to be able to sail for Marseilles without delay.
Accordingly he again sought Père d'Aubin at an early hour the next morning, and remained with him until he was obliged to go in order to keep his appointment with Mr. Blake.
With emotion, such as perhaps few men can ever feel, was Mr. Earnscliffe's heart brimming over as he entered Mr. Blake's room and related the effect which his conversation of yesterday had had upon him. How it had all at once illumined his mind and brought about his seemingly sudden conversion,—"only seemingly sudden," he continued, "for it was but the full development of thoughts and feelings which have for a long time been knocking at my heart, but to which I, in my great pride, deemed it weakness to listen. Once more I thank you for having made me see myself as I am, and for having thus helped to break down the barriers which separated me from truth and happiness. Now, perhaps, Flora may yet be mine."
Mr. Blake's good-natured interest in the happiness of his niece's friend prevailed over his natural feelings of annoyance upon being told that he himself had been instrumental in this work, and he exclaimed heartily, "Upon my soul, I can't be very sorry for this, though of course I think you are deluding yourself sadly in going so far. It will be such joy, however, to that poor girl that it would be almost cruel to her to try and convince you of the extravagance of your present feelings. I suppose you intend to start for Paris immediately."
"Yes, I go by the direct service to Marseilles to-morrow evening. My object in coming here to-day was twofold: to thank you for the priceless good which you have done me, and to ask you where the Adairs are staying in Paris. I would ask you too for more information about her health, only that I dread to hear unfavourable answers."
"And much better not to ask me, my dear sir, as I could only tell you what the medical advisers say,—and it is quite plain that they cannot do much for her; but I have little doubt that you will prove a far more efficient doctor in her case than any of them, and under your care I dare say all the bad symptoms will gradually disappear. I have not told you, however, where they are staying,—at the Hotel de Douvres, Rue de la Paix. They are waiting for the marriage of a Mademoiselle Arbi with a countryman of ours—Lord Barkley. It will take place, I believe, the end of next week."
"Ah! so little Marie Arbi is going to be married! She was to have been Flora's bride's-maid,—now I suppose it will be the other way. But I must not think of all that now. I shall be in Paris before then at all events; and God grant that it may be as you say, that I who have caused Flora's illness may have the power to cure it!"
Mr. Earnscliffe buried his face in his hands and remained silent for a few minutes; then standing up, he said in a husky voice, "Mr. Blake, you see how unfitted I am for any companionship save that of my own thoughts. To-morrow morning I am to be received into the Church; I suppose I must not ask you to be present at such a ceremony, but I will pray for you then as for one of my greatest benefactors. I may depend upon you, I am sure, not to name me even when you write to your niece; and now good-bye, and may God bless and reward you!"
They pressed each other's hands silently, for neither felt inclined to speak. Great agitation affects even unconcerned bystanders, so Mr. Blake could not witness unmoved that of Mr. Earnscliffe.
There are in the lives of some persons such thrilling extremes of joy and sorrow that it is difficult to write of them without appearing to use extravagant language. One of these extremes Mr. Earnscliffe felt as he repaired on the following morning to the little church of Capri, to enter fully into the communion of the faithful.
In the humble, unpretending sanctuary, adorned only by the natural flowers with which the loving hands of Maria and Anina had decked it, knelt the once proud, scoffing Earnscliffe. Behind him were "poor, ignorant" Italians; but before him, on the altar steps, stood the priest of God, who, having administered to him the sacraments of Baptism and Penance, was now about to admit him to the Divine Feast which our heavenly Father bade His servants to prepare for His children on their return home. To portray worthily even the outward features of the scene in that little church would require the pencil of a Beato Angelico.
"The joy of a faithful people" could now indeed be seen sparkling in the expressive countenances of the humble witnesses of this august ceremony; and at its close there was scarcely a dry eye in the whole church. Almost immediately after it was over Père d'Aubin was obliged to hurry Mr. Earnscliffe into the sacristy in order to save him from their tumultuous congratulations; and as the good père pressed him in his fatherly arms, and called upon God to bless him with all good gifts, Mr. Earnscliffe fairly sobbed like a child.
A gentle knock was heard at the door: Père d'Aubin opened it, and there stood Anina, trembling with eagerness to see her dear Signore, and carrying in her hand the little statue of the Madonna which he had given her long ago.
Père d'Aubin looked round at Mr. Earnscliffe to see if he wished that she should be admitted, but he said aloud, "Vieni figlia mia,—my little guardian angel, I do believe, who gained for me the blessed Madonna's intercession!"
Anina sprang into his arms, saying, "You see, Signore, I have brought her statue with me, because now I know you will not be sorry that you gave it to me."
"Sorry! Ah, no!" he exclaimed, as he reverently took the statue from her and placed it on the table.
A feast had been prepared in the garden of the priest's house for the poor people; but Anina said that they were all waiting to see the signore before they would begin the repast; "And will the Signore not come?" she added, pleadingly.
"Yes, carina," he answered, "but I can only stay a moment, as I must start for Naples immediately. You remember, little one, that I told you I should be obliged to go, but I will come back very soon, and, I hope, bring with me a lady whom you must love even better than you love me."
The child shook her little head at this, and gently drew the signore towards the garden. Père d'Aubin accompanied them in compliance with a look from Mr. Earnscliffe, which meant "Come with us, for I depend upon you to get me away quickly."
Accordingly he and Père d'Aubin soon left the good Italians to their feasting, and walked slowly back to the hotel.
As Mr. Earnscliffe received his spiritual father's parting benediction, he murmured, "Pray that all may be well with Flora, and she will know how to thank you for what you have been to me."
Marie's marriage was celebrated some days earlier than had been originally intended, in order that the Adairs might be free to leave Paris as soon as possible.
At nine o'clock on the morning of Saturday, the 15th of October, the wedding party assembled in the Church of St. Thomas d'Aquin. The little bride looked pale, but charmingly pretty, in her long flowing dress of rich white satin, and veil of delicate lace, which descended nearly to her feet.
Near her stood her first bride's-maid, Flora Adair. She too was pale, but, unlike Marie, no joyous light beamed from her eyes to redeem that paleness; and, as the ceremony proceeded, it seemed only to increase.
At the close of the Mass, and as Lord Barkley led his now blushing bride down the aisle, Flora whispered to Colonel de St. Severan, "Will you take mamma and Mina in your carriage, and let me return to the hotel. I do not feel strong enough to be at the breakfast, but if I can I will see Marie before she goes away. I must tell mamma, and then, I hope, you will help me to get home quietly."
Colonel de St. Severan made some remonstrance, but as Flora—after saying a few words to her mother—looked up in his face, he saw that she was scarcely able to stand, and quickly drawing her hand within his arm, he took her at once to the carriage, and desired Marie's maid to go with her to the hotel.
When they arrived there, Flora thanked the maid for having left the gay scene to accompany her, desired the coachman to drive her back, and slowly went upstairs.
That wedding had been, indeed, too much for her. She only just reached the sofa in time to save herself from falling; feebly she loosened the strings of her light tulle bonnet, and let it drop unheeded upon the floor, and murmured, "Edwin! if I could only see you once more, and you would believe in me, I should die happy! But perhaps he has ceased to be angry with me—ceased even to think of me! Yet no, he is not one likely to forget; it was not forgetfulness that made him so cruel as not even to acknowledge the receipt of my letter. Ah! how differently he felt when he gave me this!"
Flora took from the little table beside her a beautifully bound and illustrated edition of Schiller's "William Tell," and sought out that scene between Rudenz and Bertha, the opening lines of which were so imprinted on her heart that she needed not a book to recall them to her memory; yet she loved to read them over and over again, out of his present, and dream of the happy evening when he spoke them to her.
To-day, however, as she came to the last line, she burst into a fit of sobbing, and the page became wet with her tears. At length, exhausted by her own emotion, she fell asleep....
Meanwhile, Mr. Earnscliffe had travelled post-haste, or rather steam-haste, from Naples. He reached Marseilles late on Thursday evening, and the following night he took possession of his old Paris quarters, in the Rue Castiglione—the Hotel de Londres.
That night seemed to him an eternity—an eternity which separated him from the object of all his hopes. Vainly he tried to still the beating of his heart, so as to consider calmly what he should do in the morning. Should he go at once to Mrs. Adair, or should he write to her?
But neither of these plans pleased him,—he could not think of anything to say or to write to Mrs. Adair, nor indeed of aught save Flora herself; and thinking of her put every other thought to flight, for it conjured up visions which made him feel hot and cold by turns, as they varied from bright to dark and dark to bright.
Thus the night dragged through, and morning found him still more feverish and incapable of forming any definite idea of how he was to get over the interview with Mrs. Adair. He had quite discarded the idea of writing—and knew not how to reach Flora's presence; but see her he must, and as soon as possible, for he could bear this suspense no longer.
He, of course, knew nothing of the change about Marie's wedding, and naturally supposed that the Adairs would certainly be at home about ten in the morning. Much after this his impatience would not permit him to wait.
The distance from the Rue Castiglione to the Rue de la Paix was so short that Mr. Earnscliffe preferred to walk; he hoped, besides, that the air and exercise would tend to calm him, yet it was in a hardly steady voice that he asked at the Hotel de Douvres for Madame Adair.
The concierge looked to see if the key was in its appointed place, and not seeing it, he answered the question in the affirmative, and indicated the étage and number of their apartment.
Tremblingly Mr. Earnscliffe knocked at the door, but he heard no answer. Again he knocked,—still no answer. Could the concierge have been mistaken about their being at home? They might have gone out and have taken the key with them.
A sickening feeling of disappointment crept over him, and he was moving away, when it occurred to him that this door might only be an outer one, and that consequently his knocking might not have been heard, even if they were at home.
He went back and turned the handle. It was an outer door, and closing it behind him, he advanced to an inner one which was partly open.
The sight which that half-open door disclosed to his view arrested his steps on the very threshold, and he stood for a moment like one transfixed.
There was Flora, in that strange, half-bridal costume, stretched upon the sofa, seemingly almost lifeless. Those closed eyes—that pallor—what did it all mean? And striking his forehead with his clenched hand he murmured, "O God, make not my punishment greater than I can bear!"
Then stealing softly over to the sofa he knelt down beside her and listened with rapture to the low sound of her breathing, even whilst he marked the hectic appearance of her complexion; and well he remembered how different it was formerly!
He tried to keep himself quiet in order not to disturb her, but as he looked at the little thin hand, resting upon the open book as if pointing even in sleep to those words of Rudenz', he could not resist the temptation to touch it with his lips.
Even sleep could not deaden Flora's sense of that electric touch; she started up, and gazing at him as one risen from the dead, cried, "Edwin!"
He, too, sprang to his feet, held open his arms, and forgetting all his intended prayers for pardon, he merely exclaimed, "My ever loved one! your words have come true—your sacrifice has won for me the light of Divine truth, and at last I do you justice! Flora, will you come to me now?"
To her, his presence, his words, were like the rays of a fierce sun, which darted in at her eyes, at her ears, and piercing to her very brain, made her reel with delight, and she sank insensible into his arms.
We have all read the fable of the statue into which life was infused by the strength of the sculptor's passion. Thus did the ancients symbolise the power of love. May we not then justly infer that Flora did not remain very long insensible in Mr. Earnscliffe's arms! And afterwards, as she listened to his recital of the dawning and progress of that supernatural light which now shone upon him, and recognised throughout her own influence in leading him to it, full indeed was her cup of happiness—happiness such as she could never have known had she not purchased it so dearly!...
To live in the enjoyment of fame and honour is not necessarily the reward of a brave soldier, and how often is the bravest cut down in the full flush of victory! When perhaps he has achieved some glorious deed, and is revelling in the proud consciousness of having served his country, the fatal blow falls, and with a last struggle he yields up the life which had just become so doubly dear to him.
Even so is it with the bravest soldiers in the great battle of life itself. The joys of earth were not the especial reward promised to them, and as they too are revelling in delight over some victory, so great that they had not dared to look forward to its achievement upon earth, they are often called upon to relinquish the sweet human happiness already within their grasp. It is the final test of courage and sacrifice which the Divine Commander asks at their hands, in order to crown all their past brave deeds, and entitle them to a still higher place in the realms of unfading glory and bliss, where the souls of those who have truly loved here below will be united, to part no more, but to endure for ever in God.... Such a triumph of the spirit over the flesh is great indeed, but oh! how painful to our poor weak human nature! Therefore we will not stay to witness it, but will bid Flora Adair and Edwin Earnscliffe good-bye in their short hour of ineffable happiness.
THE END.