On this day there certainly seemed to be something very wrong with Mr. Earnscliffe, for he could not as usual, by the mere force of his will, fix his attention to the book before him. Closing it with a jerk, he said to himself, "What on earth has come over me? What has called up so many memories which I thought buried for ever—memories of days when I was not the cold lonely being I now am? Have I not found out the hollowness of all things? Have I not sought in vain for proofs even of the Creator's goodness, about which one hears so much cant? I can see only human beings endowed with sensitive powers, and thrown into the world for the greater part to be tortured, and all left without any certain guide, the sport of their own wayward minds! And then, indeed, people talk about the consolations of religion! What are those consolations? What is religion? A helpless human being in the bright morning of this deceptive life is suddenly struck down by a blow which not only strikes at him, but at his faith in all goodness and truth; he turns to religion and asks for its consolations, and religion turns out to be a collection of rules and maxims laid down by one or more men of different sects, who call themselves ministers of God, and its consolations are certain texts of Scripture interpreted by them as they please, each giving a different meaning, whilst they are united in nothing save in hating and attacking the oldest and most dominant of their creeds: and this perhaps is the best feature about them, as it proves that even they have an instinctive horror of deceit and superstition. À propos, I wonder how Flora Adair believes in it; for although she too is an actress, she is capable of thinking. However, I believe it is supposed to be right for ladies to be religious. Ah! that's it, is it? Yet she did seem to speak from conviction at Frascati. I wish I could unravel her! She would be rather a new and interesting study,—she takes a different rôle from young ladies in general. I don't know that it would be a bad plan to try to unearth her,—it would be something new to think about, at all events; so, young lady, if you come in my way I shall try to find out all the dessous les cartes. As for religions, I am surely not going to fall back to thinking about them and seeking that ignis fatuus, certainty! Reason is the only power which I can recognise, and Plato is Reason's highest, noblest disciple. How is it, then, that to-day I cannot find in him food to satisfy—nay, he never satisfies—but to stay the mind's craving? Well, it seems to be an unsolvable riddle. I only know that I cannot solve it; so, for dream-land! Bulwer is a good magician, and however unreal may be the visions which he conjures up, it is a relief to forget one's self in them even for a time."
He threw himself back into his chair and took up "Godolphin," which he opened at about the middle of the volume. His eyes grew bright, and a slight colour came into his face as he read. Was it his only goddess, Reason, which thus moved him? We will leave it to those of our readers who know "Godolphin,"—and who does not?—to answer the question for themselves.
Having discovered as much of Mr. Earnscliffe as we can now see, we will transport ourselves to a more fashionable quarter—to the Via Babuino—where the Eltons lived.
Their apartment differed essentially from Mr. Earnscliffe's; his was Italian, theirs was English in everything,—an English servant opened the door and ushered visitors into a handsome drawing-room luxuriously furnished à l'Anglaise, with a rich soft carpet, couches, and lounging chairs of various kinds. Mrs. Elton was still in her room; being an invalid, she seldom made her appearance much before one o'clock, and it had but just struck twelve.
Mary Elton was seated at a table, writing; her younger sister, Helena, lolling rather gracefully on a sofa, with a novel in her hand, from which, however, her thoughts seemed to wander not a little, and her restless eyes were fixed oftener on her sister than on the page before her. She seemed to be meditating—if such a word could ever be applied justly to one who was so thoughtless and impulsive—something in regard to Mary, and she shrugged her shoulders impatiently as she watched the incessant motion of her sister's pen and her close attention to what she was doing.
We must not pass over in silence the appearance of these two young ladies, who were said, indeed, to be very much admired. Mary's figure was tall, rather full and stately; she moved quietly and with a certain degree of dignity; while Helena was not much above the middle height, and slighter than her sister; there was a careless grace, too, in her quick, restless movements, which was very attractive. Never were there greater contrasts, in appearance as in all the rest, than these two sisters. They had both red—some called it auburn—hair, but in truth it was scarcely auburn; both had brilliantly fair complexions and hazel eyes, but there the resemblance ceased. Mary's eyes were large and round; they looked at one with a calm, steady gaze; they could burn at times, and when they did, it was with no mere flash, but a fierce steady flame. Helena's were smaller and more almond-shaped,—sparkling, dancing, laughing eyes they were indeed! Mary had a broad and rather high forehead, a straight, almost Grecian, nose and a well-cut but large mouth. Helena's forehead was low and very narrow, her nose was slightly retroussé, and her mouth small, with red pouting lips. The expression of one of these faces was constantly changing; that of the other was habitually calm and thoughtful,—a face which changed but seldom, but when it did change it was no April sunshine, or cloud, or summer storm that passed over it.
Helena could bear the monotonous scratching of Mary's pen no longer, and exclaimed, "For goodness' sake, Mary, do stop writing, and give up looking so intensely interested in that stupid letter to our saint of an aunt! I know it must bore you dreadfully!"
"Because you are bored yourself, Helena; is it not so? But mamma wishes this letter to go to-day, so I must write it, in any case."
"Yes, of course, you dear delightful child; but there is plenty of time, and I want you to talk to me now. Tell me, are you coming to the Catacombs this afternoon? You know that we have tickets, and can join a party of which Cardinal de Reisac is to be the cicerone."
"The Catacombs? No! What could have put such an idea into your head? Surely you are not thinking of going?"