When a woman loves, she creates happiness, so to say, for herself and for those around her, and obtains so much the greater recompense the less she seeks it. In this submission she is immeasurably more free than if she had no law but that of her own will, just as a true Christian is more free than those who follow their own opinions, for "where the law is, there is liberty."
All this was indeed a sealed fountain to Mary Elton; her idea of happiness was not centred in "another's happiness become her own," but in the triumph of her own unbridled will. Yet she was rather to be pitied than blamed. The too popular code, alas! now-a-days is, that anything like real ardent feeling is to be ruthlessly crushed down. In this she was educated, and, being of a less impulsive disposition than her sister, she succumbed more to this training. She was like a vigorous young tree whose owner willed that it should grow in a particular form, quite regardless of the one which nature intended it to take, and for this purpose had bound and constrained it with what he thought to be strong bands; but one day a strange hand cut one of those bands, and at once all the others gave way: the tree then rebounded from its constraint, and took a more natural form, and the trainer found with dismay that it had grown wild and unmanageable. He had but produced deformity; had he helped to develop the plant, and not tried to force it from its natural bent, it would have grown in the beauty of its own unity: under his hands it had become a deformed and an unsightly thing!
Such, too, was Mary Elton. Her mother had tried to swathe her mind and heart in bands of unnatural propriety and worldliness, and for a time she seemed to have succeeded. Mr. Earnscliffe was the strange hand which chanced to cut one of the bands, and thus caused all the others to give way; then her natural strength of feeling burst forth, rank and untrained. Had her mother carefully directed and not endeavoured to crush this, it would have made her character as beautiful as it was strong. Unfortunately Mrs. Elton had not done so, and the result was, that in all probability nothing less powerful than that religion of which Mary knows nothing could show her the difference between a "disguised egotism," in which one only seeks one's self in another, and love, which is an immolation of one's self to the beloved object.
We must leave her alone with her gloomy retrospections, which were not the less dark and unpleasing from the partial success which had attended her planning. She was haunted by the consciousness of having acted falsely as well as meanly towards Flora; for she as well as Mr. Earnscliffe had seen the parting between her and Mr. Lyne, and she judged it more truly than he had done. Since then she felt certain—if indeed she ever doubted it—that Mr. Lyne would never be more than a friend to Flora; yet she had done all she could to make Mr. Earnscliffe believe that they were to be married, and she knew that in this she had been successful.
Helena's remembrances of the ball were as bright as Mary's were dark. She dwelt with heartfelt delight on all the enjoyment which it had afforded her, and, as Mary listened to her, her smile grew brighter and more genial than usual. Her protecting affection for her sister was the one virtue amidst many faults—the one feeling from which she could draw unalloyed pleasure.
A contrast not altogether dissimilar might have been witnessed between Flora and Marie. The latter was all animation, and related with infinite zest her adventures of the previous night; while the former spoke but little, and appeared tired and weary. She could not help feeling that she had behaved somewhat unkindly towards Mr. Lyne. She was angry with herself for not having sooner seen that he meant to propose, and that she had not taken care to prevent his doing so; still, were she in a palace of truth, she would probably have been obliged to confess that it was not the remembrance of the pain which she had inflicted on Mr. Lyne that weighed most heavily upon her spirits, but rather Mr. Earnscliffe's conduct to herself. Save to shake hands with her in the beginning of the evening, he had not approached her until just before the cotillon when his manner and words appeared so unaccountable to her.
We have already said that there is no greater pang than that of being misunderstood by one whom we esteem, and the sharpness of the pang increases with the strength of our affection. Thus Flora felt most bitterly the injustice to herself which Mr. Earnscliffe implied when he said how different it would be if women were not—as even the best of them are—ready to sell themselves to the first man who asks them to marry him, if he can give them wealth or position. It was certainly not a pleasant farewell, and she sighed as she thought that probably she would never know again such pleasure as she had felt in his society. Even the memory of it was more to her than any other actual enjoyment had been; nevertheless she did not deem herself in love. A day after a ball seemed to possess a fatality for Flora; she found this day a very sad one, yet the time may come when, by comparison with others, she may perhaps think it had brought her happiness.
Fortunately for her their approaching departure from Rome, and the preparations necessary for it, did not leave her much time for brooding. As usual, the week after Easter saw Rome thinning rapidly. Some of our acquaintances were going to the south, others to the north: for the former were bound the Eltons, Pentons, Mr. Lyne, Mr. Caulfield and Mr. Earnscliffe, and for the latter the Blakes and the Adairs.
On the Tuesday after the ball, at seven in the morning, a large travelling carriage stood before the door of the Adairs' apartments. It was open, and in it was seated Mrs. Blake. Mina was in the cabriolet, and her uncle, Mr. Vincent Blake, who had joined them a few days before on his way from the East, and who was to return with them to Ireland, was standing on the flags inspecting the packing of the luggage. The Adairs were to complete the party; and as soon as they came down, Mr. Blake hurried them into the carriage with Mrs. Blake—that is, Mrs. Adair and Marie. Flora was to go in the cabriolet with Mina; and having handed her up, and taken his own seat beside the coachman, he gave the word to start; the whip was flourished, and off they went, the wheels rattling noisily over the pavement to the merry accompaniment of the bells round the horses' necks.
At the Porta del Popolo they were obliged to halt, in order to have their passports examined. Mr. Blake got down, and went into the office. During the delay which this caused, Mina and Flora stood up to take "one last long look" at Rome, that city which, it is said, few—even of those who have suffered there—ever leave without a feeling of regret and a desire to return. It is a strange fascination which Rome possesses even for those who are aliens within her walls! We know how one of the most celebrated of these apostrophises her:—