But Marie had no notion of letting her off so easily, and she said with a pout, "With whom then, Flore? You were not free to make a rendezvous for this morning when you had already promised to come with us; it would disappoint me so, and you do not wish to make pain to your Mignonne, Flore; is it not so?"
"It is impossible, Mignonne; I expect Mr. Earnscliffe," replied Flora shortly, and oh, how difficult she found it to utter that name calmly!
"O ce Monsieur Earnscliffe! You cede everything to him, Flore. But why not see him in the afternoon? Remit him until then. You can come very well if you like; can she not, Mrs. Adair?"
Flora looked at her mother so appealingly, as she would say, "Spare me, by ending this discussion," that Mrs. Adair said with a smile, "Oh, Marie, you are too hard upon her. Remember who it is that you ask her to give up for the reception; and she is tired from suffering and not sleeping last night; so we will not tease her any more, but go to get ourselves ready, and leave her love-sick highness to herself and her beloved." Mrs. Adair stood up, and taking Marie by the hand, she drew her along with her, and left the room.
As the door closed on them Flora sank back in her chair with a deep sigh. How many home-thrusts had she not received in that short time! and from those who would have done anything in their power to save her from pain.
When she heard their descending steps, and the drawing up of the carriage which was to take them to the Rue de Varennes, she went to the window and saw them drive away. Then turning back to the table, she drank off the cup of strong tea which had for so long remained untouched before her, rang to have the breakfast things taken away, and proceeded to her own room. Opening the armoire, she took out a box of exquisitely inlaid woods, and placed it upon the table. She raised the lid, and disclosed to view a perfectly fitted jewel case, with numerous and costly ornaments reposing in their velvet beds. But three of these were unfilled. Did she seek their occupants as her eyes wandered round the room, and rested finally on the pearl necklace and bracelets lying on the dressing-table, where they had lain since she took them off last night? Yes, it was these which she sought; but what stinging memories of that night's awful struggle did they call up! It almost seemed as if the struggle were going to begin over again, as, clasping her hands together, she cried, "It is too much! I cannot—cannot do it!" And once more she impatiently walked up and down the room....
What! after the murmured "My God, now teach me to do Thy will!" and the hours passed on her knees before the crucifix, does she fall back into the old rebellious feelings? "It is very unheroine-like, very imperfect!" we hear our readers exclaim. And it is quite true; but we did not promise them a heroine even bordering on perfection. We know that it would be much more according to the general style of tale-writing to represent our heroine, after she has made the sacrifice, as a picture of sad, touching resignation, thinking beautiful thoughts about the sorrow and trials which are sent to us by an all-loving heavenly Father, receiving them without a murmur because they come from Him; but, alas! as we are painting from reality, we cannot draw Flora different from what she is—one capable of making grand sacrifices, but unable to bear patiently the incessant pricking of that crown of thorns which now pressed her brows. To be really resigned, to endure without repining, hour after hour, and day after day, the weight of a great abiding sorrow, requires ardent faith and sensible love of God. All this Flora had never possessed; her faith had always been more or less beset by struggles, and now has come the crowning one, which may never cease but in death. For her indeed,
"Henceforth time is sunless,
And day a thing that is not."
Suddenly she stood still and said, "Is this the way in which the heroes of old sacrificed themselves to save their country? And shall I be less brave than they were when the sacrifice which I am called upon to make is one required by God, and made to save—although he will not understand it now—him whom I love? No, no; even though their sacrifice was far less than mine; for they died, and were at rest, whilst I live to suffer. But, fiat!"... She took the necklace and bracelets and put them into their places; her fingers seemed to cling to them. Ah, how happy she was when she put them on last night! and now—but she was determined to be strong, and hastily closing the box, she carried it into the drawing-room and seated herself on the sofa.
Reader, do you know what it is to listen for a step whose sound makes all your pulses throb; to long for it, and yet dread it; to shudder if you think you hear it, and yet sink back with a feeling of weariness and disappointment if it comes not? If you do, we need not give any description of what Flora's feelings were as she sat in the drawing-room awaiting the arrival of Mr. Earnscliffe, for you know them by experience, and if you do not, a description of them would be useless, for words could never give you any true idea of the reality.