FLORA ADAIR;

OR,

Love works Wonders.

BY A. M. DONELAN.

"IN FUNICULIS ADAM TRAHAM EOS, IN VINCULIS CHARITATIS."

Osee xi. 4.

IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.

LONDON:
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY.
1867.

FLORA ADAIR.

CHAPTER I.

Would she have said so had she known that, although Mr. Earnscliffe was in Venice, all his thoughts were occupied about her?

In proportion as he had been elated and happy with her, so did the next morning find him depressed and sad. He had given himself up completely to the enjoyment of that starlight walk. How pleasant he found it to watch the movements of Flora's little slight figure as she walked by his side, and every now and then to have some thought or feeling which he expressed responded to by a look from her soft eyes. But even as he thought over it all he said to himself, "Yes, it was very delightful; but will any good come of it? I knew such an evening long ago; then, too, I walked with one whom I loved and trusted, and she brought me only misery. Life and hope and faith have been blighted by her. Is it not worse than folly, then, to believe in a woman again?..."

For the last few days he had cast all doubt from him. He only thought of how Flora had acted towards Mr. Lyne; of how true she had been to him; so true that not even an unjust accusation could wring from her a word implying that he had proposed for her. But now came the reaction. It was not all at once that Mr. Earnscliffe could divest himself fully of that distrust of women which for years had been so rooted in his mind. Then Mary Elton's words and his own dream forced themselves painfully upon him, and sounded like a warning which said, "Stop, before it is too late." "But perhaps it is already too late," he thought. "Could I forget her even now? Have I ever forgotten her since the first day we met at Frascati? All that time at Capri was I not thinking of her, although persuading myself that I was not interested in her personally? How much less, then, could I forget her after these two happy evenings. Yet, if ever any one had a presentiment of misfortune in adopting some particular course of action, I have. It is not possible, of course, to do otherwise than accompany them across the Brenner, since I offered them my escort; but I need not go to Meran; we can meet at Botzen. If she is to be banished from my memory, it would be folly to put myself in the way of sweet associations; of seeing her constantly; of walking and riding with her; guiding her through all the lovely excursions about Meran. Then, indeed, I could never help yielding to the charm of having such a companion—a charm which I have never known before; for in those fatal days when I fancied myself in love, I was only caught by a beautiful casket. It was so beautiful that it dazzled me, and kept me from looking beyond. I took it for granted that the jewel contained in it must be priceless, until one day the casket flew open, and showed me that the supposed jewel was a false one. Now it is just the contrary; the casket boasts of no great beauty or outward ornament, but may not the jewel within be precious? Yes, I see it is the lighting up of that jewel which possesses so subtle a charm now, when no outward brilliancy could win a glance from me. Were I sure of its intrinsic value, it would be well worth the trial; yet all kinds of dark forebodings seem to warn me back. But how that jewel's sparkle would brighten my cold, lonely existence! Shall I, then, go to Meran, or not?"

Ah! Flora, you little know how important a moment this is for you! Why are you not in Venice, so that your presence might turn the scale in your own favour? Will the memory of yesternight's walk suffice for it? It appears that at least it is sufficient to prevent sentence from being pronounced against you. The judge is evidently not sure of himself; not sure that he would have strength to carry it out, and therefore he wisely defers putting it on record. He will wait and see what time will do. So you may congratulate yourself on a half triumph, at all events; and occupy yourself with the sights of Verona and the different beauties of the route to Meran.

In "fair Verona's" amphitheatre, unmatched save by the giant Coliseum of Rome, we left the Adairs standing, and when they had wandered up and down its tiers and given their meed of admiration, they drove to see the house of the Capulets and the—so-called—tomb of Romeo and Juliet. On their way Flora told Marie the lovers' sad history, and showed her how doubly interesting the site is to natives of Great Britain, because enshrined in their great poet's genius.

An afternoon they found sufficient to "do" the lions of Verona, so the next morning they started by train for Peschiera, and there took the steamer to Riva.

What a lovely sail it is across the Lago di Garda, with its boundary of castle-capp'd mountains and the little villages at their base, half buried in groves of lemon and orange tress! And, for lovers of classic memory, there are the ruins of the house where Catullus dictated his ballads. In the days of Virgil the lake was celebrated for looking like a little sea, foaming beneath the lash of the mountain winds, which seldom left it unruffled; and to-day it did not belie its reputation, as its blue waters tossed about in miniature fury, the white-crested waves rolling one over the other and dashing their spray afar. Riva itself is a charming little place; and then the drive to Trent—a drive which shows one of Tyrol's greatest charms, that of uniting something of the wildness and grandeur of Switzerland with the soft, fresh beauty of our home scenery.... Now we see an isolated lake, so shut in by snowy mountains that the only egress from its shores seems to be a winding, giddy mountain path, to which we almost fear to trust ourselves; but if we venture and ascend it for a time, we find that it leads down, on the other side, into a smiling valley, with emerald green fields stretching far away in gentle undulations, and watered by little rivulets flowing between flowery banks and shady trees. Or we come suddenly upon two rocky points spanned by a single plank, and at such a height that, looking at it from below, it appears as If it were suspended in the air; and beneath, a rushing torrent dashes over its rugged bed, gurgling and foaming at each attempted interruption to its headlong course. Let us climb down from this wild spot, and we come upon an almost English scene of comfort and neatness; there is a pretty cottage with its shelving wooden roof and carved cross in front; the sheep and cows are grazing at a distance, and the shepherd boy is lying in the grass pulling the wild flowers which grow around him. The character of Tyrol's inhabitants partakes too of all this; they have the open independent bearing of mountaineers, combined with rare simplicity and softness. There is not a spot in all Tyrol without its own beauty, and we should travel far indeed before we met so fine a race of people; not only in their general character, but also in their outward appearance.

The Adairs slept that night at Trent, and before leaving the next day they visited its churches, particularly the one where the great Council was held, and there they saw a painting of it which contains portraits of several of the prelates who assisted thereat. Towards evening they arrived at Botzen, just as the last rays of the sun were lighting up the Calvarienberg, as the mountain close to the entrance of the town is called, on account of the stations of the Cross which lead up to the Calvary on its summit. With one accord they all exclaimed, "How beautiful!" But in Tyrol this is an exclamation which is called forth at every turn, and words are indeed too weak to express the different degrees of its loveliness.

How glad Flora felt at the prospect of getting to Meran to-morrow! It would be the fourth day since they had left Venice, the day upon which Mr. Earnscliffe had promised to meet them; and she looked forward anxiously to that meeting. Once before she had parted from him in the utmost friendliness, and when next she saw him he scarcely spoke to her—would it be so now? These were her thoughts as they drove along the hill and castle-bordered route which leads from Botzen to Meran.

No familiar face greeted them at the Post Hotel. The day waned, and Flora stood leaning listlessly against one of the front windows, gazing down the road which they had traversed that morning, and sadly she thought: "So he is not coming—I suppose he will wait until the exact time when he thinks we shall want to cross the Brenner; but, at least, he might have written to say so. It is rude of him thus to break the appointment without a word of apology. How slowly the days will now pass, even here in beautiful Meran! Beauty and pleasure are only accessories; they cannot give a particle of the happiness which we may feel, even in toil and trouble, when endured for one whom we love. Moore was right when he said—

'Life is a waste of wearisome hours,
Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns.'"

But stay: Flora's listless attitude changes; she bends eagerly forward over the window sill, then draws back and throws herself into an armchair beside it. Her colour is bright and her eyes are dancing. Whence this sudden change? We have only to look along the Botzen road, and an approaching carriage with a single occupant will tell us the cause of it.

Flora Adair's eyes had not deceived her. Its occupant was Mr. Earnscliffe. We remember, that day when the Adairs left Venice, how he hesitated about joining them at Meran; yet here he comes, although it would be difficult to say what had turned the balance in Flora's favour. They started on Tuesday, and that day and the next Mr. Earnscliffe spent in visiting different galleries with dogged perseverance, although they did not seem to afford him any great pleasure. He also went to see some Italian artists and literary men with whom he was acquainted, and for the remainder of the time he made a feint of reading, whilst in reality he was pondering on the Meran question. Thursday came, and he half determined to be wise and stay away. If he were to do so, however, he felt that he must write to Mrs. Adair and say that he could not leave Venice for some days, but would meet them at Botzen a week hence, and have everything arranged for crossing the pass at once, if he did not send an apology, he must of course fulfil his promise to join them at Meran; however, it would be time enough to write in the afternoon. He dawdled away the morning over some books which had been lent to him, and then prepared to go out; but just as he was about to do so, in came an Italian who asked him to make one of a party of five or six, himself included, who were going by the next train to Treviso to see the paintings of Titian and Domenichino, in the fine but yet unfinished cathedral, and also the Villa Manfrino; they would dine at Treviso and return to Venice in the evening.

The Italian named those who were to be of the party. Mr. Earnscliffe knew them all to be more or less well-informed, agreeable men, and among them were two excellent musicians and improvisatori; so at least the proposal held out to him the prospect of hearing some good singing, of which he was particularly fond; besides, it would spend the day for him, and if he were candid with himself he would acknowledge that he felt rather at a loss for something to do. Accordingly he accepted the invitation and went off with his friend, without ever thinking of the note to Mrs. Adair.

The day passed quickly away, and the dinner was excellent; the champagne abundant; the singing of the best; the conversation flowing and animated—Mr. Earnscliffe sustaining a prominent part in it. He spoke Italian with perfect ease, and entering into the spirit of the hour, he showed how brilliant, without being shallow, were his powers of conversation, when he once cast off his habitual reserve. They only returned to Venice by the last train, which arrived about eleven, and Mr. Earnscliffe, having wished his friends good-night and thanked them for the pleasant day which they had afforded him, got into a gondola and soon landed at his hotel, the "Victoria."

The night was as lovely as the one upon which he had parted from Flora Adair. The memory of that night now rose up vividly before him, and as it did so, he remembered with pleasure that he had not written to Mrs. Adair, and that now it was too late to hesitate any longer; go he must. If he started by the first train in the morning, he could reach Meran the same evening, and so keep his appointment, and this he determined to do; so as soon as he got into his room he rang for his servant, and told him that he was to have everything ready for them to leave Venice by the six a.m. train next morning. The servant looked rather dismayed at this intelligence, but retired without making any remonstrance; for he knew that his master must be obeyed to the letter, and unhesitatingly too.

As the door closed Mr. Earnscliffe exclaimed, "So for good or evil it is decided that I go to Meran. Perhaps it is as well that it should be so. I shall have an opportunity of knowing Flora Adair thoroughly. If she is all that I have dreamed of, and if I can win her love, it will be worth having suffered, even as I have done, in order to taste such unexpected bliss; and if she is not, it will be only one pang more, and what signifies that in such a life as mine? Not to go would be to throw away a chance of possible happiness through fear of possible pain; and that at best would be more of cowardice than prudence. I am glad that I am going in spite of all my presentiments."

On the following day Mr. Earnscliffe reached Botzen about four. He dined there, and set out afterwards in an open carriage for Meran, where we have seen him drive up to the hotel. He left his servant at Botzen to make inquiries about the carriage and ascertain where was the best place for getting really good horses, and then he was to follow him to Meran.

Mrs. Adair and Marie met Mr. Earnscliffe just as he got out of the carriage. They were returning from the Friday evening devotions in the church, at which they had been present. Flora did not accompany them, for she felt that even if she did go she would be only corporally in the church, that her mind and heart would be fixed on the Botzen road and not on prayer; so she remained at home watching the setting sun, and with it fell her hopes of that longed-for arrival.

The sun sank, but her hope rose and broke into bright certainty.

Marie ran into her room, crying, "Flore, Monsieur Earnscliffe est arrivé!"

The waning light and the shadow which the curtain threw over Flora prevented the blush and conscious smile from being seen, as she answered, "Indeed, then he has been punctual to his word, I see."

"And we take tea downstairs with him, Flore, Madame Adair has told me to tell you. Are you ready?"

"I shall be before you, Mignonne, for I have only to brush my hair and wash my hands, and you have, besides all this, to take off your out-of-door things; but surely there is not any hurry if we are to wait for Mr. Earnscliffe,—he must have time to shake off the dust of the journey before he appears for the evening."

CHAPTER II.

A week is quickly passed in Meran in visiting the different places of interest in its neighbourhood--all so rich in the beauties of nature, yet richer still in the memories of the late war of independence in 1809, when Tyrol's children, headed by her peasant-hero, Andreas Hofer, rose in defence of their religion and their liberty, and with rare heroism maintained the struggle almost single-handed for several months—Austria having withdrawn her troops from Tyrol in the August of 1809—against the united and disciplined forces of France and Bavaria.

Close to the town are the hill and castle of Zeno, both so called because St. Zeno was consecrated in the chapel which, with the exception of one of the entrance towers, is the only part of the castle still standing. Looking from its summit over the broad range of the Janfen mountains—whose passes were defended like so many Thermopylæs—and the valleys which gave birth to those brave defenders, we cannot help recalling the following beautiful words of a German writer: "A wild river rushes by the castle-topped hill of Zeno, and in vain do the red roses bend lovingly over it, as if to soothe its foaming waters with their kisses; in vain do the fig-trees spread over it the soft shade of their fresh green leaves; unheedingly it dashes on with a deep sullen roar. What sort of a river is it then? How comes it that the lovely flowers and the soft balmy shade cannot win it to anything like peace and rest? Ah! that river is the Passer! Does it then entone an eternal lament over the heroes whose lullabies it once sung, or is it that with unbridled fury it dashes on to the Etsch, so that, in union with it, it may look upon the land where the Sandwirth of Passeier laid down his heroic life."

A little more distant from Meran is the Schloss Tirol, the ancient residence of the country's princes, and from which it takes its name. There, too, it was that Hofer and Hormayer—Tyrol's simple mountain son, and proud Austria's baron—met on terms of equality to consult over the means to be taken in order to preserve the country's newly-won freedom. Then the castle of Schönna, magnificently situated at the entrance of the Passeier valley, now in possession of Archduke John's son, the Count of Meran, and many others scarcely less remarkable. But exceeding all other spots in interest is the Sandwirthshof, the birthplace and home of Andreas Hofer, the pure noble-hearted patriot whom Napoleon—to his everlasting shame—condemned to death and caused to be shot in Mantua on the 20th of February, 1810.

Thus from Meran our friends made excursion after excursion, and Mr. Earnscliffe almost ceased to struggle with his daily increasing admiration for Flora Adair; yet he rarely betrayed it by word or look, even whilst wandering by her side through scenes where almost every hill and castle made her eyes light up with enthusiasm, as she talked of the deeds connected with them. He delighted in exciting her about her favourite Tyrolese, and as they stood one evening a little in advance of Mrs. Adair and Marie, leaning over the rocky bridge which runs into the lovely valley of Kinele, with the sun's golden rays illuminating its narrow defile, he began to tease her about them, and spoke somewhat disparagingly of the Passeier peasants in particular, as a stupid, stolid race—with the exception of Andreas Hofer, of course. She looked up at him exclaiming—

"Oh, Mr. Earnscliffe, you cannot mean what you say! The people who combine unsurpassed bravery with the softest compassion of a woman's heart cannot be called 'stolid.' Was there ever a war so remarkable for deeds of heroic humanity as this peasants' war? You know, of course, the grand act of the Passeier, Sebastian Prünster, when he was one of the outpost watchers on the hill above Volders—how, when he struck with the butt end of his gun the Bavarian soldier who had crept close up to him through the underwood in order to shoot him, he felt horror-stricken as he saw him rolling towards the precipice, and at the risk of his own life dashed after him, caught him up in his arms, and carried him to the soft grass above, and having staunched his wound and given him bread and brandy to restore his strength, cried, 'Ass that thou art! what brings thee up here? Flee as far as thou canst from me. It pains my inmost heart to think that I should be obliged to kill thee thus without any good cause.'... How those who loved Sebastian Prünster must have gloried in him!"

Flora had never seemed so charming to Mr. Earnscliffe as now. She ceased speaking and stood with her slight figure drawn up triumphantly, and one little hand resting on the ridge beside her. He looked at her for a moment in silent admiration, and then, bending low over her hand—low enough for his lips to have touched it, but they did not—he murmured, more to himself than to her, "What would not any living man give to hear himself so spoken of by you!"

The sound of these words fell faintly on Flora's ear, and she scarcely dared to believe that she heard aright; nevertheless she blushed as she turned away, saying, "They are waiting for us."

This was their last evening in Meran; the next day they commenced the crossing of the Brenner to Innsbruck. If Flora's enthusiasm for her favourite Andreas Hofer and his brave followers had been excited by visiting the peaceful haunts of their early days in the dark Passeier valley, what must it be now when passing over the very sites of some of their most wonderful victories! And after spending some days in Innsbruck, the focus and hotbed—the Marathon of Tyrol, as it has been called—of that glorious war, they set out for Munich by the Achen and Tegernsee route. Two hours of train travelling took them to Jenbach, and thence an open carriage was to convey them to Achensee, their journey's end for that day.

About three o'clock they drove up to the pretty rustic little inn called Scholastica, which stands at the top of the lake; and after an hour or two spent in resting and dining they went out to explore the beauties of Achensee, and as the best way to do so they were told to row up to the other end of the lake and walk back along its shore. As they rowed slowly, and stopped every now and then to feast their eyes on its loveliness, it was tolerably late by the time they got out of the boat. Mrs. Adair and Marie walked on at once along the path which leads back to the hotel; but Mr. Earnscliffe and Flora stood gazing silently on the scene before them.

What pen could give a true idea of Achensee at any time?... It would indeed be rash to attempt to describe it on such an evening as this, when it lay bathed in a flood of mellow light shed from the golden slanting rays of the setting sun. What words could paint that lake, so closely shut in by mountains as to be almost hidden within their bosom—their peaks towering one above another with their still snow-covered summits glowing with the rich red tints of the dying day; the lengthening shadows creeping over its deep blue waters, and gathering round Flora Adair and the object of her love, as they stood on its brink?

Well do we know the indescribable beauty of Achensee on a fine evening at sunset, for we too have stood on its brink at that hour, gazing into its waters, and watching the shadows flitting over them, but

"Alone the while,"

that is, with the heart's void unfilled save by a vague ideal. What must it be to stand there beside the one all-absorbing love of one's life! And Flora knew what that was now, as she leaned against a tree with her hat in her hand, the light breeze ruffling her luxuriant hair.

"Miss Adair," exclaimed Mr. Earnscliffe, suddenly, "can you not picture to yourself in such a scene as this the interview between Rudens and Bertha in Schiller's 'William Tell'?... Oh! I can feel with Rudens as he says,

"Könnt ihr mit mir euch in das stille Thal
Entschliessen und der Erde Glanz entsagen—
O, dann ist meines Strebens Ziel gefunden;
Dann mag der Storm der wildbewegten Welt
Ans sichre Ufer dieser Berge schlagen—
Kein flüchtiges Verlangen hab' ich mehr
Hinaus zu senden in des Lebens Weiten—
Dann mögen diese Felsen um uns her
Die undurchdringlich feste Mauer breiten,
Und dies verschlossne sel'ge Thal allein
Zum Himmel offen und gelichtet seyn!"[1]

Flora, as if in a sort of dream, began Bertha's answer—

"Jetzt bist du ganz——"

She stopped suddenly, and got very red.

"Why do you stop, Miss Adair?" asked Mr. Earnscliffe, eagerly. "Why break the charm which you shed around me—that of being with one who responds to each implied thought and feeling?"

"I see that we have been carried away by Schiller's beautiful poetry even to the forgetting that mamma and Marie have preceded us by some minutes towards home. Pray let us make haste to overtake them," answered Flora, blushing more than ever, and moving away. Mr. Earnscliffe was at her side in a moment, and said, "Yes, we will follow them, but as we go you must hear me, Miss Adair. I can wait no longer to have my fate decided. Over each hill and through each dale of this lovely land have I wandered before, but never until now have I felt its beauty to the full; never until now have I known—to use your own poet's words—the 'soft magic' of having one, the beloved of my heart near me,

'To make every dear scene of enchantment more dear,'

Flora, will you hear me?"

She made a slight motion of assent, but did not look up, and he continued, "Yet I must not ask you for an answer until I have given you—though painful be the task—a short sketch of my life, so that you may know me as I really am before you decide for or against me, and also that hereafter none may have the power to tell you aught of my earlier days that you have not already heard from my own lips.... Left an orphan, whilst still almost a baby, I was consigned to the guardianship of an uncle, and most honourably did he fulfil the trust; but I could no more love that imperturbable, just man, who was coldly kind upon principle, than fire and water could blend. He was not married, so I had no aunt or cousins to whom I could attach myself, and it was a joy rather than a grief to me that I was sent to school when very young. I applied with unusual ardour to study, and gloried in the power which I possessed of being first among my companions, and in my facility for mastering foreign tongues.... I lived among the ancients—those master spirits of old who by their nobility of soul rose above the debasing vice of their age, and stood forth as bright examples of the great power of man's own mind and will unaided and unrestrained by the fetters of modern society or Christianity. Thus I passed from a studious, dreamy youth, to man's estate. I was ardent and enthusiastic, full of glowing ideals of moral beauty and excellence, and, with all the prestige of high birth and wealth to assure me a favourable reception from the world, I was launched into the vortex of London life. I tasted of all its pleasures; I was courted and sought after; yet by most people I was looked upon as being

'Among them, but not of them; in a shroud
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts.'

But what cared they for that? I was rich and successful, and was, therefore, to be flattered. At Lady M——'s ball—"... he paused, covered his eyes with his hand as if to shut out the stinging memories which now thronged before them; he mastered himself and went on, ... "Pardon me, even now I cannot recall that time without a shudder, and only dare to pass cursorily over its events.... Well, as I said, at Lady M——'s ball I saw one who then appeared to me to be beautiful, and was introduced to her; I was completely captivated. I imagined—ah, now I know, 'twas only imagination—that I loved her with a deep, true passion. I won her,—but scarcely had I time to congratulate myself on my conquest when I discovered—oh, that I should have to tell it!—that I had been deceived, betrayed by her; that she had accepted me only for my wealth and position, whilst her love was another's. To resolve to separate from her for ever was a moment's work, and I confided to the care of my lawyers all the necessary arrangements, and left England, to escape at least from the scene of my misery, and the rankling consciousness that men were laughing at the proud exalté Earnscliffe, who had been caught by the light beauty; then I awoke from the dream of careless enjoyment in which I had been living.... The face of nature in its calm repose seemed to mock at my wretchedness. Everything gave testimony of a creative power; but of justice, of love, in that dread power, I could see no trace.... I had not asked for life; I had done nothing knowingly to merit the curse which had fallen upon me. Why then was I subjected to a betrayal which blighted my every hope, dried up all the sources of happiness from which I used to drink?—for my belief in truth and goodness had been shattered.... I asked for what had I been created? Why doomed to bear unasked-for existence?... I sought eagerly for comfort in religion, but I could find none. What consolation could any man's interpretation of Scripture give me, since everything they said was vague and varying? I longed for some universal certainty—something upon which to lean with one's whole weight, but nowhere could I find it; the more I sought, the more incomprehensible did everything appear to me, seeing all around as Lamartine says, 'evil where good might be.'—At last with wearied brain and aching heart I gave up the search. To end my life seemed to me to be a cowardly thing; to plunge into dissipation, as Byron did, beneath me; so I resolved to be henceforth self-sufficing; noble and true, because such qualities alone make man great; but trusting in none, believing in nothing, and above all, not in a woman.... Such has been my life for the last ten years. But a few months ago there came a break in its terrible monotony—I met you! Accustomed as I was to be flattered and fawned upon by young ladies as a good match, your severe remark upon what I said to Mrs. Elton at Frascati made me almost start with surprise, and during the time when I considered myself bound to visit you and try to relieve the wearisomeness of your imprisonment, I studied you as something new—unknown before. I became interested in the study, nevertheless I would not admit to myself the possibility that I could be attracted by a woman. I persuaded myself that I merely felt a curiosity about you; then I fancied that I had discovered you to be just like the rest of your sex, heartless and false, and, in spite of all my theories about not caring for you, I mourned over the supposed discovery. But a light was suddenly thrown upon your conduct, and you came out brighter than ever from under the cloud.... I followed you on chance to Venice; I watched you closely day after day in your family circle; I saw how little the ordinary bagatelles and vanities which sum up the existence of most women occupied you, and I felt drawn towards you as to a kindred spirit; yet I dreaded to trust a woman again, and I struggled hard indeed before I yielded to the charm of loving you. But resistance was useless; the more I tried to think of you as of others whom I had known, the more I found you different, and at last I gave up the struggle. Now I am yours wholly and entirely. Refuse not then to receive the poor shipwrecked traveller, who, having confessed to you all his faults and misfortunes, clings to you as his last anchor of hope on earth.... Flora do not hesitate—speak."... He caught her hand and pressed it tightly in his own.

The rush of wild delight, which thrilled through every portion of Flora's being at having thus offered to her a happiness so intense that she had not dared to expect it, was so great, that for a moment it deprived her of utterance; but raising her glistening eyes to his, she gave him such a smile that he asked for no words to interpret its meaning, and drawing the already imprisoned hand within his arm, he held it there clasped to his heart, as he exclaimed—

"My Flora! this moment repays, nay, overpays me for all that I have suffered!... But why do you tremble? Are you afraid of me? Have you not faith in me?"

It cost Flora an effort to speak—to shake off the exquisite emotion which the warm clasp of his hand caused her to feel; but surely any lover would have thought it an answer worth waiting for when at length she said—

"You might as well ask me if I had not faith in my own existence. All that I am afraid of is the intensity of my happiness."

"Generous Flora! not one word of doubt, although I could not offer you—what alone is worthy of you—a heart's first homage; and yet in very truth I might say that I never really loved before. Now, indeed, can I forgive and forget that faithless one——"

"And I can thank her for having left you free to offer me the treasure of your heart, and to receive mine in return whole and untouched—friendship only has it known until now! But 'tis all that I have to give, for fortune I have none, nor—as you see—beauty, and this last I would that I had for your dear sake."

"But you have it for me, Flora. Your beauty I would not have exchanged for that of a Venus di Medici!"

"Nay, turn not flatterer, or I shall be forced to begin to doubt. But tell me, why did you treat me so icily when we met you at the Farnese Palace—to say nothing of the celebrated night at Mrs. Elton's?"

"So even then you noticed and felt my change of manner, Flora?" he asked in a low, thrilling tone, as he bent down and tried to get a full look at her face; but he could only see the bright red colour spreading even over her neck as she quickly turned away her head, and said gaily—

"Why, that is worthy of an Irishman! You answer my question with another, which I certainly shall not take any notice of; and now please to reply to mine."

"You shall be obeyed, my little queen.... The day before I met you at the Farnese Palace, Mary Elton told me that you were going to be married to Mr. Lyne, adding that, indeed, you could not afford to refuse such an offer as his. Prone as I was to believe that all women were ready to sell themselves, I scarcely doubted this to be true, although I knew that you did not particularly like Mr. Lyne. Then everything seemed to confirm it. I met you with him the next day at the Farnese Palace, and at Mrs. Elton's ball. He was constantly at your side. I saw you together apart from everybody else, talking eagerly. At last he stood up, and held your hand in his for a moment before leaving you, and I believed this to be the signing of the sale. I left Rome more embittered than ever against women; but a chance—a blessed chance—showed me how utterly mistaken I had been. I learned from Helena Elton that Mr. Lyne had proposed for you, but that you—with a truth and courage rarely to be found in woman—had refused him, rich as he was, and although you yourself were portionless. Oh, Flora! how my heart bounded to you from that moment! Now you know all, and you see that I not only love you ardently, but that I have at the same time the highest esteem for you. Come to me and be the chosen companion of my heart and mind, for in you I pay homage to a heart superior and a mind equal to my own!"

"It is worth living for alone to hear such words! But, again, I must chide you for flattery and exaggeration, as it was both to say 'a mind equal to my own.' No: mine is not equal to yours—a woman's very education forbids it. Had you said that I possessed a mind capable of understanding and following yours it might have been true. Believe me, it is a woman's truest glory to admit the great superiority over herself of him whom she loves. What repose it is to trust entirely in a higher being than one's-self,—to know that henceforth you will be my lawgiver and teacher; for you will have much to teach me.... But how sweet will such lessons be!"

"How could I have ever dreamed that I loved before, oh, my dearest!"

"I can scarcely answer that question; but we all know how tempting a bait is beauty of person to you lords of the creation—is it not so? But time wears, and I have much to say before we reach the hotel. You have told me all your feelings on religion. Another would shudder at such a disclosure, and perhaps be scared from loving so daring a spirit; but I must love you, whatever be your faults. I believe I almost love your faults themselves, because they prove what the strength and grandeur of your character is; but I do shudder for you! How fearful it would be to think of such a soul as yours lost for all eternity, and like this glorious sun above us only shedding forth the rays of its light and power for a few short hours on earth, then setting into darkness, but unlike the material sun, never to rise again. This must not, shall not be if power or prayer of mine can aught avail!"

Her face flushed and her eyes lit up with the light of that long concentrated love which now burst its bonds. To Mr. Earnscliffe it was irresistible. He clasped her round the waist, drew her to him, and—let Bulwer speak for us—"and still and solitary deepened the mystic and lovely night around them. How divine was that sense and consciousness of solitude! How, as it thrilled within them, they clung closer to each other! Theirs was that blissful time, when the touch of their hands clasped together was in itself a happiness of emotion too deep for words!"

At length Flora said, as she walked on with his arm still encircling her waist, "Yes, I do hope that I may help you more than any theologian to reach the one great source of truth. Let me say a few words of my own experience.... Like you, when at school I delighted in study, and enjoyed being first among my companions. This, added to a cold although invariably polite manner, caused me to be looked upon by the rest as proud and haughty, setting myself apart from them. But I was indifferent to others; study and the approbation of one of my mistresses, whom I dearly loved, were everything to me, and as far as it went, I was perfectly happy within those dear convent walls. My sorrow at leaving them was great; but I could not spend my life there. I too one day awoke from a dream of careless, thoughtless happiness. That day came when I left school to enter upon a young lady's inane existence. I felt, as Schiller says, that 'empty occupation cannot fill the soul's void; there is a deeper happiness, there are other joys!' Balls, visits, promenades and needle-work—what could they give to satisfy the heart or the mind? The people whom I met in society wearied me; I longed for something different. Then I sought for rest and contentment in religion, but I found them not; and weary of the present and dreading the future, I too asked, 'Can life be a gift? Where am I to find the justice and goodness of God of which I am told? Is it not He who has made me what I am, and why, why render me incapable of finding contentment in the ordinary occupations of those with whom He chose to cast my fate?' All the other stumbling-blocks to human reason—predestination, the origin of evil—followed in the train of these thoughts; I was on the verge of losing all faith; but grace and the teaching of one of God's own ministers, one to whom I must ever owe the deepest gratitude, saved me. He showed me the evidences and truth of the Fall of man—that key to all knowledge of him; he proved to me the existence of a Divine teaching Authority, by which man could learn his end, and the means of attaining it; he made me see how absurd was the attempt of finite reason to measure itself with the Infinite; and he summed up all in these words, as he pointed to the crucifix, 'Will you refuse to believe in the goodness of Him who gave his only Son to die on a Cross for your sake? And, trusting to that goodness, can you not wait patiently until the few short years of life shall be over, and all shall be made clear as noonday to you? On the other hand, if you will not wait, if you refuse to submit your reason, what will you gain? You say that you are not happy now: will it make you happier not to believe in eternal happiness, and throw away all hope of attaining it?'... How true was all this! I could not doubt the life or divinity of our Saviour: history itself proves it too clearly; then how could I deny the great testimony of love given in His Crucifixion? Again and again recurred to me that question: 'What will you gain if you refuse to submit your reason?' Nothing, absolutely nothing: nay, more, I began to see that to dwell on these subjects, which are above, not against, human reason, could only lead to misery and perhaps to madness; and I determined to question no more, but to believe.... 'Easier said than done,' perhaps you will answer.... True, it is easier said than done, but at least it is possible in the only religion which bears the impress of Divine foundation, the only religion which dares to attribute to itself the delegated authority of God, and say, 'So far and no farther shalt thou go.'... Study that religion, examine the proofs upon which its authority rests; but you must go to that study, that examination, with the full determination that as soon as you recognise its Divine foundation, you will trust to faith, and not to finite reason. I know it will ever be rebelling, but those rebellions must be crushed down with a firm hand. We cannot all be simple loving disciples like little Marie, but we can do our utmost, and say, 'My God, I am what Thou hast made me; accept then what I can give Thee.'"

She ceased speaking, and for a few moments they both remained silent; then Mr. Earnscliffe said gravely, "I will make the examination which you desire, with all earnestness and sincerity, and God only knows how I have longed for truth and certainty; but I could not venture to give you much hope that your wishes and my own will be crowned with success; nevertheless, you have done more towards making me a believer, my Flora, than any theologian, even though you admit that your mode of persuasion is second-hand; but you speak from your own feelings and experience, and not from theory, and with such an advocate how could I reason coldly?"

A look of love so inexpressibly tender rested on Flora, that her heart thrilled again with the intensity of her happiness. But at this moment they caught sight of a figure coming along the shady walk, now dimly lighted by the pale rays of the rising moon, and Flora gently disengaged herself from Mr. Earnscliffe's encircling arm. The approaching figure turned out to be Marie, who, as soon as she saw them, cried out, "Where are you gone? You have been so long time, Mrs. Adair is tired waiting you."

Flora could not think of any answer to give, but Mr. Earnscliffe said with mock gravity, "It is not at all wonderful, Mademoiselle, that we have been a long time coming, for we have had such a fall; and if I could only tell you what we fell into, you would not be astonished at our delay."

"Oh! vraiment," said little simple Marie, "I am so sorry; I hope Flore has not done herself harm. Relate me all that please."

"Never mind him, Mignonne; it is not true," said Flora, as well as she could speak from laughing.

Something, a nameless look about them both, suddenly struck her, and she exclaimed, "J'y suis maintenant, he means that—as you other English say—you have had a fall into love."

Flora, half indignant and half amused, said, "I declare you are too bad. I wonder what you will say next. But let us make haste to mamma; she must indeed be tired of waiting, and pray, Mignonne, do be sage. I assure you"—with a gay glance at Mr. Earnscliffe—"that our conversation has been awfully serious;—death, judgment, hell and heaven, are not more solemn subjects than those upon which we have conversed."

She took Marie's arm and hurried on, followed by Mr. Earnscliffe, who said, "This is not fair, Miss Adair; you surrendered yourself prisoner at discretion to me, and then on the first occasion you run away from me."

She laughed, but hurried on more than ever to the open space before the hotel, where Mrs. Adair was sitting admiring the silvery moonlit lake. "At last!" exclaimed Mrs. Adair as they came up; "I was almost getting frightened about you; and now let us go in and prepare for tea, which is no doubt ready."

Accordingly they went in, Flora managing that her mother and Marie should precede her, so that she might linger a moment to get one more fond clasp of Mr. Earnscliffe's hand and look of love. Then she too went in.

CHAPTER III.

Shortly afterwards they came down to tea, Flora feeling very shy and conscious. When they had finished, Mr. Earnscliffe said he would go out to smoke a cigar; and as he left the room, he gave Flora a look which seemed to say that as soon as possible he would be glad to have some other company besides that of the cigar. Marie, with delicate tact, followed his example, declaring that she must go to her room to mend her dress, which she had torn. Then Flora went and knelt beside her mother and said, "Mamma, Mr. Earnscliffe has proposed to me."

"What! Mr. Earnscliffe—the woman-hater, as you used to call him!"

"He is not a universal woman-hater now, mamma," replied Flora, with a little smile of triumph.

"So it seems; but what answer have you given?"

"Mamma! can you ask?"

"Which means, I suppose, that you have accepted him; but, my child, you know that he is not a believer in religion. If he were to become a Christian, then, indeed, I should not object to him as a son-in-law; whilst he remains in his present sentiments, however, you surely will not think of marrying him."

Flora started up, saying, "Not think of marrying him! Oh! mamma! But he is virtually a believer in Eternal Truth, if a yearning desire to know it constitutes one; he could not be the man he is, nor could I worship him so fully as I do, if error had ever been capable of satisfying him. From his early youth he has had a craving for truth which has never yet been appeased; the right means only have been wanting to lead him into the body of the Church, and to give rest to his soaring spirit. Then, mamma, do not, do not in pity say that I must not marry him, or you will break my heart; you will divide it between the two whom I love best on earth. You know well that no other man ever excited in me even a passing fancy, and I love Mr. Earnscliffe as only a woman can who has never loved before. I was so happy an hour ago when he asked me to be his, and now, mamma, you will not turn my happiness into wretchedness?" Flora knelt down again, and hid her burning face in her mother's lap.

Mrs. Adair's eyes filled with tears as she wound her arms round Flora, and said, "I cannot make you wretched, my precious one, when my only object on earth is your happiness; so I will not forbid you to marry him—besides, good seldom comes of forbidding marriages—but I beseech you to pause; take time to see if he will really become a Christian."

"I cannot oppose him, mamma; you may say anything you like to him about waiting, and if he consents to wait it is all right. I have no will but his, and I cannot begin to thwart him now when I ought to begin to practise that most sweet duty which is to be mine—the duty of obeying him even in trifles. Besides, his life has been so unhappy that it would be cruel in me to hesitate about granting whatever he wishes. Go to him, mamma, and do all you can to persuade him to wait for whatever time you wish to name, but do not ask me to join in opposing him—only let me be neutral."

"My poor child, I see yours is a hopeless case; but come with me, and I will say all that I think right before you."

Mrs. Adair kissed her again and again, then stood up, and putting her arm round her waist, led her out to meet Mr. Earnscliffe.

A little way down the walk they saw Mr. Earnscliffe leaning against a tree, and smoking furiously; as soon as he perceived them, he advanced quickly to meet them, and said, in an eager tone, "You are come to give me Flora, Mrs. Adair, are you not?"

"I cannot keep her from you, Mr. Earnscliffe; your conquest is indeed complete, so take her"—and she placed Flora's hand in Mr. Earnscliffe's. He kissed Flora's forehead warmly, then took Mrs. Adair's hand, and put it to his lips as he answered, "Oh, that I knew how to thank you, Mrs. Adair! At least you shall see how I will guard the precious trust which you now place in my hands."

"Do not thank me, Mr. Earnscliffe; I give her to you not as a free gift. Let us walk on,—I wish to speak to you very seriously."

He turned, and drawing Flora's arm within his own, he walked between her and Mrs. Adair, murmuring in a low tone to Flora, "You are mine now, indeed."

Mrs. Adair then began, "I said that I do not give you Flora as a free gift, Mr. Earnscliffe, and it is because you are not a believer in religion. You possess everything else that I could possibly desire for her in a husband, but what is there that can make up for the want of faith? It is a fearful risk for a Christian to marry an unbeliever; it is endangering that faith without which 'it is impossible to please God;' therefore I urged Flora—as strongly as a parent could urge without using authority—not to accept you. But, 'tis true, one does not reason where one loves: she would not listen to anything, and so implored me not to make her wretched for life by refusing to let her marry you,—that I could not do so. But I think I have a right to ask that you should wait a year, and try if you cannot during that time see the truth of religion."

"A year! Mrs. Adair! If you knew what my life has been, you would not ask me to wait so long before I may enjoy the only gleam of sunshine which has been granted to me during ten long lonely years. Give her to me at once, and she will teach me better than any one else can. I hope you do not think so badly of me as to imagine that I would care less to arrive at the knowledge of truth because I had already won her. If you could feel what it would be to one who has been buffeted about as I have been from opinion to opinion, to find rest in certain truth, you would not dread my leaving any means untried in order to obtain it; and to keep Flora from me can make no difference, as even for her dear sake I could not profess to believe unless I did so fully. However, it shall be as Flora wishes. I will abide by her decision whatever it may cost me; I would serve fourteen years for her, as we are told that Jacob did for Rachel. Now, Flora, say, must I suffer on through another year of loneliness and misery? or will you trust me with yourself at once, and have sufficient confidence in me to believe that I will use every effort to do and be all that I can to make you happy here and hereafter?" He let go her hand as if to leave her perfectly free, but she pressed her face against his arm, as Mrs. Adair said earnestly, "Flora, think what it is for a Christian to marry an unbeliever! Let there be this year's trial, and such a sacrifice to the advice of the Church will merit happiness for you both."

"Yes," added Mr. Earnscliffe, bitterly, "and so needlessly inflict twelve long months of suffering on him whom you love, and who for ten years has known nothing else—this, too, merely in obedience to the advice of your Church. If it gives you leave to marry me at once, will you refuse me? Flora, is it to be so?"

Poor Flora! what would she not have given not to be called upon to decide the question, to grant Mr. Earnscliffe's prayer. She knew that it was an act of weakness to consent to his wishes, but she had not the almost superhuman courage to inflict such pain as her refusal would give him, and from her own lips, too! No, she could not do it, and with her head still pressed against his arm, she murmured, "Mamma, I told you that I could not oppose Mr. Earnscliffe in anything which was not in contradiction to our Holy Faith. If he chooses me to marry him at once I must do it—that is, if I am permitted, and you do not positively forbid me."

"My own true Flora!" exclaimed Mr. Earnscliffe.

"God help her, poor child!" said Mrs. Adair, with a sigh.

"Do not say God help, but God bless her, Mrs. Adair. Had I your faith I would say God bless her ten thousand times over for her perfect trust in the world-wearied man."

Flora glided away from Mr. Earnscliffe's side, and went round to her mother, to whom she clung fondly, saying, "But you must not be angry with me, mamma; I could not help it; and you must bless me too, or it will be a miserable closing to a happy day. You must not make me feel that my love for him is pain to you—it would be too dreadful if the two strong feelings of my life were to clash."

"They shall not clash, my darling child, and of course I will bless you. I only want you to be happy; but I fear that you are grasping too eagerly at happiness—what if it were to be taken from you?"

Flora shuddered from head to foot, and cried, "Oh, don't, don't, mamma dearest,—let me be happy whilst I may without thinking of dark possibilities; only bless me and"—in a low tone—"him!"

Mrs. Adair kissed her with overweaning affection, and said, "God bless you, my own sweet child, and give him whom you love the great boon of Faith. Take her again, Mr. Earnscliffe, she is indeed yours." Once more she placed her hand in Mr. Earnscliffe's, who again drew her round to his side as he replied—

"Mrs. Adair, I can only say, as before, that you shall see how little cause you will have to regret letting me have her at once. And let it be all arranged now. When may we be married?"

"We expect to reach Paris in about ten days; there, if you choose; all the necessary preparations can be made, and the marriage solemnized."

"That will answer so nicely. From Paris I can take a run to England, and have the settlements—of which you and I, Mrs. Adair, can speak at our leisure—drawn up."

"There are not any settlements to be made, Edwin," said Flora, shyly, and for the first time calling him by his Christian name; "you know I have not any fortune."

"But I must make a provision for all future possibilities. Suppose, for instance, that you were to be left a widow; you must have a jointure."

"You are as bad as mamma, I declare—you both seem to foresee nothing but misfortunes for me."

"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Mrs. Adair. "But we had better go in now; it is getting late and chilly."

"Chilly, mamma! why I find it quite hot, and it is so beautiful out here; really one does not know which to admire more, Achensee by sunset or by moonlight—it is exquisite at both times."

"I daresay you find it so," replied Mrs. Adair; "but I can answer for it its beauty does not keep me warm. Besides we ought to go in to Marie—she will feel so alone."

"That's true—how selfish I was to forget poor little Mignonne! she will feel alone."

They walked back to the hotel, and Mrs. Adair went in; Mr. Earnscliffe and Flora remained out a few minutes more. He thought he had a right to get a parting embrace from his betrothed, and Flora was not prude enough or coquette enough to try to withhold it from him. She could no more think of being capricious or tantalising towards her lover than she could of treating him coldly in order to increase his fervour,—as she had said to her mother, her only thought was how best to please him. The playfully capricious school of heroine is, we know, the favourite style in novels, but is not Shakespeare's Juliet a higher conception of a loving woman, as she says—

"But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange?"

Mrs. Adair's voice was heard calling, "Come, Flora." Mr. Earnscliffe let her go, saying, "I believe, after all, I must learn quickly to love God, that in perfect faith I may be able to ask Him to bless thee."

They joined Mrs. Adair, who said, holding out her hand to Mr. Earnscliffe, "Good-night. It is already late, and we start early to-morrow, so we must rest now."

"So soon, Mrs. Adair? But you have granted me so great a boon to-night that I cannot object to anything you wish; you have made me your most grateful and obedient subject for ever. Good-night then," and he kissed her hand.

They looked round for Flora, but she had disappeared. Mrs. Adair smiled, and said, "I dare say you have wished her good-night already, and she probably did not want to have the private good-night spoiled by a public one, so ran away."

Mr. Earnscliffe smiled too, as he handed Mrs. Adair her candle, and taking his hat he went out again.

Mrs. Adair was right. Flora had run away—she had gone up to Marie. As she entered the room the light of the moon showed her Marie sitting in the window, looking sadly dejected, and going over to her she put her arms round her, saying, "Poor darling Mignonne!"

Large tears rolled slowly down Marie's cheeks as she said in French, "Don't think me ill-natured, Flore—don't imagine that I would not do anything that I could to promote your happiness, but I felt so lonely; I felt that I was a stranger amongst you. Now that you are with me, however, and as fond as ever, it is all well, and I am so glad if you are happy, Flore. But Monsieur Earnscliffe is not un croyant, so I suppose you cannot marry him until he becomes one?"

Flora felt almost angry with Marie. Was there never to be an end of this question of religion? She subdued the feeling, however, and answered gently, "Mignonne, if Mr. Barkley were not a croyant, as you say, and if he came to you and told you how for years and years he had known only suffering, but that now he loved you and that you could make him forget it all if you would marry him at once, would you—could you say to him, 'No, suffer on until you become one of the body of the faithful?' Could you condemn him you love to endure pain which you could relieve? Could you refuse, even for a time, to fulfil the office for which woman was created—that of consoling and rendering happy one whom she loves?"

"I know it would be fearfully difficult," replied Marie, looking very much puzzled; "but if you were told it was right to do so, what then?"

"If the Church forbade me to marry him I would of course submit. But what misery it would be to make him endure one hour's suffering from which I might save him. Thank God, I know that there is no indispensable obstacle to my marrying him—it would be too dreadful."

"Take care, Flore, there may be some indispensable obstacle although you know it not."

"Mignonne, wish me joy at having won the love of such a man, rather than suggest obstacles to our happiness; it is a bad omen to hear of nothing but objections on the night of one's betrothal. God knows that 'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,'" and again Flora shuddered.

"I do wish you joy, Flora, now and for ever, and I will daily pray that Monsieur Earnscliffe may soon be as firm a believer as you are yourself."

"Thanks, dear Mignonne, it is so unselfish of you to think about me now in the midst of your own trial."

"I was not unselfish a few minutes ago, Flore, when I saw you and Monsieur Earnscliffe together, and his kiss of betrothal imprinted on your brow made me cry; yet indeed it was not that I envied you, Flore, but it made me feel how different everything was for me."

"You need not tell me that it was not envy, Mignonne. I verily believe that you would not know envy if you were to see it, so you might indeed answer with regard to it as Nelson did when somebody spoke to him of fear, 'What's fear? I never saw it.'"

"It is very gentil of you to say so, Flore; but I want to talk about yourself. I want you to tell me all about it,—how long you have cared for Monsieur Earnscliffe; when you discovered that he liked you,—everything, enfin."

"It will only pain you, Mignonne,—only recall Florence."

"But it will be such sweet pain, Flore; do tell me?"

"Yes, anything you like, darling," answered Flora, who certainly was just in the mood to-night to do whatever could give anybody pleasure. So they had a long chat over this prolific subject to young ladies—a love affair. Then Flora went in to Mrs. Adair, and nearly an hour passed before she sought her own room.

It was the last on the corridor, and had a balcony looking upon the lake, so she was tempted to go out and look again on the beautiful scene without. To any one Achensee would have looked surpassingly lovely on that clear moonlight night, but to Flora Adair its beauty spoke with one of those voices "which set the inmost music of our souls a-going," singing a song which requires no words, yet breathing a prayer to heaven to be made more worthy of ministering to the object of our love, and to be enabled to make him happy. At length she muttered half aloud, "What bliss it was to hear him say that I had done him good!—my Edwin!"

"Flora!"

She started, but more with pleasure than fear, at the sound of her own name, as she saw Mr. Earnscliffe come from under the shadow of the trees and stand facing the balcony as he said, "I saw you come out, and I have been watching you ever since. It was so delightful to see you there, and know that you were thinking of me. I even heard a sound which seemed very like Edwin; but it would have been still more delightful if I could have been standing up there beside you."

Flora blushed and laughed as she answered, "Well, I must say it was very wicked of you to be out here eaves-dropping when you ought to have been in bed; and pray, why are you not there?"

"Might I not ask the same question, fair lady?"

"No, it is quite a different thing for me. A lady may have work and a thousand other things to keep her up, but a man has no such excuse."

"And does standing on a balcony in the moonlight get a lady's work done for her?"

"Such a question does not merit any answer. But you will go in now, will you not? It is really very late."

"Do you wish me to go?"

"I think you ought to go."

"That is not saying whether you wish me to go or not; if you do, I will go."

"Unfortunately wish and ought are very often at variance, and so they are now; wish says, 'stay out and enjoy this beautiful night,' and ought, 'go in and to bed.' But now I must obey ought for I have been very refractory of late."

"In what?"

"In not listening to its voice, which told me to wait a year before I gave a certain person of my acquaintance the right to plague me with his presence at all seasons and hours; so now good-night indeed."

"Stay a moment longer, Flora; do not go yet."

"If I stay a moment it may probably stretch into an hour, and it really must not be; good-bye again, but only till to-morrow." She retreated into her room as he kissed hands to her; the window was closed, and he too went in for good.

We can imagine that, although it was very late when Flora got to bed, she was up betimes next morning, and took a stroll before breakfast, and of course it is unnecessary to say that her stroll was not a solitary one. Again they wandered down that walk which borders the lake,—that lake which evermore will be mirrored in Flora's memory as she saw it at eventide with the snowy mountains around it, crimsoned by the setting sun; then as it lay calm and unruffled in the pale silvery moonlight; and lastly as on that morning when the sun shone full upon it, and a light breeze tossed its waters into sparkling, dancing waves. It will ever be to her

"The greenest spot on memory's waste."

When they got a little way from the hotel, Mr. Earnscliffe said, "Mrs. Adair was so kind as to say that all the arrangements for our marriage could be made in Paris, and that she expects to arrive there in about ten days, but I want you to name the day when you will give yourself to me 'for better, for worse.' I feel a feverish impatience to have you in my own keeping—to be certain that nothing on earth can separate us more."

"What could separate us now, Edwin?"—she pronounced his name shyly; then laughed and looked up at him, saying, "Do you know that I still feel half afraid to call you by your Christian name; it sounds so strange that I should have the right to take such a liberty with so grand and unapproachable a personage as you are."

"What, child, afraid of your captive! You ought rather to triumph in your victory over one who made so fierce a resistance; and pray don't have the least fear of wounding your captive's pride by taking such liberties with him. You can never know how sweet it sounded to him last night when first he heard you say Edwin."

"Well then, Edwin, I ask again what could separate us now? Surely you have ceased to doubt me, and know that the chains in which you hold me cannot be riveted any tighter; the marriage ceremony will only bless them, and give me its sacred sanction to dwell in the mighty shadow of your love."

"Ceased to doubt you, dearest! Of course I have. There is no real love without trust; but I want you to be mine beyond the reach of all danger. I am like a man who has found some rich treasure in an open field, and can feel no rest or peace until he can convey it into his house and revel in its possession; until then he dreads, he knows not what, but that something may rob him of what is so precious to him. But does the treasure not wish to be taken home? Would it rather be left where it is for some time longer?"

"Oh, Edwin!"

"Then, the day, Flora—the day!"

She paused for a moment, and then said in a low tone—

"The happiest day I have ever known until now was the 21st of June, the great feast of my dear school days, and its happiness consisted in the power of being nearly all the time with my favourite mistress, the object of my girlish love; so let my wedding day be the 21st of June, that day which will give me the unutterable happiness of being always with the love of my riper years; and thus the 21st of June will be to me the happiest day of my life in youth as in childhood. Are you satisfied, Edwin?"

She blushed all over as she spoke, and still more so when his answer was to fold her in his arms, and murmur—

"My wife, then, in a few weeks hence!" Then he added, letting her go, but making her lean upon him again, "I will write to England immediately and desire all the papers to be got ready, so that I shall only have the signing work to do when I go there from Paris."

"But you will not be long away, Edwin, will you?"

"Trust me, I'll not stay longer than is absolutely necessary; but I must pay a flying visit to Earnscliffe Court to give orders about its being fitted up for your reception. Shall I take you to it—my real home—at once, darling?"

"Please, Edwin. Would it be possible to get there from Paris without stopping on the way? That would be so pleasant."

"So it would; and I'll think about how we can manage. The old place will bring up many painful memories, for I have not been there for more than ten years; but you will exorcise all those ghosts of the past, my Flora."

"It shall not be my fault if I do not, Edwin."

"Then in September I must whirl you off to Capri. I promised my poor fisherpeople there to go and see them again as soon as I could; but I almost doubt if they will know me, for I shall have grown so young-looking in this new atmosphere of happiness. How much I shall have to show you on those classic shores!"

"How bright a picture, Edwin: its brightness dazzles me. Oh, that it may be realised!"

"Why should it not be realised? Now I may ask, why do you doubt it?"

"Because it is too—too bright for me, Edwin. But we must return, or we shall be late for breakfast, and then mamma will not be pleased."

When they got into the breakfast-room, they found Mrs. Adair and Marie there. Flora had jestingly told the latter that she must congratulate Mr. Earnscliffe the first time she met him; but, of course, never meant that she should take it seriously. However, as Mr. Earnscliffe shook hands with Marie and wished her good-morning, she said, timidly—

"I wish you much happiness, Mr. Earnscliffe; and it would be very astonishing if you were not happy when you shall have Flore."

"I quite agree with you, Mademoiselle Mignonne: it would be very astonishing. But what do you say of Flora? If you were in her place, would you likewise say that it would be very astonishing if you were not to be happy?"

"Oh, that is all another thing, Monsieur. I would have fear of you; but Flora has not."

This speech of Marie's caused a general laugh, which covered the poor child with confusion; but Flora said gaily—

"Never mind, Mignonne! What you said was perfectly true:—I am not dreadfully afraid of the formidable Mr. Earnscliffe. I don't suppose that he will chop me up into mincemeat. But here comes the coffee, and we must not let it get cold."

CHAPTER IV.

About an hour after breakfast the carriage came to the door, and our friends set out for Tegernsee, two of them, at least, looking back fondly on Achensee's secluded shores, and promising themselves to visit them again when their happiness should be still more complete. Promises, alas, which might never be fulfilled! Live in the present, poor lovers—draw from the passing hour all its sweetness; but dream not of bliss to come! The dark curtain which veils the future may too soon be drawn aside, and leave you standing face to face with a stern reality. Wander yet awhile in lovely Tyrol!—feast your eyes on its green valleys, where graze the peaceful flocks, and the tinkling of their bells sounds musically through the clear air, and look up to the mountain's height where

"Mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been,"

or by the foaming torrent's course, and see there the touching symbols of their faith, raised by Tyrol's sons to cheer and guide the daring chamois hunter on his lonely way. It is a land that breathes of love and peace. Linger in it, then, and deem not that Paris, with its false glitter and turmoil, will crown your happiness. Passions fierce and angry dwell within that great city's walls and point their arrows towards you!

Immediately after leaving the village which lies at a little distance from the lake, the road to Tegernsee enters the narrow pass of Achen, bordered on one side by a rapid stream, and on the other by high mountains, which are so thickly wooded that even beneath a mid-day sun they make the pass look dark and solemn; whilst through breaks in the mountain's chain glimpses may be caught of smiling valleys, and here and there a solitary cottage.

In passing by a shrine the driver raised his hat, and Flora said in a low tone, "Do you condemn that, Edwin?"

"Not in these poor people, because they do not know that it is superstition."

"But suppose that it is not superstition, as you yourself will admit when you see the supernatural truth of religion, and God grant that that may be very soon."

"Amen! How I long for faith in eternal happiness now, Flora."

His expressive eyes and the tone of his voice as it lingered over her name told all that words did not say of why it was that he so longed for such faith now. And Flora read it all therein with deep delight as she answered, "How true it is that the more the heart loves, the more irresistibly is it drawn to Divine faith, for then we dare not believe that the grave is to be the end of everything. The great mystery of life and death would be too awful had we not faith and hope. So you must have them, Edwin."

"I shall have them, Flora, if I can only find what I used to call my ignis fatuus—certainty—to rest them upon. I gave up the search for it long ago, as I told you, but now I will begin it again in a new territory and under new auspices, and if it will cease to be an ignis fatuus, and blaze into a steady flame, how grateful I shall be, and how I shall bless the star which lighted it up for me, and shed over me the halo of happiness for this world and for the next. But here we are at the baths of Kreuth."

"It is very pretty," replied Flora, "although it cannot boast of Achensee's grand wild beauty. What could rival that?" Flora's smile seemed to say that Achensee had more charms for her even than those which nature had bestowed upon it.

At Kreuth a rest and hot luncheon—or dinner, as it may be called—were very acceptable after their drive through the keen mountain air; and in about two hours they resumed their journey. Some time before reaching Kreuth they crossed the Tyrolian boundary into south Bavaria, where the scenery all the way to Tegernsee is very lovely, although, as Flora said, it cannot boast of great wildness or grandeur; and Tegernsee itself is a sweet little spot, but wholly devoid of any of the characteristics of Achensee. The lake is like an immense sheet of crystal, with pretty little villages and gardens running down to its very edge, and all around wooded hills and flowery meadows meet one's gaze, but there is nothing solemn or impressive about it. The dark blue lake shut in by ramparts of snowy mountains, the isolated cottages with their carved crosses, the oratory and the shrine—these all belong to Tyrol. Tegernsee charms the eye with its smiling prettiness and brightness, but it does not speak to the imagination as Achensee does.

Our party stopped that evening and the next day at Tegernsee, exploring its neighbourhood. Walking was the order of the day. Mr. Earnscliffe managed that they should drive as little as possible; he declared that it was a shame not to walk when there were such beautiful shady alleys leading to all the different points de vue and places of resort; or in other words, walking suited his taste better than driving, because then he could have Flora more to himself, whilst Mrs. Adair and Marie preceded or followed them, as the case might be.

Mr. Earnscliffe was an exacting lover, but he could not be too much so for Flora; she asked nothing better than to be with him, whether he spoke or was silent, and he was very often silent. On one occasion when they had walked for some distance in silence, he said, "You are so good to stay with me, Flora, in whatever mood I may be. Does not my silence sometimes weary you? I fear I seem but a sorry lover, and you never try to make me what you would wish me to be; you do not use your privilege of fiancée—that of ruling your lord elect."

"How can you ask if your silence wearies me, Edwin? Do you not know that silence is often more eloquent than words? It is enough for me to be with you, and to feel that although you do not speak, you like to have me at your side, and would miss me were I to go away. And as to ruling you, it would be no privilege to me,—I want to be ruled. Our sovereignty consists in voluntarily yielding to one whom we love, whilst knowing that we have the power to give him happiness. This and this alone is our true sovereignty."

"Darling! what should I do if anything were to take you from me?" and he shivered.

Flora had observed that the fonder he appeared to be of her the more did he seem haunted by a morbid dread of losing her, and she asked, "What makes you fear that anything should take me from you?"

"Because you are so precious to me, child, and I am so unaccustomed to happiness that I can scarcely believe in its realisation. I wish we were married and that I had you safe at Earnscliffe Court." He could not tell her about Mary Elton and his strange dream;—of the former he was of course bound in honour not to speak, and of the latter it seemed so foolish and superstitious even to think; yet it was the remembrance of these which so often made him thoughtful and silent.

Flora saw that he was in a desponding mood, and in order to distract him from his gloomy thoughts, she began to question him about Earnscliffe Court, what the grounds and house were like, until by the time they reached the term of their walk he was talking gaily about the fitting up of the rooms for her reception, and as the others joined them he appealed to Mrs. Adair for advice on the subject.

In such walks and talks time slipped quickly by—time, that tyrant which ever flees when we would have it stay its course, and drags when we would give worlds to have it accelerate its speed!... How its wheels are going now for Mr. Earnscliffe and Flora! They are tearing up the hill at full speed, but at the summit the drag will be put on, and the descent will be slow and weary.

The morning but one after their arrival at Tegernsee they drove to Holzkirchen, and there got into the train for Munich. At the terminus Mr. Earnscliffe's servant, who had been sent on to engage rooms, met them with a carriage to take them to the Hotel des Quatre Saisons, where apartments had been taken for them.

How well does Munich merit its title of the Athens of Germany, with all its art repositories! Its fine wide streets and gay shops, too, claim for it a share of admiration from the lovers of handsome modern cities. A week passes quickly there, and even then we come away without having really seen all its treasures, as it would indeed take a long time to exhaust the resources of its different galleries. In the old Pinacothek there are original paintings of the Spanish, Flemish, French, and Italian schools. Of the last-named school we see subjects from the pencil of its very earliest pupils,—Cimabue, Giotto, Sodoma, and Beato Angelico. And standing before a picture of the Frate's we find Mr. Earnscliffe and Flora, the day after their arrival in Munich; Mrs. Adair and Marie had just gone into one of the other rooms.

"Do you like Fra Angelico's pictures?" asked Flora.

"Yes, he is an exquisite painter."

"Yet he was, according to your ideas, an ignorant monk, and a worshipper of images; nevertheless, I daresay that your enlightened Landseer could not paint anything to equal his angels! Yet he is generally considered to be one of your best painters."

"But it's not fair, Flora, to compare them," answered Mr. Earnscliffe, laughing at the mere idea of such a comparison; "Fra Angelico's and Landseer's are altogether different styles."

"Of course they are. How could reason and truth, and superstition and ignorance produce the same style of painter? And it was just that which struck me;—the difference in elevation of style and subject shown by the disciple of truth and intellect over the poor superstitious monk!"

Mr. Earnscliffe smiled, but remained silent, and Flora said, "Why do you not answer, Edwin? Have I annoyed you?"

"Annoyed me? No. I did not speak, because I was thinking over your words. It is strange, no doubt, that the painters of the Middle Ages should be of so much higher an order than those of our own time. To be candid with you, this reflection has often occurred to me before now, but I turned away from it as one of the many riddles which reason could not explain—I wish it could be satisfactorily cleared up."

"It can be, Edwin. But we shall lose mamma if we do not go on—she and Marie have already left this hall...."

It would be too fatiguing to follow them in all their sight-seeing labours. The only expedition in which we feel inclined to accompany them is the one which they made to the Bavaria. Mr. Earnscliffe said that it was at a pleasant walking distance from the town; accordingly they went on foot, he leading the way with Flora. Both she and Marie were most curious to see the statue of a woman whose head alone can contain six persons, and they found it difficult to believe that it did not look like an overgrown monster. But, on the contrary, when they reached it they saw only the form of a beautiful woman standing on a marble pedestal and a lion crouching by her side. Its proportions are so admirable, that even when close to it they could hardly force themselves to credit its gigantic size.

The girls said they would like to ascend, just for curiosity. Mr. Earnscliffe of course went with them. They sat down in the head, then looked through the eyes for a moment or two, but were glad enough to come down again, as the heat was excessive. When they returned and got again into the open air, they saw, much to their astonishment, a lady and gentleman speaking to Mrs. Adair, and heard her say, "How surprised they will be to see you here."

The lady turned round, and they saw Helena Elton, looking brighter and gayer than ever. Surprise was indeed depicted on all their countenances, but in Mr. Earnscliffe's there was another expression blended with it which was not so easily read.

"Helena Elton!" exclaimed Flora.

"Helena Elton is no more," she said, laughing and blushing; "allow me to present my husband, Mr. Caulfield."

When the excitement caused by this unexpected meeting had subsided a little, Mrs. Adair said, "Had we not better return now? We dine at five to-day, so as to be ready to go to the Opera, which begins at six."

"We are going to do so also," added Mr. Caulfield.

"Then, Helena, you might as well walk back with us; I want to hear a great deal of news," said Flora, with a significant glance at Mr. Caulfield.

"Indeed, Miss Flora, and do you expect me to gratify your curiosity? But come, I will indulge you if you will promise to gratify mine in return."

"If I had anything to tell which could gratify it, I might promise, but one can't make promises if there is nothing to be told; however, we can make terms as we go," answered Flora, lightly.

"Very well, so be it. We drove here, but we can send away the carriage, can't we, Harry?"

"To be sure we can, Cricket; I dare say the driver will not be inconsolable for the loss of our company if he gets our money. But, Mrs. Adair, can you not wait for a few moments to let us run up Dame Bavaria,—we want to be able to say that we have been in a woman's head."

"Yes, ten minutes cannot make any great difference."

"Oh, we shall do it in less time than that."

As soon as they had got into the statue, Mr. Earnscliffe drew Flora aside, and said, "Do not tell her of our engagement. I will give you my reasons for not wishing it to be told to her, at another time."

"It is enough to know your wishes in order to follow them, Edwin; you can tell me the reason when you like, or not at all, if you choose. But I must caution mamma and Marie."

He pressed her hand as she turned away from him and went to her mother. Shortly afterwards, Mr. and Mrs. Caulfield came down again, and they all set out to walk home, Mr. Caulfield having first discharged their carriage.

Helena and Flora walked together, as prearranged, and the latter thought the best way to keep from admitting her engagement was to begin by telling as much as she chose, and so prevent too much questioning; therefore, she said at once, "When you talked of my gratifying your curiosity, Helena, I suppose you meant to allude to Mr. Earnscliffe's being with us, but, alas! for your gratification, there is very little to tell. We met him by chance in Venice."

"Chance, Flora?" interrupted Helena.

"Yes, quite so; we did not even know that he was in Venice. We happened then to speak of crossing the Tyrol. Mamma said we were going in the diligence,—as we were three unprotected females she did not like to take a carriage and trust altogether to the driver of it,—when Mr. Earnscliffe good-naturedly offered to escort us over the pass. That is all I have to tell you."

"Come, Flora, you are not so verdant as to imagine that a Grand Mogul like Mr. Earnscliffe, who, as a general rule, dislikes ladies, would offer to dance attendance upon three of them out of mere good nature; it is quite evident that he would never have done so unless one of the three had pinioned him with Cupid's fiery darts. Admit, Flora, that he is in love with you."

"Well, Helena, your reasoning is worthy of a woman, for it is utterly guiltless of all logic. Because a gentleman offers to see us across a mountain pass, you jump to the conclusion that he must be in love with me. If even it were—which, of course, it is not—a necessary consequence of his travelling with us that he should be in love with one of the party, why, in the name of all that's wonderful, fix upon me? Marie is much prettier. Why, then, not upon her?"

"Prettier—yes; but you might as well talk of his being in love with me as with her. Why, he considers us merely good, gay little fools, that is, if he could for a moment bring down his great mind to think about us at all. Of course, you are the 'favourite;' and if he does not propose it will be very dishonourable."

"How can you be so absurd, Helena?" said Flora, getting a little excited, yet feeling that too warm a defence might only betray her. "It would be too bad if a gentleman could not do a good-natured act to three ladies without being expected to propose for one of them, and surely an avowed woman-hater like Mr. Earnscliffe could do it most safely without giving cause for any such expectations. But never mind him,—I want to hear about yourself. I need scarcely say that I knew there was a flirtation between you and Mr. Caulfield in Rome; but I had no idea that Mrs. Elton would approve of him as a suitor for your hand."

"Approve of him, indeed! What an idea! Poor Harry is not enough of a big-wig or rich enough to take my lady mother's fancy. Our history is quite a romance."

"Then please to let me hear it, or a résumé of it, at least, for we have not much time to spare."

"Well, then, to begin at the beginning. Early in the winter Harry and I became great friends, and at first mamma seemed to be amused with him, and used to laugh at our incessant skirmishing. Then that day at Frascati—you remember it, Flora?—she suddenly got up the idea that I flirted too much with him. She was particularly annoyed about it because that horribly slow Mr. Mainwaring was there. He is as rich as Crœsus, and mamma wanted me to marry him. But the evening crowned the day. I was in wild spirits, and danced all night with Harry, and finally sat for a full half-hour alone with him in that recess where I had the pleasure of seeing you with Mr. Lyne. You can guess what tale it was that I listened to there, and what my answer was. In an evil moment mamma passed by and gave me a look of thunder. I saw that a storm was gathering, and hoping to avert it, I told Harry that I would not dance with him any more that night, and that he must not attempt to speak to mamma until I gave him leave to do so, for I dreaded that she would 'cut up rough.' He didn't seem to like it. However, he was obliged to give me the required promise. No sooner were all the people gone than I got the most tremendous scolding that a poor mortal could have. I was peremptorily told that Mr. Caulfield was not a fit match for me, and that, therefore, the way in which I flirted with him was disgraceful, and, in fine, that there must be an end to it. I was in despair; but thought that I had better let the squall blow over and try to get Mary on my side. Mary behaved like an angel. She saw that I really loved Harry, and so she did all she could to let us meet as often as possible, and in the meantime endeavoured to influence mamma in his favour. Thus things went on as long as we remained in Rome, and for some time after we got to Naples. At last, one evening—by the way, Mr. Earnscliffe dined with us on that day—a bouquet girl came to the door ostensibly to sell bouquets, but in reality to bring me a note from Harry. The note was to tell me that he had just received a letter announcing his sister's approaching marriage with an officer about to start for India immediately, and whose wedding must therefore take place at once; but Harry declared that he would either take me with him as his bride, or never see me again. His note, I assure you, Flora, was quite in the romance style, calling upon me to choose between the man whom I professed to love, and a cruel, unreasonable parent. He concluded by saying that he had waited months in the hope of her relenting, and that he would wait no longer, but on the next day would formally ask mamma for my hand, and if she refused her consent, it would remain with me to decide between them. There was no possibility of stopping him, for I could not write then, and afterwards it would have been too late; but, to say the truth, I did not want to do so. I was getting heartily tired of manœuvring to see him, and to keep mamma from forbidding me to speak to him, so I was almost glad that it had come to a crisis. The next day up came the hero, and he was shown into the drawing-room, where Mary and I were sitting in fear and trembling at the coming attack on the citadel. Harry looked awfully determined and braced up to the fighting point as he came in, and walking up to Mary, he said, 'Miss Elton, you are probably aware of what my object in coming here to-day is, and I hope I may count upon your seconding it.' Mary bowed, and then he asked, 'Can I see Mrs. Elton?' 'I will go and tell her that you are here,' answered Mary. Harry had only time to say a few words to me, when mamma came down, followed by Mary. Then commenced the battle in earnest. Everything that mamma said was bitter and cutting, and I, of course, was crying like a fool. At last she concluded by saying, 'Mr. Caulfield, I told Helena long ago that I disapproved of her flirtation, as I would never give my consent to her marriage with you, and I tell it to you now. My consent she shall never have. She has braved my displeasure hitherto, and I suppose she will continue to do so. I have not the power to prevent her from becoming your wife if she chooses to do it in spite of my prohibition; but if she does I will not give her any fortune whatsoever.' The brightest of smiles played over Harry's face as he replied, eagerly, 'As for the fortune, Mrs. Elton, it is a matter of indifference to me. If Helena can be satisfied to marry a comparatively poor man it's all right. I shall only regret her not having a fortune for her own sake. What do you say, Helena?' My answer was to go and place my hand in his, and he put his arm round my waist, saying, 'It's all right, you see, Mrs. Elton.' I saw mamma's eyes fill with tears, and pushing Harry away, I went and threw myself at her feet, and begged of her only to say that she would not be angry with me if I married him. I said that I did not want any money, but that I could not bear her displeasure. Mary came to the rescue, and joined her prayers to mine, and we wrung from mamma a sort of half consent, which Harry gladly seized on, and rushed off to the English chaplain to get everything arranged as quickly as possible. A fortnight after we were privately married. Mary was my only bridesmaid, and Mr. Lyne Harry's bridesman. Poor Mary looked heart-broken as she wished me good-bye, and I was so sorry to leave her; but I could not help wanting to go with Harry"—(Flora smiled)—"We travelled post-haste to Rome, intending to sail from Civita Vecchia; but at his banker's in Rome Harry found a letter from his sister, informing him that her marriage was put off for a few weeks, as her future husband's regiment was not to sail so soon as they had expected. How Harry laughed when he got that letter, declaring that if his sister had been playing into his hands, she could not have helped him better to his wife, and that he was sure if he had not taken mamma by storm and carried me off in a whirlwind, he would never have got me at all. We had now time to spare, and I proposed that we should come here, as we had neither of us seen Munich, and go home by the Rhine. There's the end of my story; but, tell me, wasn't it grand of Harry not to care about my fortune when, naturally, he must have expected that I would have a large one? And mamma kept to it. She did not give me anything. But Harry is such a darling, Flora, you can't think!"

"Take care, Helena; you are yet too young a wife to sing your husband's praises.... Wait a little."

"As if Harry would change, indeed!"

"Well, I don't at all mean to say that he will; I only said that you must wait a while before you gain the right of singing his praises. But here we are at your hotel, for I see them all standing at the door waiting for us."

"Yes, we are staying at the Bayrischer Hof,—and you?"

"At the Vier Jahreszeiten; but we shall meet at the theatre."

"Oh yes, we must spend this evening together, for I heard Mrs. Adair say that you were going away to-morrow; and I am not at all satisfied about Mr. Earnscliffe; I must try and pick his brains—or rather it is his heart that I want to pick—to-night at the theatre. As you are so close to it, suppose we call for you, and then we can all go in together."

"Yes, that will be the better plan; then please to be with us at a few minutes before six."

As they came up Mr. Caulfield said, looking admiringly at Helena's bright laughing face, "What a chatterbox my wife is, is she not, Miss Adair?"

"Not worse than her husband, at all events," answered Helena, taking his arm and pinching it. She then wished her friends good-bye, until six, promising for herself and Harry to be punctual.

We may imagine what success Helena had that evening in gleaning information from Mr. Earnscliffe about the state of his heart; and the next morning the Adair party were in the train en route for Paris before the Caulfields had finished their rather late breakfast.

CHAPTER V.

When the Adairs arrived in Paris they found a letter waiting for them from Madame de St. Severan, stating that most unfortunately Monsieur de St. Severan had got a violent attack of the gout, which it was feared would detain him for some weeks at his chateau in the south, where they then were; therefore, to their deep regret, they were forced to give up the pleasure of going to Paris to receive their dear child Marie, and to thank her kind friends who had taken such care of her. But if Mrs. Adair would kindly write and say on what day Marie would be ready to leave Paris, they would send up a faithful old servant to take charge of her to the chateau. The letter concluded with a warm invitation to the Adairs to spend some time with them as soon as Monsieur de St. Severan should be recovered. Flora declared that Marie must not go away before her wedding, but the difficulty was how to get leave from the de St. Severans for her to stay, without giving the true reason, for Flora did not wish them to be told of her marriage; she said it would be time enough to tell them just before it took place,—it was so disagreeable to have a thing of that kind spoken of beforehand. So Mrs. Adair could only write to Madame de St. Severan begging her to allow Marie to stay with them until after the 21st, when they intended to leave France, and holding out a hope that if the de St. Severans were not able to come to Paris, then she would take Marie to them herself. Mrs. Adair pressed so earnestly for consent to this arrangement that it was granted, although somewhat reluctantly, as Colonel de St. Severan was all impatience to see Marie; however, the consent was given, and Marie remained—for the wedding.

For nearly the first three weeks of their stay in Paris Mr. Earnscliffe was in England, and, notwithstanding her occupation—one too in which ladies are supposed to take such delight, that of getting her trousseau—Flora found the time pass very slowly, and voted the trousseau a bore. Marie, however, supplied for the bride elect's abstraction, and superintended all its most minute details.

Towards dusk one evening Flora sat in the drawing-room window totally heedless of repeated calls from Marie to come and see what pretty things they were planning for her; but she sat immovable in the half-dark silent room, whilst from the one next to it there came a streak of light and the sound of shrill French voices in full chatter. Suddenly she started up and ran to the outer door of their apartment, which she opened as if by chance just as a gentleman was about to ring at it. It was too dark for him to see who the person was who opened it, particularly as she stood very much behind it, and he asked in a quick, eager tone, "Madame Adair, est-elle chez elle?"

"Est-ce bien Madame que Monsieur veut voir?" was the reply, in an odd muffled voice.

"Les dames enfin," he returned, impatiently, "sont elles à la maison? Dites moi donc vite."

A low laugh was now the only answer, but it seemed to satisfy Mr. Earnscliffe perfectly as to whether the ladies were at home, for he did not repeat his question, but caught the respondent in his arms, and murmured between kisses, "Wicked Flora! to try my patience so, and keep me waiting for this."

Now time resumed its gallop for Flora, and everything became interesting. Being asked to decide between this dress or that was no longer tiresome, since Mr. Earnscliffe was there to say which he thought the prettier. It came to within about ten days of the eventful twenty-first, and everything seemed to bid fair to contradict the old saying that "the course of true love never did run smooth." But one evening as they drove home from the Bois de Boulogne, Mrs. Elton and Mary passed them, driving very fast, but not before Mary had time to recognise them and bow most markedly.

"The Eltons here!" exclaimed Flora. "Helena did not tell me that they were coming to Paris." And she looked at Mr. Earnscliffe, but to her amazement she saw that he had become strangely pale, and seemed scarcely to hear her; then, with that sort of shudder which she had before observed, he said, "Here! yes, I had no idea of it."

He scarcely spoke again all the evening, yet he could not bear Flora to be away from him for a moment.

Here was the first shadow: it was not a very great one, but it was one. Flora could no longer blind herself to the fact that in Mr. Earnscliffe's mind there was some sinister train of thought in connection with Mary Elton. To doubt Mr. Earnscliffe was an impossibility to her, and she only wished to know what it was that caused this gloom, whenever Mary Elton was named or seen, in order that she might better know how to cheer him and make him forget it. She could not speak to him on this subject, because, as he had not volunteered to tell her, any questioning or remarks upon it might look like distrust, and she could not bear to say anything which might wear the faintest semblance of such a feeling. So on that evening she could only exert all her powers of charm and affection to try to chase away his sadness. He stayed late, and when he was going away he held her for a moment longer than usual in his arms, and said, but more to himself than to her, "Would that you were really mine, Flora! then I should have nothing to dread, but now——"

"What is that you dread now, Edwin?"

"You would laugh at me if I were to tell you, Flora, and it does seem to be folly, but—oh, the power of a woman for good or evil is fearful! I have a right to dread it."

"But tell me what it is that makes you sad, be it folly or not, and I will try to banish it away, Edwin," she said with a smile.

"That you would, darling, but I must not tell you. I am bound in honour not to do so, and you gave me so good an example some time ago on this point, that I should be unpardonable if I were to say a word. But you will trust me."

"Trust you, Edwin!" and her blue eyes, as they rested full on his face, looked worlds of trust.

"My own dearest, good-night!" and he gave her the last kiss, adding, with a smile, as he turned away, "I must not stay any longer, or you would tempt me into telling you my foolish fears, to have them petted—which would be better far than reasoned—away."

But Mary Elton: what were her feelings on thus seeing Mr. Earnscliffe driving in the carriage with her rival? In order to understand them fully, let us go back to that evening at Naples, when, worked up to the highest pitch of excitement, she forgot all maidenly reserve, and allowed Mr. Earnscliffe to see her ungovernable passion for himself, and almost cursed Flora Adair. We remember that she rushed away from him down a side walk, as she heard the sound of an approaching step; but we did not see her a moment later, when, coming to a stone bench, she threw herself on the ground beside it, and pressed her burning face upon its cool surface. Suddenly, however, she felt something flowing into her mouth, and raising her head, a stream of blood came from her lips. She tried to stop it with her handkerchief, and with her other hand she clung to the bench for support, for everything seemed to swim round her.

Thus Helena found her, and she started back with fright as she saw her face, hands, and handkerchief all besmeared with blood; then putting her arms round her, she made her lean against her as she exclaimed, "Oh, sister, what is the matter? What can I do for you? Shall I call any one?"

Mary leaned her head heavily on Helena's shoulder, as if to keep her from moving, and half opened her closed eyes. Helena saw and understood well why it was so—that Mary did not wish any one to see her in this state; so Helena tried to remain quiet, but she felt so frightened about Mary, and so powerless to do or to get anything for her, being afraid to leave her, that she fairly broke down and began to cry. It roused Mary, however, for as Helena's tears fell like rain-drops on her face, she opened her eyes and tried to say, "It is nothing, I shall be better in a few minutes;" and again, after a moment's pause, she whispered, "Let me lean against the seat, and you go and dip your handkerchief in the fountain and bring it back to me."

"But I am afraid to leave you, Mary, darling!"

"Do not be afraid, go—oh, go!"

Helena did not venture to hesitate any longer, for fear of irritating Mary and making her worse, so she settled her as comfortably as she could against the bench, went to the fountain, saturated her handkerchief well with cold water, and ran back with it to Mary, who muttered, "Put it upon my head." As Helena did so, Mary gave a deep drawn sigh of relief, then taking the wet handkerchief in her own hand, she rubbed it upon her face.