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months--Austria having withdrawn her troops from Tyrol in the August of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.
[1] Canst thou then dwell with me in this peaceful vale, and forego
earth's pomp? Oh, then the goal for which I struggled is
attained, and the storms of the wildly agitated world may beat
unheeded against the firm bulwarks of these mountains. Not one
more fleeting wish have I to send forth through life's whole
expanse. Oh, now may these rocks around us here spread into
impenetrable encircling walls, and this blessed valley be alone
open to and lighted by heaven.
_Bertha_--Now art thou all----