Soon after Mr. Maunsell left them, and Mrs. Elton said, "Really, Mary,
I am quite uneasy about you; you look dreadfully flushed and excited,
and that fit of coughing was almost convulsive. I must take you to Dr.
O----; and I do not think that I can allow you to go to the ball. I did
not like to oppose you while Mr. Maunsell was here, but now that we are
alone, I am sure that I have only to appeal to your own good sense in
order to induce you to give it up, especially as I know that you do not
care about balls."
"But I _do_ care about this one," cried Mary eagerly--however, she
continued in a calmer tone as she saw her mother look at her in
amazement--"and please to let me go to it; afterwards I will see any
doctor you choose. This ball is the first amusement that I have felt a
wish to partake of since Lena's marriage, and to prevent me from going
to it will only be a new cause of irritation."
"Well, I suppose it is the lesser of two evils to let you go, since you
have set your heart upon it; but why is it so? You never liked balls
before. There is something altogether strange about you--something that
I do not understand, and that your grief for Lena does not account for;
that would not make your cheeks flush, nor your eyes flash as they do
now. What is the cause of it all, Mary?"
"God knows! Derangement of the nervous system, I suppose. But talking
about it, mamma, can do no good; it can only increase the evil. Wait
till the ball is over, and then try what doctors can do for me,"
answered Mary gloomily, as she hastily left the room.
Poor Mrs. Elton was sadly perplexed. She saw that there was some secret
influence at work within Mary's heart, yet she feared to question her
any farther, as it seemed to increase her excitement so much, and in
vain she tried to form any _clear_ idea of its cause. A faint suspicion
crossed her mind that Mr. Earnscliffe had something to do with it; and
as she thought over the events of the last few weeks it struck her that
since that day when he dined with them at Naples Mary had never been
quite herself, and this wild desire to go to the ball, after she heard
that he was to be there, seemed to corroborate it all. The result
of these meditations was to render Mrs. Elton sad, and thoughtfully
serious, as she said to herself, "Since William's death, I have had
no thought on earth but to make my children happy and prosperous in
the world, yet I do not appear to have succeeded. Lena has made a poor
match, in opposition to my wishes, and Mary has some secret sorrow
preying on her; yet how carefully I trained them to avoid all romance
and love nonsense, and I thought at one time that Mary, at least, was a
model of sense and discretion; but I fear it is impossible to think so
any more. Can my teaching have been false? Oh, my children, do not make
me feel that I have been to blame in your regard,--you for whom alone
I have lived through these long twelve years of widowhood!" Then with
a sigh she stood up, and went to Mary's room to ask her what she would
like to do for the afternoon.
"To drive," was Mary's laconic answer. She had evidently given up
the projected visit to the Adairs. And well she might; for there was
nothing to be gained from it now. The tale which Mr. Maunsell had told
was to her as if she had been suddenly shown a mine of gunpowder, over
which her victims were unconsciously walking. She felt that she had but
to apply the match to it in order to blast their happiness to atoms;
and she revelled in this coming triumph of her revenge. Her excitement
was almost uncontrollable; it was killing her by inches, and she knew
it; but she could not relinquish her triumph. Come what would, she
must go to the ball and fire the mine; after that she resolved to give
herself up altogether into the hands of a doctor, and perhaps, even
then, she thought it might still be time to save her life.
Mary, having so many Catholic relations, knew--what Mr. Earnscliffe did
not--that Flora Adair, according to her religion, must look upon a man
who had got a divorce, but whose wife was still living, as a married
man. Therefore it was that Mr. Maunsell's revelations filled her heart
with such savage delight. She pictured to herself Flora's misery on
hearing it; her struggles between love and religion; Mr. Earnscliffe's
entreaties, reproaches, and final despair and indignation; and she
laughed bitterly as she thought over each detail of the suffering which
she was about to inflict. And if she could only make Flora believe that
Mr. Earnscliffe had intended to deceive her,--to marry her, although he
knew from the first that it would be no marriage to her,--then, indeed,
would her revenge be complete.
The eventful night arrived. But when Mary went up to dress she felt so
ill that she could scarcely stand, and as she sighed heavily her mouth
became full of blood. She spat it out hurriedly, and taking a bottle
of lavender drops, she put it to her lips, and held it there until she
felt herself reviving. She then put it down and corked it up, saying,
"I hope to-morrow will not be too late to see Dr. O----. But too late
or not, I cannot help it now; I must go on and take my chance for the
rest." She rang for her maid, and began to dress.
When she went into the drawing-room in her flowing white dress, covered
with light gauzy blue draperies, old as he was, Mr. Maunsell looked at
her admiringly, and said, "You are as good, my dear, I hope, as you are
handsome."
"But I am not, Mr. Maunsell," she answered impetuously; and her voice
trembled, for his words affected her strangely, and she did not speak
again until they were in the midst of that most brilliant of sights--a
ball at the Hotel de Ville in Paris; its vast _salles_ one blaze of
light, which together with the fountains, trees, and flowers, formed a
scene of fairy-like splendour.
The Eltons had not been there much more than a quarter of an hour when
the Adair party arrived, with Mr. Earnscliffe, and another gentleman
whom Mary did not know. Mrs. Adair was leaning upon the strange
gentleman's arm, and the two girls followed with Mr. Earnscliffe. Mary
longed to pounce upon her prey; but she considered that it would be
wiser to defer the final stroke until she could get Flora separated
from the others. However, she might go and speak to them at once; so
she said, "Mamma, there are the Adairs. Shall we go and join them?"
"If you like, dear," answered Mrs. Elton, watching her narrowly to try
and discover if Mr. Earnscliffe had really anything to do with her
feverish state of excitement. And when they got to the Adairs she did
imagine that she saw Mary's hand tremble as she shook hands with him,
whilst he scarcely touched hers. Mrs. Elton felt convinced that there
was some mystery connected with him, and resolved to speak to Mary
gravely about it to-morrow. She was so occupied with her own thoughts
that she scarcely noticed Mrs. Adair's saying to her, "Allow me to
introduce my son, Mr. Adair, to you, Caroline."
She bowed half mechanically, but recollecting herself, she said, "Oh,
_we_ must shake hands, Mr. Adair. Your mother and I are old friends;
we knew each other as girls. And here is my eldest daughter, Mary. You
have heard of her and her sister Helena from Flora, I dare say."
"If he _has_ not," thought Mary, as they shook hands, "he will hear of
me from her. So he has come over for the wedding! But he might have
spared himself the trouble, I can tell him. There will be _no_ wedding,
or else his sister must abjure the errors of Popery; but heaven forbid
that she should do so, for then my revenge would be frustrated!" and
her eyes glared on Flora.
Flora did not see that angry glance, but Mr. Earnscliffe did, and he
could not bear it. He felt that he must get Flora away; and turning
abruptly to her he said, "May I have the pleasure of dancing with you,
Miss Adair?"
It was a valse! Flora looked at him in astonishment, but took his
offered arm; and he led her away quickly into the crowd of dancers.
Flora could not understand it. She knew that he seldom danced himself,
and that he did not like her to valse; therefore she had determined
never to do so again, although _she_ saw nothing objectionable in it.
What, then, could have come over him to-night to make him propose
dancing it with her himself? And almost before she had time to recover
from her astonishment he whirled her round and round at such a pace
and holding her so tightly that she was quite out of breath when they
stopped after a very few minutes of it. He piloted her out of the crush
towards one of the fountains, where they found a nice shady seat
close at hand, and she was very glad to sit down. He stood before her,
looking at her anxiously, and said, "I fear I have tired you, Flora."
"Not tired me," she answered with a smile; "but you have put me
somewhat out of breath. And now do tell me what made you dance
to-night? I thought you disliked dancing,--valsing especially."
"Valsing is not disagreeable _sometimes_," he returned gaily. "But the
truth is that I wanted to get you away from those people; and I could
think of no other way of doing it but by proposing to dance. How heated
you look; where is your fan?"
"I gave it to mamma to hold for me whilst I arranged my necklace, just
before you asked me to dance."
"Then I will go and get it for you. I saw Mrs. Adair sit down near to
where we were standing."
"I do not want it, Edwin. Stay with me."
"Yes you do, dearest; you look so hot. I shall be back in a moment;"
and he hastened away. But he would not have gone had he seen Mary Elton
approaching from the other side, leaning on Mr. Maunsell.
"So here you are all alone, Flora," said Mary, going up to her.
"Yes," replied Flora. "Mr. Earnscliffe has just left me to go and get
my fan from mamma. I was heated after valsing."
"But, nevertheless, I dare say you enjoyed it with _such_ a partner.
And now let me wish you joy, Flora; I did not like to do it while
there were so many by." Flora blushed, but made no answer, as she
wondered how Mary had heard of her approaching marriage; and the latter
continued, "But I did not know that you Catholics recognised the law of
divorce, even for those who are not in your Church?"
Flora felt a sensation of icy cold creeping over her as she asked with
a gasp, "What do you mean, Mary?"
"Why, of course Mr. Earnscliffe has told you that he was obliged to
divorce his wife about two months after their marriage, and that she is
still living, and the wife of his rival. Mr. Earnscliffe's friend here,
Mr. Maunsell, knew _Mrs._ Earnscliffe very well."
Surely, even in this moment of her triumph, Mary must have felt a
touch of pity as she saw poor Flora's eyes close, and large drops of
perspiration burst out on her forehead; but with a supreme effort at
self-control, Flora opened her eyes, and looking at Mary, said, "You
were right when you supposed that we Catholics do not recognise the
law of divorce; but what this has to do with Mr. Earnscliffe I can't
see, for I have never said, nor has he, that there was any engagement
between us. Now, adieu for the present," and Flora turned away her
head. Mary thought she saw Mr. Earnscliffe coming, and not wishing to
meet him just then, she drew Mr. Maunsell away, but looked back with
an almost pitying glance at Flora, and murmured to herself, "She _is_
a brave girl! How she tried to bear up in order to save him from the
imputation of having deceived her! Yet the bare thought of it must
rankle in her heart. My revenge is working well!"
Meanwhile, Flora was writhing under this overwhelming blow. There was
not a ray of comfort for her on any side, and the javelin of distrust
which Mary had so cleverly barbed was lacerating her heart, although
she struggled with all her might to cast it from her. But did not
this fatal disclosure clearly explain Mr. Earnscliffe's hitherto
unaccountable dread of Mary Elton? To know that she must either give
up him whom she loved, or her religion, was--heaven knows!--torture
enough; but it would be nothing in comparison to being forced to
believe him to be unworthy of that love--a deceiver, in short; that
would be agony! and she exclaimed within herself, "No, it is not
so,--he is _true_, if heaven is true!"
At this moment Mr. Earnscliffe returned with the fan, but as he saw
Flora leaning back with closed eyes, and a look of terror in her face,
he cried, as he threw himself on the seat beside her, "Flora, speak,
are you ill? What is the matter?"
She looked at him earnestly, but did not answer; that look, however,
was enough to make her feel, "Yes, he _is_ true, and I cannot give him
up."
"Flora, dearest," he called again, "answer me! What is the matter with
you?"
"The heat, or something, has been too much for me. Take me home,
Edwin," she said, in a low, plaintive voice.
"You must take something first--wine--champagne--what shall I get you?"
"Oh, do not leave me again, Edwin!"
"Flora," he exclaimed, "something has happened during my absence which
has put you into this state; tell me what it is?"
"How hot it is," she murmured, putting her hand to her forehead.
"Good God! Flora, you are not going to faint, I hope." He stood up
hastily--"Take my arm, and let us get out upon one of the balconies;
the air will set you to rights."
She took his arm silently, and leaned heavily upon it, as she passively
allowed him to lead her where he liked. As soon as they got to the
balcony he put his arm round her waist, and said, "Now, my precious
one, tell me, what is it all about?"
She did feel a little revived, and it was so sweet to stand there in
the cool night air, with his strong protecting arm round her; but how
could she tell him what had happened? Yet she must do it, if it were
only to have her faith in his truth confirmed, so at last she said,
"Mary Elton"--she felt his arm tremble; it made her start, and she
asked, in a piteous tone of voice, "Edwin! what has made you dread Mary
Elton?"
"Go on, finish what you were going to tell me," was his only answer.
To obey him was like an instinct to Flora, and she began again
timidly, "Mary Elton and a Mr. Maunsell--I think that was the name
she said--came to me while you were away, and they began to talk of
your--your marriage, long ago."
"Well, dearest, but why should this affect you so? You remember, I told
you all about it at Achensee; how, a short time after I had obtained
possession of one whom I believed to be a treasure, I discovered that
she had betrayed me. Of course you understood that I got a divorce
immediately; indeed, I told you that I put the case into the hands of
my lawyers at once, and left England."
Flora forgot everything else in her wild joy at this perfect
vindication of his truth, and she buried her face on his shoulder; but
she was roused by his saying, as he placed his right hand on her head,
"Darling, you have not yet told me what it was that so frightened you."
She shook all over as the sad reality was recalled to her, and his
utter unconsciousness of what the fact of his first wife being still
alive was to a Catholic, increased her pain, as she answered, "I have
been very stupid, Edwin,--you did tell me everything of your past life,
with your own truth and honour, but I misunderstood you. I thought
that she of whom you spoke as having betrayed your love, was only your
betrothed, not your wife, and--and--" she could get no further, and
Mr. Earnscliffe said, quickly, "Flora, I don't understand you. What
difference does that mistake make to you? Do you love me less because
my misfortune has been deeper than even you supposed?"
"_Love_ you less, Edwin!--more--more if it were possible, but--" the
words came slowly, and with great agitation--"there is no--no such
thing as divorce in the eyes of--of a Catholic!"
It was like an electric shock to him, and his voice trembled with
emotion, as he cried, "But I was not married as a Catholic; your laws
cannot affect me! Flora Adair, you are not going to give me up for
this,--it can be but mere prejudice!"
Flora fell from his encircling arm on her knees to the ground beside
him, murmuring, as she clasped his hands in her own, "Ask me nothing
to-night,--I am bewildered and half maddened; take me to mamma now, and
to-morrow morning come to me and you shall know all. God help me!" and
Flora moaned aloud.
"Flora," he cried again, raising her from the ground, "do you expect
me to be able to pass the night in such suspense as this? If you are
half maddened now, what should I be by that time? But here are people
coming; I must take you out of this place. Can I not see you to-night
in your own house?"
"No, Edwin, that cannot be, unless I tell mamma and my brother, and
then perhaps they would never let me see you again. Do you wish me to
tell them?"
"No, no. I suppose it must be as you say. But if _you_ fail me--oh,
Flora, Flora!"
He said no more, but the agonised tone of his voice rang in Flora's
ears with a dull, heavy, crushing sound, and she whispered--
"Take me to the cloak-room, and then go for mamma and the others. I
shall escape observation better in that way. Tell mamma that I do not
feel well."
Mr. Earnscliffe silently did as Flora desired, and before many minutes
her party joined her; but Mr. Earnscliffe did not come with them. They
got into their carriage and drove home. Flora hurriedly said good-night
and went to her own room; and now that she was at last alone, and free
from restraint, "all the winds" of passion did indeed
"Leap forth, each hurtling each,
Met in the wildness of a ghastly war,"
which was about to be waged in her heart.... Will she come forth from
that war victorious, although wounded and heart-broken? or conquered
and fallen? Will her one mainstay--her firm conviction in the truth and
the divine authority of her religion--carry her triumphantly through
it? or will she sink under the enemy's sharp blows from want of that
child-like love and confidence in the goodness of God which would have
blunted their edge? Ah, who can tell? It is a fearful test to be
called upon to dash away the cup which human happiness is "uplifting,
pressing, and to lips like" hers! Let us, then, follow her into her
room and watch the warfare's course.
She fastened the door, threw aside her cloak, and tearing off her pearl
necklace--a gift of Mr. Earnscliffe's--as if its clasp round her neck
were choking her, she walked up and down the room with rapid steps, and
her hands nervously pressed together. At last she exclaimed--
"Great God! it is as if Thou didst sport with the heart of Thy
creature! It would seem as if it were to crush that heart with tenfold
force that Thou didst lead me through a youth of deep yearning after
some object worthy of devoting myself to unreservedly, until I met
one who filled the void; and then after opening up to me a vista of
happiness and of a blessed work to be accomplished--that of healing his
wounded spirit and leading it to the knowledge of truth which it has so
long sought for in vain--Thou callest upon me to give him up, and not
only that, but at the same time, with my own hand, to inflict on him a
blow which will cast him back into darkness and despair! Is this love
or justice?"
She stopped short in her quick walk, and stood before the window gazing
out on the now quiet, deserted avenue, and then she raised her eyes
slowly to the blue starry sky above, as if, indeed, she would cry with
Promethus--
"O majesty of earth, my solemn mother!
............ Earth and Ether,
Ye I invoke to know the wrongs I suffer."
With a groan she turned away, threw herself upon a chair, and covered
up her face with her hands; but after a few minutes she took them down,
and said slowly--
"But let me try to think calmly.... Perhaps I have been too hasty in
at once supposing that I must give him up. Marriage, except among
Catholics, is not a sacrament: it is merely a civil contract made by
law, and 'what the law can make it can break' is an old-established
maxim, therefore Edwin is evidently free." She paused; but again she
resumed her soliloquy. "Yet the Church, I know, does not recognise the
law of divorce even among those who are not her children; but if that
decree be against reason, justice, and charity, am I bound to submit to
it? It could not be a good deed to drive him to despair, and that, too,
without being able to give him any sufficiently sound reason--at least,
any which would appear so to him--for my conduct. He would think that
my love for him was not strong enough to make me give up--as he would
call it--a mere prejudice of my education. It would only make him
hate, and keep him away from, religious truth. No, I cannot do this.
There is no really good reason why I may not be your wife, my beloved,
and that I will be! So now it is decided, I will marry him; and having
begun the night in true heroine style, with a wild rhapsody, I had
better finish it like a rational person and go to bed. But _how_ I wish
that he had never been married, or that she" (Flora gave her no name)
"were dead!"
She stood up, took off her ball dress, put on her dressing-gown, and
began to take down her hair.
Has the battle, then, been fought and lost? Is Flora about to fall from
light to darkness? Will she be false to her own principle? Will she
cast herself into the chaos of uncertainty and shifting opinion from
which she would have drawn her lover? Does she forget, when she says
that her refusal to marry him would keep him away from religious truth,
that if she does marry him, she places a stronger barrier than ever
between him and it? Yet stay, the battle is not quite over; even if the
enemy has gained possession of the colours for the moment, they may be
regained by the poor combatant.
Flora had just finished unweaving the thick plaits of her hair, when
she impetuously dashed it back from off her face, exclaiming, as she
resumed her pacing up and down the room--
"What sophistry all this is with which I have been endeavouring to
satisfy myself! Religion declares that there can be no divorce but in
death; and Edwin Earnscliffe's--ah!--wife lives! Therefore, it is vain
to try to compromise between my religion and my love. I must choose
between them; and, O God, what a choice! Fool that I was! I said that
to refuse to marry him would keep him away from religious truth; but do
I not know that to consent to it is to deny the principle of certainty,
and to force him, even for my sake, to shut his eyes to truth? and thus
I should be a curse instead of a blessing to him, not only in time, but
in eternity. Edwin, I must bear your reproaches and your misery; but I
cannot be a curse to you! No--no!" And she fell upon her knees before
an ivory crucifix which stood on a little side table, murmuring, "My
God! now teach me to do Thy will!..."
And there let us leave her to find strength and grace, whilst we return
to the Hotel de Ville to see what has become of Mr. Earnscliffe.
When he left Flora in the cloak-room, he lost not a moment in seeking
out Mrs. Adair, with whom, fortunately, he found her son and Marie, so
that there was no delay in looking for any of the party, and they at
once hastened down to Flora. But Mr Earnscliffe had scarcely delivered
her message, when he felt his arm touched, and turning round he saw
Mary Elton standing beside her mother, who was sitting talking to some
ladies near her.
"Mr. Earnscliffe," Mary said, in a low, impressive manner, "do you
remember that I gave you a rendezvous that night in Naples? I am here
to keep it now. Will you take me into the refreshment-room?"
But without waiting for an answer, she took his arm. The touch of her
hand was like the sting of an adder to him. In common politeness,
however, he could not shake it off, and to avoid attracting attention
he moved on, but did not speak.
Mary's eyes burned like two balls of fire as she looked at Mr.
Earnscliffe silently for a moment or two; but with her iron will she
kept down the fire which was raging fiercely within her, for there must
be no scene, she must be outwardly cool and collected so as not to lose
any of the triumph of her revenge; and again she spoke in measured
accents. "Yes, Mr. Earnscliffe, I told you that night to dread me in
the hour when you only waited for religious rites to make Flora Adair
yours, and I promised to be near you then, so you see I have kept my
word. That night you spurned me for her sake--I who had known and loved
you before you ever saw her--and I swore, if it were in human power to
do it, that I would tear her from you. I have done that work to-night,
and _you_ will _now_ know what it is to have your love spurned and cast
aside by your own idol for the sake of some senseless code of doctrine.
And to render my revenge more full and overflowing, I have planted in
her heart the thorn of distrust by making it appear that you intended
to deceive her by concealing your former marriage."
"Fiend as you are," he exclaimed in a tone of suppressed passion, "you
have not succeeded in that! My peerless, trusting Flora believes in me
at this moment as fully as ever----"
"How do you know that?" she interrupted eagerly.
"Because I have spoken to her since you have been trying to poison her
mind against me."
Mary's coolness began to give way. Was it then possible that Flora
would disappoint her of her revenge by giving up her religion rather
than her lover? and she cried hotly, "And will she marry you all the
same?"
Mr. Earnscliffe ground his teeth with rage. He could not answer
that question confidently. He hesitated, and in a moment all Mary's
coolness came back to her. She guessed how it was: that Flora had been
too confused to give any decided answer, but at the same time that
he dreaded she would not marry him; and from that instant Mary felt
_sure_ of her revenge. So, resuming her calm, mocking tone, she said,
"To-morrow, I suppose, you will go to her, and your 'peerless, trusting
Flora' will say to you, 'I am very sorry, but my Church will not allow
me to marry you,' and your love, your misery, and your reproaches will
not be able to win from this passionless disciple of her Church's
teaching a single concession. It is I, too, who have brought all this
to bear, in order to requite you for your appreciation of the gift
which I once bestowed upon you; and my thanks are adequate, are they
not, Mr. Earnscliffe? Now take me back,--I have had all the refreshment
which I wanted."
Mr. Earnscliffe did not trust himself to answer. He feared to lose all
mastery over himself, for if ever a man could be tempted to forget
himself, he was then. Every member trembled with the intensity of his
passion as he muttered under his breath, "Demon, and worse than demon!
and yet I must allow her to go unchained."
As soon as Mary saw that they were near her mother, she let go his
arm, and making him a mockingly gracious bow, she said, "Good-night,
Mr. Earnscliffe, and happy dreams." He hurried downstairs, and dashing
on his opera hat, which he had in his hand, he walked out into the
_Place_, without ever thinking of asking for his coat, and it was
between five and six in the morning when he appeared at his hotel door
in full ball costume.
In the mean time Mary Elton stood for about five minutes beside Mrs.
Elton without speaking, and then said abruptly, "There is Mr. Maunsell,
mamma; ask him to have the carriage called, and let us go home."
Mrs. Elton had been speaking to some old acquaintances whom she had
unexpectedly met a few moments before, but now she looked up at Mary to
see what had caused this sudden fancy, and she felt really frightened
at her appearance. There were two deep red spots on her cheeks, and her
eyes glittered with a strange light. Mrs. Elton said, "Mary, you ought
not to have been allowed to come to this ball; would that I had not
consented to it; however you are right in wishing to go home now," and
she beckoned to Mr. Maunsell to come to her, and asked him to get the
carriage called.
When they stopped at their own door Mr. Maunsell got out first, then
Mrs. Elton, but Mary did not move, and her mother called, "Mary are you
asleep?"
No answer came, and Mrs. Elton exclaimed, "A light, for God's sake!"
The servant pulled out one of the carriage lamps and held it inside,
and there, with her head thrown back upon the cushions, and blood
trickling from her lips, they saw Mary.
"Oh my God!" cried her poor mother, whilst Mr. Maunsell and the servant
took Mary out of the carriage and carried her upstairs. Mr. Maunsell
bent down his ear to catch some words which she was trying to utter,
and as well as he could make out they were, "Telegraph for Lena."