The light which had dawned upon Mr. Earnscliffe showed him, indeed, the
sanctuary wherein truth was to be found, but it showed too how much was
required of him before he could be admitted within its precincts.
He who had passed in judgment the works of the great sages of old had
now to bend to instruction in the simple truths which every Christian
child knows; and he who had never acknowledged any other judge over
his actions save his own proud will, had now to unfold even his erring
heart's most secret thoughts to the apparently human tribunal at which
he had so often scoffed.
Nevertheless he quailed not before the ordeal, nor tried to turn away
his eyes from that truthful--yet to him dreadful--mirror, wherein
he saw, as in a magnifying glass, the greatness of his erring; the
terrible evil which his book might do in the world, and all the
suffering which he had so cruelly inflicted upon one who loved him
with rare devotedness, and to whom, in spite of himself, his heart had
ever clung with passionate attachment.
How vividly did the memory of their last interview rise up before him
as he remembered Flora's sad prophetic manner, when she said in answer
to his bitter reproaches, "It would be fearful to think that such a
sacrifice as mine should be made in vain! Truth _must_ dawn upon you
at last, though I may not live to see that day, and then, Edwin, you
_will_ do me justice."
His pulse seemed to stand still as he thought of what Mr. Blake had
told him--of the more than possibility that her words might be fully
verified--that she might die, just as he had learned to know the true
beauty and value of the treasure which he had so madly thrown away.
A feverish impatience to see her again took possession of him. "Yet,"
he thought to himself, "I must not go to her until I can take with me
the hard won flag of faith, and lay it at her feet as the glorious
trophy of her heroism. This very day I will go to Père d'Aubin, and ask
him to explain what is still dark to me in the faith for which she has
so valiantly suffered."
Père d'Aubin, or as the people called him, Padre d'Aubini, was a
Frenchman, who, when comparatively a young man, had been forced to
leave his country by ill-health, and although he was now quite well
again, he made no exertion to get himself removed from Capri.
His venerable appearance and genial manner had often attracted
Mr. Earnscliffe's attention. From a few accidental conversations,
too, which he had had with him, he knew him to be a man of no mean
acquirements, and one who must have seen much of the world in his
earlier days. Yet there he was, devoting himself to the spiritual care
of poor illiterate peasants, and making it seem that to be with them
and to do them good was happiness to him, although deprived of home and
friends and all real companionship. Heretofore he had been an enigma to
Mr. Earnscliffe, who could not ascribe his devotion to the priesthood,
as he habitually did that of others, to ignorance, or desire of
self-aggrandisement.
Père d'Aubin might well have been called learned, yet he sought not a
field where that learning could have been displayed, and have gained
for him power and fame. What then _was_ it that rendered him apparently
happy in the humble, simple life which he led on this poor island?
This question was one of the many riddles which by degrees were being
solved for Mr. Earnscliffe; and he felt that he could have no better
guide in the path of truth than Père d'Aubin.
On arriving at his hotel his first work was to open his desk, take out
Flora's letter which he had thrust into one of its corners, and press
it to his lips. After a moment or two, however, of indulgence in old
and sweet memories, he said, "But I must hasten on with the great work
which is before me; then I will go to her and----and, yes I feel it,
she will return me good for evil; the measure of her love and goodness
will exceed even the measure of my offences."
Great was Père d'Aubin's wonder when his simple untrained servant burst
into his room and whispered in an important tone, "_Il gran Signor
Inglese_."
Père d'Aubin, however, rose to receive his unexpected visitor, with
that dignified courtesy of manner which so characterised him; and his
surprise was soon changed into joy as he learned why Mr. Earnscliffe
had thus sought him. Then with sincere emotion he bade him be
welcome--thrice welcome, to the home of his eternal Father.
As Père d'Aubin gradually unfolded to him the science of Christianity,
he began to understand the Saviour's words, "_To you it is given
to know the mysteries of the Kingdom of Heaven, but to them only
in parables_"--for now indeed he found the key to all the _living_
mysteries which he saw carried on and perpetuated around him, and which
not all the philosophers of ancient or modern times had ever been able
to explain to him.
It would be vain to say that _all_ his difficulties were over now--that
the ascent from doubt and negation to the portals of _super_natural
truth was henceforth plain and easy. On the contrary, every step on
that upward road required a new effort--an effort made too at the
cost of some old feeling or preconceived idea which early association
and habit had rendered dear and familiar. But Mr. Earnscliffe did not
want for courage, and his will being now submissive, he was able to
recognise the proofs which he had hitherto _chosen_ to ignore,--so
bravely he fought "the good fight."
It was only after a conference of several hours that he left Père
d'Aubin, but during that time the great victory had been gained,
although he felt that there were many points upon which he still
required much instruction. Yet the time was very short, as he was
anxious to be able to sail for Marseilles without delay.
Accordingly he again sought Père d'Aubin at an early hour the next
morning, and remained with him until he was obliged to go in order to
keep his appointment with Mr. Blake.
With emotion, such as perhaps few men can ever feel, was Mr.
Earnscliffe's heart brimming over as he entered Mr. Blake's room and
related the effect which his conversation of yesterday had had upon
him. How it had all at once illumined his mind and brought about his
seemingly sudden conversion,--"only _seemingly_ sudden," he continued,
"for it was but the full development of thoughts and feelings which
have for a long time been knocking at my heart, but to which I, in my
great pride, deemed it weakness to listen. Once more I thank you for
having made me see myself as I am, and for having thus helped to break
down the barriers which separated me from truth and happiness. Now,
perhaps, Flora may yet be mine."
Mr. Blake's good-natured interest in the happiness of his niece's
friend prevailed over his natural feelings of annoyance upon being told
that he himself had been instrumental in this work, and he exclaimed
heartily, "Upon my soul, I can't be very sorry for this, though of
course I think you are deluding yourself sadly in going so far. It will
be such joy, however, to that poor girl that it would be almost cruel
to her to try and convince you of the extravagance of your present
feelings. I suppose you intend to start for Paris immediately."
"Yes, I go by the direct service to Marseilles to-morrow evening.
My object in coming here to-day was twofold: to thank you for the
priceless good which you have done me, and to ask you where the Adairs
are staying in Paris. I would ask you too for more information about
_her_ health, only that I dread to hear unfavourable answers."
"And much better not to ask me, my dear sir, as I could only tell you
what the medical advisers say,--and it is quite plain that they cannot
do much for her; but I have little doubt that you will prove a far more
efficient doctor in _her_ case than any of them, and under your care I
dare say all the bad symptoms will gradually disappear. I have not told
you, however, where they are staying,--at the Hotel de Douvres, Rue de
la Paix. They are waiting for the marriage of a Mademoiselle Arbi with
a countryman of ours--Lord Barkley. It will take place, I believe, the
end of next week."
"Ah! so little Marie Arbi is going to be married! She was to have been
Flora's bride's-maid,--now I suppose it will be the other way. But I
must not think of all that now. I shall be in Paris before then at
all events; and God grant that it may be as you say, that I who have
caused Flora's illness may have the power to cure it!"
Mr. Earnscliffe buried his face in his hands and remained silent for a
few minutes; then standing up, he said in a husky voice, "Mr. Blake,
you see how unfitted I am for any companionship save that of my own
thoughts. To-morrow morning I am to be received into the Church; I
suppose I must not ask you to be present at _such_ a ceremony, but I
will pray for you then as for one of my greatest benefactors. I may
depend upon you, I am sure, not to name me even when you write to your
niece; and now good-bye, and may God bless and reward you!"
They pressed each other's hands silently, for neither felt inclined
to speak. Great agitation affects even unconcerned bystanders, so Mr.
Blake could not witness unmoved that of Mr. Earnscliffe.
There are in the lives of some persons such thrilling extremes of joy
and sorrow that it is difficult to write of them without appearing to
use extravagant language. One of these extremes Mr. Earnscliffe felt as
he repaired on the following morning to the little church of Capri, to
enter fully into the communion of the faithful.
In the humble, unpretending sanctuary, adorned only by the natural
flowers with which the loving hands of Maria and Anina had decked it,
knelt the once proud, scoffing Earnscliffe. Behind him were "poor,
ignorant" Italians; but before him, on the altar steps, stood the
priest of God, who, having administered to him the sacraments of
Baptism and Penance, was now about to admit him to the Divine Feast
which our heavenly Father bade _His servants_ to prepare for His
children on their return home. To portray worthily even the outward
features of the scene in that little church would require the pencil of
a Beato Angelico.
"The joy of a faithful people" could now indeed be seen sparkling in
the expressive countenances of the humble witnesses of this august
ceremony; and at its close there was scarcely a dry eye in the whole
church. Almost immediately after it was over Père d'Aubin was obliged
to hurry Mr. Earnscliffe into the sacristy in order to save him from
their tumultuous congratulations; and as the good _père_ pressed him
in his fatherly arms, and called upon God to bless him with all good
gifts, Mr. Earnscliffe fairly sobbed like a child.
A gentle knock was heard at the door: Père d'Aubin opened it, and there
stood Anina, trembling with eagerness to see her dear _Signore_, and
carrying in her hand the little statue of the Madonna which he had
given her long ago.
Père d'Aubin looked round at Mr. Earnscliffe to see if he wished that
she should be admitted, but he said aloud, "_Vieni figlia mia_,--my
little guardian angel, I do believe, who gained for me the blessed
_Madonna's_ intercession!"
Anina sprang into his arms, saying, "You see, Signore, I have brought
her statue with me, because now I know you will not be sorry that you
gave it to me."
"Sorry! Ah, no!" he exclaimed, as he reverently took the statue from
her and placed it on the table.
A feast had been prepared in the garden of the priest's house for the
poor people; but Anina said that they were all waiting to see the
signore before they would begin the repast; "And will the Signore not
come?" she added, pleadingly.
"Yes, _carina_," he answered, "but I can only stay a moment, as I must
start for Naples immediately. You remember, little one, that I told you
I should be obliged to go, but I will come back very soon, and, I hope,
bring with me a lady whom you must love even better than you love me."
The child shook her little head at this, and gently drew the signore
towards the garden. Père d'Aubin accompanied them in compliance with
a look from Mr. Earnscliffe, which meant "Come with us, for I depend
upon you to get me away quickly."
Accordingly he and Père d'Aubin soon left the good Italians to their
feasting, and walked slowly back to the hotel.
As Mr. Earnscliffe received his spiritual father's parting benediction,
he murmured, "Pray that all may be well with Flora, and she will know
how to thank you for what you have been to me."
* * * * *
Marie's marriage was celebrated some days earlier than had been
originally intended, in order that the Adairs might be free to leave
Paris as soon as possible.
At nine o'clock on the morning of Saturday, the 15th of October, the
wedding party assembled in the Church of St. Thomas d'Aquin. The little
bride looked pale, but charmingly pretty, in her long flowing dress of
rich white satin, and veil of delicate lace, which descended nearly to
her feet.
Near her stood her first bride's-maid, Flora Adair. She too was pale,
but, unlike Marie, no joyous light beamed from her eyes to redeem that
paleness; and, as the ceremony proceeded, it seemed only to increase.
At the close of the Mass, and as Lord Barkley led his now blushing
bride down the aisle, Flora whispered to Colonel de St. Severan, "Will
you take mamma and Mina in your carriage, and let me return to the
hotel. I do not feel strong enough to be at the breakfast, but if I can
I will see Marie before she goes away. I must tell mamma, and then, I
hope, you will help me to get home quietly."
Colonel de St. Severan made some remonstrance, but as Flora--after
saying a few words to her mother--looked up in his face, he saw that
she was scarcely able to stand, and quickly drawing her hand within his
arm, he took her at once to the carriage, and desired Marie's maid to
go with her to the hotel.
When they arrived there, Flora thanked the maid for having left the gay
scene to accompany her, desired the coachman to drive her back, and
slowly went upstairs.
That wedding had been, indeed, too much for her. She only just reached
the sofa in time to save herself from falling; feebly she loosened the
strings of her light tulle bonnet, and let it drop unheeded upon the
floor, and murmured, "Edwin! if I could only see you once more, and you
would believe in me, I should die happy! But perhaps he has ceased to
be angry with me--ceased even to think of me! Yet no, he is not one
likely to forget; it was not forgetfulness that made him so cruel as
not even to acknowledge the receipt of my letter. Ah! how differently
he felt when he gave me this!"
Flora took from the little table beside her a beautifully bound and
illustrated edition of Schiller's "William Tell," and sought out that
scene between Rudenz and Bertha, the opening lines of which were so
imprinted on her heart that she needed not a book to recall them to her
memory; yet she loved to read them over and over again, out of _his_
present, and dream of the happy evening when he spoke them to her.
To-day, however, as she came to the last line, she burst into a fit of
sobbing, and the page became wet with her tears. At length, exhausted
by her own emotion, she fell asleep....
Meanwhile, Mr. Earnscliffe had travelled post-haste, or rather
steam-haste, from Naples. He reached Marseilles late on Thursday
evening, and the following night he took possession of his old Paris
quarters, in the Rue Castiglione--the Hotel de Londres.
That night seemed to him an eternity--an eternity which separated him
from the object of all his hopes. Vainly he tried to still the beating
of his heart, so as to consider _calmly_ what he should do in the
morning. Should he go at once to Mrs. Adair, or should he write to her?
But neither of these plans pleased him,--he could not think of anything
to say or to write to Mrs. Adair, nor indeed of aught save Flora
herself; and thinking of her put every other thought to flight, for it
conjured up visions which made him feel hot and cold by turns, as they
varied from bright to dark and dark to bright.
Thus the night dragged through, and morning found him still more
feverish and incapable of forming any definite idea of how he was to
get over the interview with Mrs. Adair. He had quite discarded the idea
of writing--and knew not how to reach Flora's presence; but see _her_
he must, and as soon as possible, for he could bear this suspense no
longer.
He, of course, knew nothing of the change about Marie's wedding, and
naturally supposed that the Adairs would certainly be at home about ten
in the morning. Much after this his impatience would not permit him to
wait.
The distance from the Rue Castiglione to the Rue de la Paix was so
short that Mr. Earnscliffe preferred to walk; he hoped, besides, that
the air and exercise would tend to calm him, yet it was in a hardly
steady voice that he asked at the Hotel de Douvres for Madame Adair.
The concierge looked to see if the key was in its appointed place,
and not seeing it, he answered the question in the affirmative, and
indicated the _étage_ and number of their apartment.
Tremblingly Mr. Earnscliffe knocked at the door, but he heard no
answer. Again he knocked,--still no answer. Could the concierge have
been mistaken about their being at home? They might have gone out and
have taken the key with them.
A sickening feeling of disappointment crept over him, and he was moving
away, when it occurred to him that this door might only be an outer
one, and that consequently his knocking might not have been heard, even
if they were at home.
He went back and turned the handle. It _was_ an outer door, and closing
it behind him, he advanced to an inner one which was partly open.
The sight which that half-open door disclosed to his view arrested
his steps on the very threshold, and he stood for a moment like one
transfixed.
There was Flora, in that strange, half-bridal costume, stretched
upon the sofa, seemingly almost lifeless. Those closed eyes--that
pallor--what did it all mean? And striking his forehead with his
clenched hand he murmured, "O God, make not my punishment greater than
I can bear!"
Then stealing softly over to the sofa he knelt down beside her and
listened with rapture to the low sound of her breathing, even whilst he
marked the hectic appearance of her complexion; and well he remembered
how different it was formerly!
He tried to keep himself quiet in order not to disturb her, but as
he looked at the little thin hand, resting upon the open book as if
pointing even in sleep to those words of Rudenz', he could not resist
the temptation to touch it with his lips.
Even sleep could not deaden Flora's sense of that electric touch;
she started up, and gazing at him as one risen from the dead, cried,
"Edwin!"
He, too, sprang to his feet, held open his arms, and forgetting all his
intended prayers for pardon, he merely exclaimed, "My ever loved one!
your words have come true--your sacrifice has won for me the light of
Divine truth, and at last I do you justice! Flora, will you come to me
now?"
To her, his presence, his words, were like the rays of a fierce sun,
which darted in at her eyes, at her ears, and piercing to her very
brain, made her reel with delight, and she sank insensible into his
arms.
We have all read the fable of the statue into which life was infused by
the strength of the sculptor's passion. Thus did the ancients symbolise
the power of love. May we not then justly infer that Flora did not
remain very long insensible in Mr. Earnscliffe's arms! And afterwards,
as she listened to his recital of the dawning and progress of that
supernatural light which now shone upon him, and recognised throughout
her own influence in leading him to it, full indeed was her cup of
happiness--happiness such as she could never have known had she not
purchased it so dearly!...
* * * * *
To live in the enjoyment of fame and honour is not necessarily the
reward of a brave soldier, and how often is the bravest cut down in
the full flush of victory! When perhaps he has achieved some glorious
deed, and is revelling in the proud consciousness of having served his
country, the fatal blow falls, and with a last struggle he yields up
the life which had just become so doubly dear to him.
Even so is it with the bravest soldiers in the great battle of life
itself. The joys of earth were not the especial reward promised to
them, and as they too are revelling in delight over some victory,
so great that they had not dared to look forward to its achievement
upon earth, they are often called upon to relinquish the sweet human
happiness already within their grasp. It is the final test of courage
and sacrifice which the Divine Commander asks at their hands, in order
to crown all their past brave deeds, and entitle them to a still higher
place in the realms of unfading glory and bliss, where the souls of
those who have _truly_ loved here below will be united, to part no
more, but to endure for ever in God.... Such a triumph of the spirit
over the flesh is great indeed, but oh! how painful to our poor weak
human nature! Therefore we will not stay to witness it, but will bid
Flora Adair and Edwin Earnscliffe good-bye in their short hour of
ineffable happiness.
THE END.
Transcriber's Notes:
Italic text is represented by underscores. OE ligatures have been
expanded.
Chapter II is printed as Chapter XVIII in the original.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistent and archaic spelling choices have been preserved
(including hyphenation, use of both -ise and -ize, "Rudens"/"Rudenz",
"secresy", "doating", "overweaning", and "Promethus").
Page 20, "mireuch" changed to "mir euch" (ihr mit mir euch in)
Page 33, single closing quote added (hope of attaining it?'...)
Page 81, "rocognise" changed to "recognise" (time to recognise them)
Page 136, "recal" changed to "recall" (in mercy recall not)
End of Project Gutenberg's Flora Adair, Vol. 2 (of 2), by A. M. Donelan