What a delightful yet wakeful night did Flora spend in thinking over
the events of the evening!... When Mr. Earnscliffe's voice fell
upon her ear she was musing sadly on the weariness of life, and the
emptiness of its ordinary pleasures. And if perchance one did get a
glimpse of something like real enjoyment, it came, she thought, only
to vanish. But the vibration of that voice put to flight all her blue
devils, or rather transformed them into bright airy spirits with rosy
wings.... And now as she lay awake in bed, she kept repeating over to
herself all that she could remember of that last hour's conversation.
It was a habit of hers this repeating over to herself conversations
which had given her great pleasure: it recalled the tones and look
which accompanied the words; it was a clinging to, and an effort to
reproduce that which had filled her heart with delight.
Unfortunately for Flora, she did not love religion so as to find in it
a centre round which all her thoughts and actions could revolve; and
without such a centre--as we have seen--she found existence wearisome.
For a while, indeed, her faith had been a little tottering; but,
happily, this momentary wavering had been conquered. From the time
when she first began to think upon such subjects, she felt that there
could be no medium between mere Rationalism and Faith in a Divine
teaching authority upon earth, or Christianity in all its fulness....
She thought and read, until reason itself--aided by God's grace--showed
her that the Authority which had existed and grown with the growth of
mankind--like all life, of which God alone can be the author--must
necessarily be Divine; ... that Religion--or the tie which re-unites
fallen man to God--had been revealed by God from the beginning; ...
that it is the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever; ... that this
Divine Word, spoken to the Patriarchs--written by Moses--in the fulness
of time became Incarnate, and left the Spirit of Truth itself to lead
that Divine teaching Authority into all Truth, and will so lead it
until the end of time.... In this faith she now believed with unshaken
firmness, yet she had none of the practical piety of Marie.
Most applicable to Flora are Lady Georgiana Fullerton's beautiful
words in "Lady Bird."... Speaking of characters in whom a craving for
excitement is a disease, she says--"There is but one cure for it, call
it what you will: self-education, not for this world, but for the next.
The work of life understood; perfection conceived and resolutely aimed
at; the dream of human happiness resigned, and in the same hour its
substance regained; the capital paid into the other world, and the
daily unlooked-for interest received in this."... But to "resign the
dream of human happiness" is just what Flora finds it so hard to do,
especially on that night when lying with unclosed eyelids, and a happy
smile hovering about her lips, she whispered over the words which had
been such music to her during the evening, and then added, "How nice it
would be if I could die now before this brightness has faded out of my
life, as it will do so soon!... What a mercy it would be not to have to
go back to the old, weary, objectless life again!"
You see, reader, how faulty a character our heroine is: she could toil
patiently for anything which she prized highly, and at no self-denial
would she hesitate in order to attain the goal; but passive submission
to suffering, or even to the absence of happiness, tried her sorely.
Byron says strongly, but truly--
"Quiet to quick bosoms is a hell;"
and so, indeed, did Flora find it, although as yet she only knows what
the "absence of happiness" is; ... the suffering has yet to come.
By half-past nine the next morning she and Marie were walking up and
down the terrace walk which gives on the Grand Canal. They were talking
eagerly, and the subject was an interesting one, to Marie at least....
Flora was sorry to find that Marie loved Mr. Barkley more deeply than
she at first imagined; for although she believed that if Marie were
never to see him again she would bear it patiently, be apparently
contented, and perhaps even marry any one whom the de St. Severans
chose, yet she felt that all the bright joyousness of her youth and
character would be gone--buried in the grave of her first love. Flora
was sorry for it--very sorry; but as it was so, she thought it would
be cruel, as well as unwise, not to let her talk of him: it would do
her less harm than to brood silently over the past. Then, in speaking
of him--of his tastes and inclinations--Flora found an opportunity of
naming books upon different subjects which interested him; and because
they were connected with him, Marie would listen to what Flora said of
them, ask questions, and generally end by declaring that she would read
them.... They had been talking in this way to-day, when suddenly, and
looking up inquiringly, Marie said--
"You do not think me good enough--clever enough--for Mr. Barkley,
Flore?"
"You not _good_ enough for him, Mignonne!" answered Flora, smiling.
"Why, you are a little angel, and he is a very weak mortal; and you
could be _clever_ enough for him, too, if you chose to exert yourself
a little. I know that study does not suit my Mignonne's African
indolence, or French _esprit volage_. Nevertheless, everything is
comparatively easy when done for those whom we like. But remember,
Marie, there is scarcely any hope that you and he will ever come
together; so, for the sake of your own peace, try not to think so
much of him: study, because it will be an occupation to you and a
_resource_, rather than to please one who may never be more to you
than he is now. You know how it pains me to say these things to you,
dearest; but it is to save you, if possible, from any more suffering."
"I _do_ know it, Flore, and I will try to do as you say, and not think
too much of him; but----" she broke off with a sigh, and added in a
different tone--"There is the gondola."
"Then I must go to tell mamma. I hope she is ready!"
And away flew Flora. What would she not rather lose than one of the
precious moments which awaited her at the Belle Arti? for they were to
meet Mr. Earnscliffe there.
Scarcely had they started from the hotel steps when Flora descried a
gondola coming from the opposite direction; and although the features
of its occupant were not distinguishable as he reclined beneath the
awning, she knew from the first that it was Mr. Earnscliffe as well as
when he got out at the Accademia, and waited to hand them on shore.
"At what time shall we desire the gondola to come for us?" asked Mrs.
Adair.
"Do not desire it to come at all, Mrs. Adair," said Mr. Earnscliffe,
before Flora had time to answer. "Allow me to take you home in mine,
and my gondolier shall sing for you: he has a very fine voice."
"Thank you," rejoined Mrs. Adair, and she dismissed their gondola.
This was not a first visit to the Accademia for any of the party;
and to Mr. Earnscliffe it was as familiar as such a little world of
paintings could be to any one who did not habitually live in its
vicinity. This gallery is perhaps richer than that of any other city
in Italy in the works of Titian, Domenichino, Jacobo Tintoretto, and
the two Palmas; and besides these, it is enriched by the productions of
many of the most celebrated names in the history of painting, belonging
to foreign schools, as well as to Italy's own. So our friends spent a
most agreeable time there, and only regretted that it was a farewell
visit.
When they came out, Mr. Earnscliffe said--
"Do you wish to go back at once to your hotel, Mrs. Adair? or shall we
row to the Lido and bid the Adriatic adieu? It is such a lovely day,
and your last in Venice, that it would be a pity not to spend as much
of it as you can in these delightful _gondole_."
The proposal was accepted. Flora wondered what could have come over Mr.
Earnscliffe to make him thus seek to be with them. She thought of the
last time that they had looked at pictures together,--it was at the
Farnese Palace. How disappointed she had been on that day, and now, how
more than realised were all her dreams of the pleasure of visiting such
places with one like him.
"Must you really go to-morrow, Mrs. Adair?" he asked.
"Yes, it is all arranged; we go to-morrow to Verona, thence to Botzen;
we shall spend a little time at Meran, and then cross the Brenner to
Innsbruck."
"And how will you cross? Will you take a carriage?"
"That would be the most agreeable way, but as we are three ladies,
without even a courier, I suppose it would not do; ... we must take
the _coupé_ of the public conveyance,--there is always protection in
numbers, you know."
"If it is only the want of an escort which prevents your enjoying the
convenience of travelling by a private carriage," said Mr. Earnscliffe,
after a moment's hesitation, "I can supply that deficiency, if you will
permit me to join you."
"It is very kind of you, indeed, to offer to hamper yourself with
us, particularly as--according to what Flora says--you have such a
sovereign contempt for women, without exception."
"_Without exception!_ Does Miss Adair say so?" he asked, looking
intently at her.
"Could I think or speak otherwise of your sentiments towards us, after
that night at Mrs. Elton's?" she replied, blushing.
"Perhaps not, but will you never forget that night?... Can I make _you_
no sufficient atonement, Miss Adair?"
"You _have_ made more than sufficient atonement by offering to
travel with three of us; it is really quite heroic and saint-like,
thus voluntarily to impose such a penance upon yourself; I declare,
notwithstanding all your hatred to Rome, you would make an excellent
Catholic."
"If _such_ were the only penances practised by your saints, and the
only objection to Rome, I admit I should make an excellent Catholic."
"Well, perhaps you may some day."
"I should say not, Miss Adair.... No doubt an hour sometimes works
wonderful revolutions, breaks down even the convictions of years;
but, unless you can make me believe that black is white, I see no
possibility of such a change as that."
"Alas! I am not an enchantress, but if I were one I should only have to
touch your mental vision with a wand to make 'the scales fall' from it,
and instead of making you believe that 'black is white'--which would
be false--you would be enabled to see the snowy white of the mountain
above you, whose very brilliancy before had dazzled you so that you
called it black!"
"This is all very pretty and poetic, Miss Adair; more so, I fear, than
true," he answered with a smile. Then turning to Mrs. Adair, he said,
"But we have not arranged about the journey--where shall we meet?"
"Ah!" thought Flora, "I see he is determined to have as little of us
as possible; he will not come _with_ us now, but only meet us and
see us across the pass; it is a sort of reparation for his speech at
Mrs. Elton's; and yet, at times, he almost makes me think that it is
something more, that he really likes to be with _me_; but of course it
is not so, he merely prefers talking to me instead of to Marie, whom
he considers a child. However, be his motive what it may, I should
be content if the present could only last." She was so occupied with
these thoughts that she scarcely heard her mother's answer: "Then if
you will come and spend the evening with us, we can make all our plans
comfortably."
"With pleasure," replied Mr. Earnscliffe; "and now would you like to
have some singing? Although Byron says--
'In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,
And songless rows the silent gondolier,'
memory is not quite dead; there are some who still love and remember
those echoes."
They all expressed the great pleasure which they would have in
hearing the songs, and Mr. Earnscliffe said to the foremost man,
"Paolo,--Jacobo, I mean,--will you sing something for the ladies?"
Then he added, "I am always calling him Paolo; it was the name of my
favourite boatman at Capri. There is quite a story about his little
child,--I must tell it to you some day, Miss Adair."
Notwithstanding all Flora's sage reasoning about his merely preferring
to talk to her rather than to Marie, she felt a glow of pleasure steal
over her as she observed that he almost always addressed her. "Thank
you," she rejoined, "I shall be so glad to hear about Naples and its
neighbourhood, particularly as I never expect to see it."
"_Chi lo sa?_ Miss Adair, ... and you would admire Capri so much!...
But I see that Jacobo is waiting for us to be silent."
Jacobo sang of the past glories of Venice, his countenance changing
with every varying feeling as he kept time to the melody with his oar
and the easy graceful motion of his body; now and then his companion
joined in, and the two voices seemed to blend together and float away
over the waters--the rich swelling tones of Jacobo's tenor and the deep
bass notes of the other.
Reader, have you ever known what it is to recline in a gondola, shaded
from the sun by its curtained roof, and the gentle motion, and
the soft sound of the oars as they rise and fall, lulling you into
dreamland? If at the same time you have heard rich voices poured forth
in song whilst you basked in the presence of one dear to you, you have
known a luxury of enjoyment!... How feeble are words to tell what its
delight to Flora was. More than once she felt that Mr. Earnscliffe's
eyes rested upon her, although she did not look up; she dreaded that
even a movement might break the spell, and so she sat there immovably
with half-closed eyes, drinking in all the sweetness of the hour....
Jacobo sang song after song until they reached the mouth of the
Adriatic, and then he asked if they would like to go out upon the
open sea. Flora--who only thought of how she could prolong the
time--answered eagerly in the affirmative, and complimented Jacobo on
his singing,--said that they were really delighted with it.
After they had gone a short way on the Adriatic and enjoyed the fresh
breeze which then blew over it, Mrs. Adair proposed that they should
return, saying that it would be tolerably advanced in the afternoon
before they got home, and they had all their preparations to make for
to-morrow's journey.
At their hotel stairs Mr. Earnscliffe wished them good-bye until
the evening, and as his gondola sped down the canal, the girls stood
watching it as they leaned over the balustrade, till Mrs. Adair said--
"Well, young ladies, are you going to stand there, not star--but,
water-gazing all day? At this rate we shall have packed but little
before evening."
She entered the hotel, followed by the girls; and now we shall leave
them to that most interesting of occupations--packing, but revisit them
with Mr. Earnscliffe in the evening.
About eight o'clock, then, as they sat in one of the arbours, where
they had ordered tea to be served, they heard the sound of a serenade.
"It is Jacobo's voice!" exclaimed Flora, and she walked quickly to the
railing to look for the expected gondola. In a few minutes more Mr.
Earnscliffe stood beside her, and she said--"What a sweet serenade! It
is certainly a very poetic way of announcing one's approach to friends!"
"Yes," he answered, smiling, "although in olden days--and above all,
in Italy--it was scarcely to _friends_ that one's approach was so
announced."
It struck Flora forcibly at this moment how much pleasanter it would
be to stand there talking to Mr. Earnscliffe about the poetry of
serenades, than to join the others and take tea; but she knew that it
could not be, and so, with a half-smothered sigh, she said--
"You see mamma and Marie in the arbour, Mr. Earnscliffe? Will you go to
them whilst I desire tea to be brought up?"
"Cannot I spare you that trouble? I can order it."
"Thank you. I think I had better go myself. The hotel people do not
know you. Please to go to the arbour."
"I obey," he rejoined, as he smilingly raised his hat, and went towards
the arbour.
Flora was not a second absent, and as soon as tea, and the ices by
which it was followed, were finished, the travelling plans were
discussed. The Adairs expected to get to Meran about the fourth day
after they left Venice; and it was agreed that Mr. Earnscliffe should
meet them there, at the Post Hotel, and then they could engage the
carriage for crossing the Brenner.
By the time that all this was settled it was past nine. Marie
complained of having a headache, and went to bed, and Mr. Earnscliffe
said--
"How beautiful the scene is from the terrace on such a night as this,
Miss Adair."
"Yes; it is most lovely," she replied, rising, and going towards the
walk spoken of. He followed her, and they leaned over the balustrade as
he named to her the different buildings by which they were surrounded,
and which she, being less familiar with Venice than he was, failed to
recognise, shrouded as they now were in the dark hues of night.
He ceased speaking, and for a few moments they remained silent, until
Flora said, "Now, Mr. Earnscliffe, tell me about Capri and your
favourite boatman there."
They walked up and down, as he described to her Capri, its rocky
heights, its views, and the celebrated Blue Grotto. Then he told her
Anina's story. He passed lightly over the episode with Mr. Elliot
in the morning, but detailed fully the good doctor's history after
dinner. He dwelt upon the picture of the Englishman sitting on the
rocks sketching, and the young wife leaning her little hands on his
shoulders, and looking down so fondly at him, that even the old man
envied him. Mr. Earnscliffe stopped, and Flora felt that _he_ was now
looking down on her; she did not dare to believe that it was "fondly;"
nevertheless, there crept over her a delicious sensation of happiness.
It was not a picture that a girl could well contemplate unmoved, when
held up to her by the man whom she loved, as she walked by his side in
the starlight; and now, if never before, Flora admitted to herself that
she did love Mr. Earnscliffe.
After a momentary pause he continued, describing Anina's asking for the
Madonna, her delight with the statue, then her passionate grief at his
departure. Suddenly he changed the subject, and said, "I have not told
you that I saw your friends, the Eltons, at Naples; indeed, I dined
with them the day before I left Capri. I also saw another friend of
_yours_ at Naples--Mr. Lyne!"
How grateful she felt to the night whose darkness hid the bright blush
which this name called up; and she wondered if Mr. Earnscliffe could
have heard that she had refused him, and if that could in any way be
the cause of the great change in his manner to her. His words on the
night of his arrival, about the individual injustice to her of which
he had been guilty, seemed to imply something of the kind. Ah! if this
were the case, she had, indeed, cause to hope! She found it somewhat
difficult to steady her voice, as she answered, "Indeed! And how are
the Eltons?"
"Quite well, I believe," he rejoined hurriedly; for at that moment
there recurred to him the memory of Mary Elton, as she stood before
him that evening in the shrubbery, with flashing eyes, and also as she
appeared to him afterwards in his dream; and he quite shuddered.
"Are you cold, Mr. Earnscliffe?" asked Flora, in a tone of surprise.
"No. It was one of those unaccountable shudders which sometimes come
over one.... But I am keeping you and Mrs. Adair up; it must be nearly
ten, and of course you would like to go to bed early to-night. I will
go and wish Mrs. Adair good-night."
He left her; and again she leaned over the balustrade, and thought
that going to bed was the last thing in the world that she would like
to do. His voice, sounding close beside her, startled her, as he said,
"Good-bye, Miss Adair! Will you believe it? it is half-past ten. How
unconscionably I have kept you up."
"No, indeed, you have not. It is my last night in Venice, and I would
not have had it shortened for anything.... Good-bye."
He took her hand and held it in his, as he said, "This is better than
the night at Mrs. Elton's."
"That it is," she returned heartily. "That night was not a pleasant one
to me; nor was your parting speech a pleasant one to hear."
"I am sorry that I annoyed you; did I _really_ do so?"
"Of course you did; you were so unjust, as I have said before."
"I was horribly so, to _you_. And so, once more, Miss Adair, I ask you
to forgive me."... He let go her hand, sprang down the stairs and into
his gondola, in which he stood waving his hat to her as Jacobo pushed
off, and again sang a serenade.
As the sound of the voice came fainter and fainter over the water, and
at last died away, Flora murmured, "Venice!... now indeed art thou to
me 'as a fairy city of the heart.'"
Flora went to the arbour, where Mrs. Adair was putting up her work; and
they both returned to their rooms.... Here was another wakeful night
for Flora. She could not sleep; for a soft voice seemed to whisper
every now and then the words, "He loves you." But Flora was determined
to be wise, and not believe so flattering a whisper; and she said to
herself, "What nonsense all this is. The proud, clever Mr. Earnscliffe
love me, indeed! I know too well that I have no beauty, no brilliancy
in conversation, no liveliness,--nothing, in short, which could win
the love of such a man. I always felt that it would be so; that one
whom I could love would be so superior to me that he could not care
for me.... He is the world,--life,--everything to me; and what could
I be to him? Nothing, of course."... But the voice whispered on, and,
listening to it, she at last fell asleep. By two o'clock the next day
they were standing in the Amphitheatre of Verona, and Flora finally
silenced the whisper with--"If it were anything of love he would be
here now, and not in Venice."
END OF VOL. I.
Transcriber's Notes:
Italic text is represented by underscores. OE ligatures have been
expanded.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Errors in foreign language segments have not been corrected.
Inconsistent and archaic spelling choices have been preserved
(including hyphenation, use of both -ise and -ize, "teaze"/"tease",
"secresy" and "decrepid").
Page 44, "look" changed to "looked" (Mina looked imploringly)
Page 85, "to" added (go to the Catacombs)
Page 121, "women" changed to "woman" (a witch-like looking woman)
Page 204, removed "the" (things which Jesus did, -the- which)
Page 285, "absord" changed to "absorb" (could not fail to absorb)
End of Project Gutenberg's Flora Adair, Vol. 1 (of 2), by A. M. Donelan