rr-:<^ 
 
 '):U:^
 
 a I B RAR.Y 
 
 OF THE 
 U N IVERSITY 
 or ILLI NOIS 
 
 823 
 0717f 
 
 v.i
 
 FLOEA ADAIR; 
 
 f ok imtk MmUx5. 
 
 Br A. M. DONELAN. 
 
 IN FUNICULUS ADAM TRAHAM EOS, IN VINCULIS CHARITATIS." 
 
 Osce xi. 4. 
 
 m TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY. 
 
 1867.
 
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Ix Rome, on a brigKt sunny morning in the 
 montli of March, 186-, two ladies were seated in 
 a drawing-room, the windows of which looked 
 upon the Corso. Mother and daughter they evi- 
 dently were ; and, as they play a prominent part 
 in this story, we may be permitted to devote a 
 short time to describing them. 
 
 As a mark of respect to age, we shall give the 
 eider lady precedence. Although she was dressed 
 , . in black, and seated at a table working, one could 
 j^ judge that her figure was tall and elegant. In her 
 ^ youth she had been a great beauty ; yet it could 
 - not be said that strong traces of that beauty stil) 
 lingered over those thin, worn features, for " sor- 
 ^rows, nor few, nor light," had set their mark 
 ^ upon them. But neither time nor grief had de- 
 stroyed the calm, gentle expression of that coun- 
 tenance, ever ready to light up with a cheerful 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 FI.ORA ADAIR. 
 
 smile and look happy in the happiness of others. 
 Her character may be expressed in a single word 
 — devotedness. As daughter, sister, wife, and 
 mother, her whole life had been one almost un- 
 broken act of self-sacrifice. Most of those whom 
 she loved had been taken from her while she was 
 still in the bloom of life ; her children alone re- 
 mained. The two elder — a son and a daughter — 
 were married, and therefore, in some degree, 
 lost to her, so that Flora, her second daughter, 
 was the only one really left ; and in this, her 
 youngest child, was centred Mrs. Adair's every 
 hope and thought. Their affection was mutual : 
 Flora Adair believed herself to be blessed indeed 
 in her mothe^. 
 
 And now let us turn to the young lady. We 
 are obliged to confess that, although she is con- 
 sidered to be like her mother, it is a resemblance 
 not boasting of much physical beauty. A sad 
 drawback this, doubtless, to a heroine ; but, ac- 
 cording to the old saying, " what can't be cured 
 must be endured." Her figure, however, was 
 really good ; she was about the middle height, 
 with tiny hands and feet, a broad forehead, blue 
 eyes — fairly large and dark — a small but well- 
 foimed nose, round cheeks, a large mouth, with a 
 tolerably good, but an over- crowded, range of 
 teeth ; a complexion far from bright or clear, and
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 6 
 
 a profusion of dark brown hair brushed off hor 
 forehead, and twisted round the back of her head 
 in thick plaits. Such is our heroine's picture — 
 not a very attractive one, it may be said, and of 
 this no one was more fully conscious than Flora 
 Adair herself. 
 
 As to her character, she was generally looked 
 upon as cold, and somewhat haughty, yet she was 
 really rather indifferent than haughty ; but how 
 often is indifference of manner called haughti- 
 ness in the world ! Her seeming coldness in a 
 great measure came from a shrinking dread of 
 forcing herself upon others. It is true she cared 
 but little for society, and found a young lady's 
 life weary and objectless ; her constant thought was 
 how to make the hours go faster. Had any one 
 asked her why she found them so long, she would 
 probably have borrowed her answer from Shake- 
 speare, and hav^e said — 
 
 " Not having that, which, having, makes them short." 
 
 Something of all this could be seen in her list- 
 less air, as she sat there near the window, not 
 reading, but with a book in her hand, gazing out 
 vacantly, as if to ask, " How shall I get through 
 to-day ? Will it be anything more interesting 
 than usual ? " Better, perhaps, had it not been so, 
 some would say — better had the blank been left
 
 4 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 unfilled, as slie was now but negatively unhappy, 
 the unhappiness arising from her own disposition, 
 ever yearning for something more, something 
 deeper, than she had yet known ; and also be- 
 cause she had not yet learned that "the first 
 principle of wisdom is to be satisfied with that 
 which is ; " or "in the state in which she was 
 therewith to be content." 
 
 Which is the better lot : — a short spell of deep 
 happiness and after misery, or an even life, un- 
 marked by great joy or great sorrow? Flora 
 Adair would answer, "Give me, were it only for a 
 short time, intense happiness, at any cost ; no 
 price is too great for it, or it would be worth 
 nothing \" So that had the choice been offered 
 to her she would have taken the very lot which 
 was destined for her. 
 
 There was another member of their little circle, 
 a young lady of about Flora's age, named Lucy 
 Martin, who was travelling with the Adairs, and 
 who was absent for a few days on a visit to some 
 friends at Albano : as she shortly afterwards re- 
 turned home, it is needless to describe her more 
 fuUy. 
 
 Mrs. Adair looked at her watch, and said, 
 " Half-past ten. Flora ; and the Eltons are to 
 call for us at eleven. We had better get ready." 
 
 Flora followed her mother out of the room,
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 letting her book fall, rather than placing it, upon 
 the table. 
 
 Soon after, the carriage came, and away they 
 drove with their friends to Frascati, where they 
 were to have a croquet match, and an al-fresco 
 dinner given by Mrs. Elton. Their party now 
 consisted of that lady herself, her son and younger 
 daughter, and the Adairs. At the place of ren- 
 dezvous — the Yilla Torlonia — they were to meet 
 the rest of their friends. 
 
 It was a soft, balmy day, such as, in the middle 
 of March, can only be enjoyed in Italy ; the hot, 
 bright sun tempered by the fresh breeze of early 
 spring, and the air perfumed by the fragrance of 
 the wild flowers, which so abound in southern 
 lands. Out of the Porta San Giovanni and along 
 the Via Tusculum lies the road to Frascati, bounded 
 on one side by the Alban hills, and on the other 
 by the desert Campagna. 
 
 The desultory conversation which was carried 
 on during the drive consisted of the usual sub- 
 jects talked of among strangers in Rome, and 
 during Lent : — " How do you like Rome ? What 
 have you seen ? Have you obtained tickets for 
 all the ceremonies of Holy Week ? " The horrors 
 of crushing at these ceremonies — histories told of 
 ladies having had their veils torn off, their prayer- 
 books dashed from their hands, and, as a climax.
 
 6 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 fainting — as, on a memorable occasion, when a 
 stalwart English lady called out to the crowd 
 ruthlessly pressing upon a falling victim, " Take 
 her up — take her up ! for if she is killed we shall 
 all be shut out from the Cena ! '' 
 
 In the course of the drive, Helena Elton said 
 suddenly to Flora, " Have you happened to meet 
 with a Mr. Earnscliffe who is here now ? ^' 
 
 *' No. What of him ? Is he anything out of 
 the common ? '* 
 
 " Eather," rejoined Miss Helena, who slightly 
 indulged in mild slang, and generally answered 
 in a prolonged, emphasised manner, "rather," 
 when she meant to say " very much," '* exceed- 
 ingly," &c. 
 
 " Then tell me something of him. What is 
 he like ? " asked Flora. 
 
 ''Like something very tall, strong, handsome, 
 and aristocratic in appearance ; in manner, proud 
 and distant, certainly not a lady- worshipper." 
 
 " And very rich," interposed Mrs. Elton. " I 
 knew his parents most intimately, but they both 
 died when he was quite a child, and I had lost 
 sight of the family altogether, until by chance 
 we met him abroad a short time ago. Earnscliffe 
 Court is a magnificent place." 
 
 " A capital speculation, Helena," said Flora, 
 with a smile. " Do you enter the lists ? As you
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 7 
 
 seem to think tlie conquest a difficult one, it 
 might be worth a struggle/' 
 
 '' Oh ! he is not in my line at all — I should be 
 afraid of him ; but if you think so much of the 
 prize you should enter the lists yourself.'' 
 
 " No, no, Helena, I am not so foolish as to risk 
 a defeat for what I do not value ; besides, I am 
 neither pretty nor fascinating. How, then, could 
 I catch this modern Childe Harold, as you de- 
 scribe him ? Moreover, I hate a hon parti. I 
 shall never marry, unless I meet with one whom 
 I can admire and love beyond all the world ! " 
 
 The conversation did not seem to please Mrs. 
 Elton, who cut it short b}^ saying, "It is all very 
 well to read about desperate love in novels ; but, 
 believe me — and I have seen a great deal of the 
 world — marriages based upon calm respect and 
 affection are far happier than your ardent love 
 matches. You will understand this, dear child, 
 when you are a little older." 
 
 Helena shrugged her shoulders, and murmured 
 in an under tone, meant only for Flora's ear, 
 " Oh, have I not heard enough of all this ! '* 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Elton," replied Flora, " I am not 
 such a child after all ! I am more than one-and- 
 twent)^, and can vouch for it that / will never 
 have anything to say to a marriage based upon 
 * calm respect and affection ! ' "
 
 S FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 Mrs. Adair — who had remained silent, quietly 
 amused at this animated discussion — now thought 
 that it was going a little too far, and managed to 
 change the conversation. 
 
 Shortly afterwards they arrived at the entrance 
 to the Yilla Torlonia, where they alighted, and 
 the coachman drove to the hotel in Frascati to 
 await their order to return. 
 
 The villa is but a stone' s-throAV from the town : 
 a magnificent terrace leads to the large, rambling, 
 white building, in which one could well imagine 
 half-a-dozen families living with separate house- 
 holds. The view from the front is grand indeed. 
 Beneath the windows, and across the high road 
 before them, is the Casino, with its pretty gar- 
 dens ; beyond this, and far below, stretches out 
 the great Campagna, and Rome, with her count- 
 less domes and steeples gleaming in the sun. 
 
 The grounds of the villa are, in their style, 
 very beautiful and extensive, although to our 
 English eyes somewhat stiff and formal, cut up 
 as they are by broad avenues, with their majestic 
 lines of trees. Across the centre, and leading 
 from the grand terrace, a wide opening shows an 
 artificial grotto, cascade, and basin; a flight of 
 covered steps on either side of the abundant 
 stream of falling water winds under this cascade, 
 and leads to a terrace above, from behind which
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 9 
 
 Spreads out a beautiful bosquet, tbe bounds of 
 whicli are entirely bidden by tbick foliage. Tbe 
 outer walls of tbese steps are so overgrown by 
 luxuriant vegetation as to be completely masked, 
 so tbat, on approacbing, tbese apertures look like 
 enti-ances to subterranean caverns. 
 
 Tbis picturesque cascade was tbe place of ren- 
 dezvous ; towards it, tberefore, our friends were 
 proceeding, wben Cbarles Elton, wbo bad for a 
 moment or two been watcbing a figure moving 
 among tbe trees, exclaimed, " By Jove, tbere's 
 Earnscliffe ! " 
 
 "How deligbtful ! " rejoined Mrs. Elton. "jN'ow 
 be cannot avoid making one of our party. Go 
 quickly, Cbarles, and overtake bim : we will 
 follow.'' 
 
 Cbarles soon captured tbe retreating Mr. Earns- 
 cliffe, wbo bad just seen tbe Eltons, and was 
 making a desperate, but vain, effort to escape. 
 He could not pretend tbat be did not bear Cbarles, 
 so witb a tolerably good grace be turned and sur- 
 rendered. 
 
 " Wbere on eartb were you going so fast? " said 
 Cbarles, nearly out of breatb. " Here is my 
 motber, wbo is determined on making you join 
 our party ! " 
 
 '' Indeed ! " accompanied by anytbing but a 
 look of pleasure.
 
 10 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 Mrs. Elton advanced to meet him witli out- 
 stretched hands. " How charming to find you 
 here, Mr. EarnsclifFe ; you cannot well refuse to 
 join us, see the croquet, and partake of a cold 
 dinner. I would have written to invite you, but 
 that I so feared a refusal, feeling certain that you 
 would not think our croquet party worth the loss 
 of a day from Rome's immortal ruins. I do so 
 wish I could prevail upon you to accompany us 
 to some of them ; how delightful it would be to 
 have such a guide ! " 
 
 " Pray be undeceived, Mrs. Elton ; I should be 
 but a very poor guide for you ; believe me, ' Murray ' 
 would be much more instructive, and would enable 
 you to talk far more learnedly about those things 
 than I could." 
 
 Was there not a covert sneer in those words ? 
 The lady, however, did not see it, or appeared not 
 to do so. As a possible husband for one of her 
 daughters, many things must be pardoned in him 
 which would not be passed over in a poor younger 
 son. She replied with a smile, " Well, we can arrange 
 that at some other time ; for the present, having 
 caught you here, we may of course count upon 
 your remaining with us." Taking his answer for 
 granted, she continued, "Allow me to present 
 my friends, Mrs. and Miss Adair." Mr. Earns- 
 cliffe bowed to the Adairs, shook hands with
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 11 
 
 Helena, and then walked on with Mrs. Elton 
 towards the cascade. 
 
 Mrs. Elton opened the conversation with that 
 very original question, " How do you like Rome, 
 Mr. Earnscliffe?" 
 
 ** In what way do you mean ? — as she was once, 
 the mistress of the world, and her people a nation 
 of kings ; or as she is now, the decrepid represen- 
 tative of all the superstitions of bygone ages ?'' 
 
 Mrs. Elton laughed approvingly ; but Flora, 
 who was walking close behind with Charles 
 Elton, said, in a slightly subdued tone, '^ See 
 what prejudice will do ! I do wonder how per- 
 sons, otherwise noble and generous, can say such 
 things simply for the pleasure of abusing what 
 they do not understand, and therefore dislike ! " 
 
 " Oh ! Miss Adair, he might have heard you,'* 
 exclaimed Charles Elton. 
 
 ^^ N^importe!^^ said Flora, with an impatient 
 shrug of her shoulders. 
 
 Almost at the same moment, Mr. Earnscliffe, 
 who, notwithstanding Mrs. Elton's efforts to drown 
 Flora's voice, had heard every word, turned and 
 bowed to her, saying, with rather a scornful 
 smile, *' Bravo, Miss Adair, you are quite an 
 apostle, and I, according to you, am something 
 very like a simpleton ! " 
 
 " I did not say that," she answered, blushing ;
 
 12 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 " it would have been rude and untrue ; but, were 
 you to think of it, I am sure you will admit that 
 what I did say is true.'' 
 
 He smiled, returned to Mrs. Elton, and said, 
 "Adair ! — a Scotch name ?" 
 
 " An Irish name, also ; my friends are Irish." 
 
 " Indeed, one might have guessed it, from the 
 spirit of the young lady's observations." 
 
 " Mamma," interrupted Helena, *' there they 
 are all at the cascade waiting for us ; and I see 
 Thomas, too, with the croquet boxes." 
 
 " Well, my dear, we are going to them ; don't 
 be impatient." 
 
 This injunction was given in vain. Helena 
 had already darted off to her friends at the 
 cascade. They consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Penton, 
 — ^both young ; the lady, tall, slight, and dark, 
 — very elegant, but apparently haughty, and 
 evidently accustomed to be admired ; the gentle- 
 man, a large and rather an unwieldy figure, with 
 a sandy complexion, and a heavy, although good 
 expression of countenance ; Mary Elton, Helena's 
 sister, and somewhat like her, but in manner as 
 grave and sedate as the other was gay and 
 thoughtless ; Mr. Main waring, and Mr. Caulfield, — 
 the latter, a good-looking, bright, laughing Irish- 
 man ; the former, an Englishman, and particularly 
 grave and solemn.
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 13 
 
 Helena was received with marked pleasure. 
 Her great liveliness made her a general favourite. 
 She was soon in deep conversation with Mary 
 and the gentlemen about the selection of the 
 croquet ground, while the Pentons turned to 
 greet the others who had just come up. 
 
 Mrs. Elton announced, in a delighted tone, 
 that they had been fortunate enough to meet and 
 capture Mr. EarnscliiFe. " What an addition to 
 our party, is it not, Mary?" turning to her 
 eldest daughter. 
 
 "Yes," Mary replied, quickly; "we are all, I 
 am sure, very happy to see Mr. Earnscliffe. Does 
 he condescend to play croquet ?" 
 
 " I have never played," said he ; " but I have 
 seen people knocking balls about with things like 
 long-handled mallets. That is croquet, I believe ?" 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Earnscliffe," exclaimed Helena, 
 " what a description to give of playing croquet ! 
 But whatever you may think of it, I find it very 
 jolly fun, and mean to lose no time before setting 
 to work." 
 
 " To play, you mean. Miss Elton ! " said a voice 
 behind her ; and on turning round she found that 
 Mr. Caulfield was the corrector, whereupon she at 
 once gaily attacked him. 
 
 " I never heard of such audacity, Mr. Caidfield ; 
 you, a Hibernian, to venture to correct me, a true
 
 14 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 Briton, in the use of my own language ! Take 
 care that you don't get a defeat at croquet for 
 this!'* 
 
 "I am sure it will not be your fault, Miss 
 Elton, if I do not " — in an aside, meant only for 
 her ear — "But have you not conquered already, 
 though not, perhaps, at croquet ?" 
 
 She got a little red, and said quickly, " This is 
 all waste of time ! Mary, you said you had seen 
 a place that would do beautifully for us ; so, lead 
 on. I will go and see that Thomas has all the 
 things right." 
 
 Mary did as she was desired, while her sprightly 
 sister, followed by Mr. Caulfield, ran back to the 
 servant to see that all was in order. 
 
 Helena and her companion were enjoying them- 
 selves greatly, if loud laughter is a sign of enjoy- 
 ment. At length they came running after the 
 others to a broad grassy alley, bordered and over- 
 hung by wide- spreading trees. This was the 
 place which Mary had spoken of, and, fortunately, 
 it met with Helena's approval. " Oh, yes, Mary, 
 this will do, capitally," she said; "and there is 
 shade, too, under these trees. Mark out the 
 ground, place the arches and the balls, and give 
 me a croquet- stick ! " 
 
 " Yes, miss," replied Thomas, who seemed 
 quite an adept at arranging the playground.
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 15 
 
 Having done this to his young mistress's satisfac- 
 tion, he approached Mrs. Elton and asked where 
 the dinner was to be laid. 
 
 "It is true, we have not chosen where we shall 
 dine. Caroline," to Mrs. Adairj " will you come 
 with me and seek a nice place for our repast, 
 while the young people begin their game ? We 
 can trust them to Mrs. Penton's chaperoning for 
 a few moments, although she is too young and 
 too pretty for such a post." 
 
 Mrs. Penton laughed, and said, " You may 
 very safely trust them to me, and I will give you 
 a good account of my stewardship when you re- 
 turn. So you may go in peace." 
 
 Mr. Caulfield, who helped Helena to arrange 
 the game, now struck his "mallet," as Mr. Earns- 
 cliffe had named it, three times on one of the 
 balls in order to attract attention ; and called out, 
 " Who will play ? Will you, Mrs. Penton ?" 
 
 "^ot just yet. I will sit down and look on 
 for the present ; later, perhaps, I may take a 
 turn." 
 
 " Then the plaj^ers are, the Misses Elton, Miss 
 Adair, Penton, Main waring, Elton?" 
 
 " Nay," interrupted Charles, " I am quite un- 
 able to i^lay to-day." 
 
 "Mr. Earnscliffe?" continued Mr. Caulfield, 
 inquiringly.
 
 16 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 ''I know notliing of the game, and I should 
 not like to make my first essay among such pro- 
 ficients as, I presume, you all are." 
 
 " Then there only remains my humble self to 
 make up the party. Now for the division ; you 
 ladies should draw lots for choosing sides." 
 
 " I dare say Flora is as willing as I am to yield 
 this to Helena," said Mary. ** If so, we need not 
 take the trouble of drawing lots." 
 
 Flora smiled assent, when Helena exclaimed, 
 " Yery green of you both. However, it is your 
 affair, not mine ; and as I am decidedly the gainer 
 by it, I ought not to object. First, then, I choose 
 Flora ; secondly, Mr. Mainwaring. I leave Mary 
 to manage Mr. Penton and Mr. Caulfield ; no easy 
 matter, I can answer for it, with regard to the 
 latter gentleman." 
 
 " How cruel not to choose me as one of your 
 subjects," he said in a light tone, yet looking a 
 little annoyed. 
 
 " Choose you for a subject ! Not for worlds. 
 I shall delight in croqueting you ; and this, of 
 course, I could not do if you were on my side. 
 But as my enemy, you shall be well croqueted ! " 
 and as her foot rested upon one of the balls near 
 her, she looked laughingly at him, and struck 
 the ball lightly with her '' mallet." 
 
 The elder ladies now returned ; the gentlemen
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 17 
 
 placed stools for them near to Mrs. Penton ; and, 
 after some jesting about the conduct of her 
 charge during their absence, the game com- 
 menced. 
 
 For a considerable time the contest continued 
 with varied success, Helena and Mr. Caulfield 
 seeming to think more of croqueting each other 
 than of anything else, so that they were fre- 
 quently called to order by their respective sides. 
 Flora had become quite animated, and intent on 
 victory, if only to disappoint Mr. Penton, who 
 said, when they were beginning, " Oh ! our party 
 is certain to win, two gentlemen and a lady 
 against two ladies and one gentleman. I really 
 think we might give them odds ! " a suggestion 
 which was indignantly spurned by the players 
 of the opposite sidoj who declared that skill and 
 not strength was the thing required, and, there- 
 fore, they had not the slightest fear of losing. 
 Flora devoted all her energies to making good 
 the boast, and she was well seconded by Mr. 
 Mainwaring, whose steady, cautious game coun- 
 teracted Helena's wild, though at times brilliant, 
 play. 
 
 Towards the end of the game the excitement 
 grew very great ; four had gained the goal, and 
 all now turned on Mr. Caulfield and Helena ; she 
 had only the last arch to make, and he had two 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 arches, but it was Ms turn to play; so, if lie 
 could manage to send his ball straight through 
 the two arches, and on to the starting-point, the 
 game would be his. His ball was badly placed, 
 however, in a diagonal line from the first arch, so 
 that it would require great skill to make it pass 
 through that and go straight to the other ; yet 
 he sometimes made very skilful hits, and it was 
 a moment of intense interest to his adversaries. 
 He struck the ball ; but, instead of sending it 
 through the first arch, it grazed the side of it 
 and stopped short. This gave Helena a fair 
 opportunity for trying to croquet him ; the 
 safe play was not to do it, but to make the 
 last arch at once and ensure the game, yet it 
 was a strong temptation — how charming for 
 Helena to send his ball far away and distance 
 him ! On the other hand, it was of course pos- 
 sible that she might not croquet him well, and 
 then the chances were that he would win. She 
 looked at her partners as if to ask permission to 
 risk the game. 
 
 "Yerj well," said Flora, smiling; "on your 
 head be it if we lose ! " 
 
 '' How can you give your sanction to such 
 recklessness. Miss Adair ? " exclaimed Mr. Main- 
 waring. " Pray, Miss Elton, consider for a mo- 
 ment ; if }^ou will play rationally we are sure to
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 19 
 
 win, but if you persist in croqueting we shall 
 probably lose — at least we sboulcl deserve it.'^ 
 
 " Just the contrary ! 'Nothing yenture nothing 
 win/ Oh ! how can a man be so cautious ? It is 
 a blessing for you, Mr. Mainwaring, that you are 
 not a loyer of mine, or I should play such pranks 
 to rouse you into something like rashness as 
 would 'make the angels weep.' Hurrah, then, 
 for daring and a good croquet ! Kow, Mr. Caul- 
 field ! " and with an ominous shake of the head 
 she raised her " mallet '' to strike, amidst much 
 laughter at her attack upon poor Mr. Mainwaring, 
 who, although he did his best to join in the 
 merriment at his own expense, evidently winced 
 under it. Do^^tl came the mallet with a sharp 
 ring upon her own ball, on which her foot was 
 firmly planted, and away bounded the other to 
 the very end of the last line of arches. 
 
 "Bravo! bravo. Miss Elton!" arose from all 
 sides, as she stood looking triumj)hantly at Mr. 
 Mainwaring, and saying, " I^ow, Mr. Caution, I 
 shall not only win the game for you, but distance 
 one of our adversaries ! " 
 
 "Kot so fast, if you please, Miss Helena," in- 
 terposed Mr. Caulfield. " I might save my dis- 
 tance yet." 
 
 " Might ! but you are not equal to it, fair sir ; 
 only do play quickly, I am all impatience to hear
 
 20 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 our side proclaimed victorious, after Mr. Penton's 
 contemptuous boast that his side could afford to 
 give us odds, because, forsooth, it numbers two of 
 the precious male sex, and ours has only one of 
 them ! But, to the proof; we are losing time ! " 
 
 Mr. Caulfield made a good attempt at saving 
 his distance, but he failed ; so Helena came in in 
 full triumph, amidst loud acclamations. 
 
 Mrs. Elton immediately proposed that they 
 should take a stroll before their repast, which 
 was ordered for two o'clock. If they were to 
 drive back by Grotto Ferrata, she said, they must 
 start, at latest, by four. 
 
 " But,'' objected Helena, " we have had but 
 one game of croquet ; and Mrs, Penton and Mr. 
 Earnscliffe have not played at all ! Poor Charles 
 cannot ; so it is not a matter of any interest for 
 him." 
 
 " As for me, Helena, foregoing a game will not 
 render me tout a fait desolee ; and I think I may 
 answer too for Mr. Earnscliffe." He bowed, and 
 Mrs. Penton continued, " So it would be a pity to 
 lose the beautiful drive by Grotto Ferrata for the 
 sake of another round of croquet. It is much 
 better to follow Mrs. Elton's suggestion." 
 
 The yoimg lady saw that there was nothing to 
 be done but to submit, whilst her mother said, 
 " Come, Helena, let Thomas carry away those
 
 FLORA ACAIE. 21 
 
 things. We are going to walk." And they all 
 went on, excepting Helena, Flora, and Mr. Caul- 
 field ; the two latter waiting for Helena, as she 
 lingered, looking, with an expression of comic 
 resignation, at Thomas ''bagging the balls," as 
 she expressed it ; then, turning away, she said 
 with a sigh, '' It is too bad not to give poor crest- 
 fallen Mr. Caulfield a chance of revenge ! " 
 
 " Shure and niver mind, cushla machree," he 
 answered, imitating the brogue of the Irish pea- 
 santry. "I'll have it some other time. Whin 
 did you iver know an Irishman be bate in gine- 
 rosity ? " 
 
 '' May I ask, Mr. Caulfield, if you Irish call 
 revenge ' ginerosity ?' " she exclaimed in a mock- 
 ing tone; then she added, more seriously, " Please 
 to let us get on quickly, or we shall lose our 
 friends ; and oh. Flora, what a lectui'e we 
 should get for separating ourselves from the 
 rest ! " 
 
 The party was soon overtaken ; and Flora ob- 
 served, to her great amusement, that Mrs. Elton 
 had succeeded in getting Mary and Mr. Earns- 
 clifiTe together. 
 
 For about half-an-hour they wandered about 
 the grounds, when Mrs. Elton led the way to 
 their alfresco banqueting-hall — a grassy plateau, 
 so surrounded by trees as to be shaded from the
 
 22 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 afternoon sun ; and here the servants had laid 
 out the dinner. 
 
 They had spread a tablecloth, fastened down 
 by pegs ; in the centre were baskets of flowers 
 and fruits, surrounded by tempting sweet dishes, 
 and next by the more substantial delicacies. Mrs. 
 Elton had planned this pic-nic, priding herself 
 justly on her catering for these occasions. In 
 this case her task was comparatively an easy one, 
 as Spillman — the Gunter of Rome — had a branch 
 establishment at Frascati, whence the feast was 
 supplied. 
 
 " Eeally this is quite a banquet of pleasure ! '' 
 said Mrs. Penton ; ''all the delicacies of a grand 
 dinner, without its heat, boredom, and ceremony. 
 We certainly owe you a vote of thanks, Mrs. 
 Elton ! " 
 
 " Well," replied Mrs. Elton, with a complacent 
 smile, " I do think that Spillman has carried out 
 my orders very fairly ; and the most acceptable 
 vote of thanks you can award me is to let me see 
 you do justice to the repast ; so let us begin at 
 once ; the ground must serve for seats. I told 
 Thomas to bring all the shawls from the car- 
 riages in case any one should like to make 
 cushions of them." 
 
 For some time the principal sound to be heard 
 was the clatter of knives and forks. Gradually
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 23 
 
 this grew fainter, and was succeeded bj" tlie 
 clatter of tongues. Champagne was freely- 
 quaffed, healths were drunk, and much laughter 
 was excited by Mr. Caidiield, who rose and made 
 a speech, — such as only an Irishman could make, 
 with credit to himself — concluding it by assert- 
 ing that his highest ambition was to be permitted 
 the honour of proposing a toast to Miss Helena 
 Elton, as the queen of croquet players, and by ex- 
 pressing a hope that she would- return thanks for 
 the toast herself. He remained standing, with 
 his glass in his hand ; and when the laughter had 
 subsided a little, Helena, looking round the 
 table, said, " I appeal to you all : can a gen- 
 tleman refuse to act as a lady's deputj^ in 
 returning thanks, if she requests him to do so for 
 her?" 
 
 The answer was unanimous : '* Certainly not ?" 
 " Then, Mr. Caulfield," said she, with a grace- 
 ful bow to him, ''I hope you will do me the 
 favour to return thanks for the toast which is 
 about to be drunk in my honour ! " 
 
 With one accord the gentlemen rose, applaud- 
 ing her, and claiming the toast. Mr. Caulfield 
 made a profound inclination to Helena, and after 
 a few more flowery words, proposed the toast, 
 proclaiming her " the queen of croquet players 
 and repartee." It was drunk with great enthii-
 
 24 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 siasm ; and all sat down, not excepting Mr. Caul- 
 field, wlio seemed quite unconscious of tlie 
 wondering looks directed towards liini. After 
 a few moments, however, lie stood up again, and 
 commenced with the utmost gravity : — 
 
 " Ladies and gentlemen, — I rise to return 
 thanks to the gentleman who gave the last toast, 
 which we all drank with such unusual pleasure. 
 Miss Helena Elton has done me the honour of 
 calling upon me to act as her deputy on this occa- 
 sion, an honour I so highly appreciate that I con- 
 sider myself more favoured b}^ fortune than any 
 gentleman in this worshipful company, save the 
 one who had the happiness of proposing a toast so 
 admirably adapted to my fair client." He was 
 interrupted by calls of "hear, hear," ''bravo," 
 and much laughter ; and after continuing for 
 some time in an amusing strain, he sat down 
 *' amidst loud applause." 
 
 To Mrs. Elton it seemed as if the hilarity would 
 never end. At length she said, ''I am very 
 sorry to interrupt your enjoyment, but we must 
 think of getting home. And see how the day has 
 changed ! I do not think it will be wise to extend 
 our drive by Grotto Ferrata." 
 
 But the younger portion of the company would 
 not hear of any danger from change of weather ; 
 true, there was a black cloud in the direction of
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 25 
 
 the town, but it would probably drift away, tbey 
 said, and, at all events, tbere would only be a 
 shower, which, as Helena (who was in wild 
 spirits) declared, would but add to the beauty of 
 their drive through the fine old wood of Grotto 
 Ferrata. The green of the trees would look so 
 bright and fresh, sparkling with rain-drops. She 
 could not conceive any necessity for haste, oi"* for 
 sHortening their drive home. Mrs. Elton per- 
 sisted in thinking that there was immediate 
 danger of rain, and suggested that they should 
 seek refuge in the cascade steps, where, at least, 
 they would find shelter. In this, too, she was 
 over- ruled ; all consented, however, to have the 
 carriages ordered. There was a little more drink- 
 ing of wine, eating of fruit, laughing, and merry 
 talk, when, suddenly, a large drop of rain fell 
 upon the table-cloth, followed by another and 
 another, dropping slowly and heavily, 
 
 " One by one, 
 Like the first of a thunder-shower." 
 
 The gentlemen started to their feet, helped up 
 the ladies, urging them to run quickly to the 
 cascade steps, as it was evident that there was 
 heavy rain approaching. 
 
 Helena looked a little discomfited as she caught 
 her mother^s reproachful glance fixed upon her ; 
 but she carried it off with a laugh, and " Well !
 
 26 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 it will only be a shower. You'll see tliat I shall 
 be right after all ! '^ 
 
 " Come, come/' called out Mr. Penton ; " jou 
 ladies must wrap yourselves up in whatever 
 shawls there are, and get to shelter as fast as pos- 
 sible, or you will be drenched with rain. In the 
 meantime, I will go to the hotel and send any 
 other wrappings that I can find. You will be 
 sure to take cold if you sit there upon those 
 damp steps." 
 
 " Why can't you send one of Spillman's men, 
 George ?" said his wife. 
 
 '' My dear, don't you see that they have already 
 as much as they can possibly do to get those 
 things away before the storm comes on ?" 
 
 " Oh, as you like, my dear George ; I only 
 wished to save you trouble," languidly replied 
 Mrs. Penton. 
 
 As they hastened to the cascade, the large 
 drops fell faster and faster ; then they suddenly 
 ceased. The quickness with which thunder-storms 
 come on in southern climes is proverbial. Less 
 than an hour before, the sun was shining brightly 
 in an azure sky, and a light breeze gave freshness 
 to the air. Now, that azure sky was all overcast ; 
 the air was heavy and sultry ; there was a dead 
 stillness all around ; and the very leaves of the trees 
 seemed to be weighed down, drooping under some
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 27 
 
 unseen pressure. It was indeed the lull before 
 the storm. 
 
 Hardly had they got into shelter, and Mr. 
 Penton, accompanied by Charles Elton, had 
 started for the hotel, when there arose a hurri- 
 cane of wind, — whistling, tearing through the 
 trees, wa^-ing the largest and strongest of them in 
 its wild grasp, like the merest reeds ; whirling 
 into clouds the gravel of the walks, and rushing 
 with unchecked fury through the covered passages 
 wherein our party had taken refuge. Then, back 
 again it came with imabated vigour ; and across 
 the black, lowering sky darted a \dvid flash of 
 lightning, followed almost instantaneously by a 
 clap of thunder which seemed to burst over the 
 cascade. 
 
 It is curious to watch how difierently a violent 
 thunder-storm afiects people, and ladies in par- 
 ticular. Many make themselves quite foolish on 
 such occasions, indidging in the most silly demon- 
 strations of terror, clinging to each other, hiding 
 their faces, uttering little shrieks to manifest 
 their fears ; others, although evidently frightened, 
 have the good sense to remain quiet, and, if they 
 are pious, begin to pray ; others, again, seem to 
 take delight in it, — it excites them, — they watch 
 its course with riveted attention, and become lost, 
 so to say, in admiration of its grand yet awful
 
 28 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 beauty ; looking as if they would fain say, with 
 the poet, 
 
 " Let me be 
 A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, 
 A portion of the tempest and of thee ! " 
 
 Among our friends there were examples of the 
 three classes. Mrs. Penton and Helena were of 
 the first ; Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Adair, and Mary, of 
 the second ; and Flora, of the third. She left the 
 rest, and mounted to the opening at the top, 
 where she stood leaning against the wall, watch- 
 ing the storm. The lightning flashed, the thunder 
 rolled and burst over her, and there she stood 
 alone for some time, until she was startled by a 
 voice close behind her, saying — 
 
 " Miss Adair is, I see, not only an apostle, but 
 also a braver of storms ; quite free from feminine 
 weakness both in speech and action." 
 
 She looked round and saw Mr. Earnscliffe, 
 whose words seemed to jar upon her ear ; yet 
 there was nothing in them at which she could 
 take offence, so she answered — 
 
 '^ I do not think I am a coward in any sense of 
 the word, and I would brave the storm were there 
 any reason for doing so ; but now there is none, 
 and standing here is not braving it. Why you 
 say * braver of storms,' I know not. I merely 
 came here because it is pleasanter to feel the wind
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 29 
 
 blowing against one and see tlie vivid lightning 
 than to sit below on a damp step in a dark 
 passage, listening to senseless exclamations of 
 fear." 
 
 *' In wbicb you do not share ? " 
 
 " Certainly not." 
 
 " Well then, was I not right in calling you a 
 braver of storms ? " 
 
 At this moment the sky opened and sent forth 
 a bright forked streak of light, which darted in a 
 serpent-like form through the air, and struck 
 straight into the ground beneath them ; with it 
 came the deafening thunder, and, as it died away 
 rimibling in the distance, he said, looking fixedly 
 at her — 
 
 " Are you still quite free from fear ? " 
 
 " From fear — yes ; but it was a grand, a solemn 
 sight, — one that none could witness without feel- 
 ing their own littleness and helplessness ; yet we 
 know that no harm can reach us without the con- 
 sent of Him who rules the storms." 
 
 " Yet these storms are very dangerous ! " he 
 replied. 
 
 " Visible danger does but bring the idea of 
 death more forcibly before us, therefore it always 
 seems to me that all should preserve their calm- 
 ness in moments like these ; not Christians only, 
 but even fatalists, — those because they know that
 
 30 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 they must submit to the will of God and should 
 make the only preparation then in their power ; 
 these, because they think it vain to cry out against 
 fate. It is said that every one finds it difficult to 
 part with life, but I do not believe it. I am sure 
 it is often more difficult to be resigned to live 
 than to be resigned to die ! '' 
 
 "It is ! " was the emphatic answer ; but as 
 Flora turned to look at him, she saw his lip curl- 
 ing with the same contemptuous smile which she 
 had seen in the morning, and, getting very red, 
 she said — 
 
 "Now you are ridiculing me; how foolish it 
 was of me to sj)eak in this way, and to a man ! 
 We never know when you are talking seriously, 
 or only drawing us out in order to laugh at us.'^ 
 
 " This is not half so difficult for you as it is for 
 us to know when women are true or false," he re- 
 torted quickly ; but, seeing her look of wonder, 
 he at once added — 
 
 " Pardon me. I did not mean to offend you ; 
 experience teaches us hard lessons ! Still I will 
 try to believe with Byron, 
 
 " That two, or one, are almost what they seem. 
 
 That goodness is no di'eam, and happiness no name." 
 
 " We have got into rather a gloomy train of 
 conversation," said Flora. " Let us change it to 
 something else, or to silence if you prefer it."
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 31 
 
 He did remain silent, but the expression of his 
 face was so changed, so softened, that Flora 
 wondered why she had ever thought it stern. 
 
 The storm appeared to be abating ; the rain had 
 almost ceased, but there were still occasional 
 flashes of lightning, and the thunder murmured 
 in the distance ; it was evident that the weather 
 was not settled. Mary came up to say that they 
 were to go at once, as the carriages were ready 
 and it was thought better to make no delay, for 
 heavy rain would probably come on again. 
 
 Mr. Earnscliff awoke from his fit of abstraction 
 and said — 
 
 " Quite right, the sooner we start the better ; 
 but first come out and look at the cascade ; all is 
 so bright and fresh. It is very delightful after 
 the oppressive sultriness which preceded the 
 storm. We can cross over and go down by the 
 opposite flight of steps.'' 
 
 The girls followed him and stood for a moment 
 looking at the waters falling into the basin under- 
 neath. As they were turning away Flora's foot 
 slipped upon the wet moss, and she would have 
 fallen had she not caught hold of Mary's arm, 
 w^ho exclaimed — 
 
 " I hope you are not hurt. Flora ! " 
 
 '' TThat is it ? " asked Mr. Earnsclifle, turning 
 back quickly.
 
 32 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 " I slipped/' replied Flora, " and my ankle 
 pains me slightly. I dare say it will be over in a 
 moment." 
 
 " Not a sprain, I hope. Miss Adair," lie said, 
 looking anxiously at her ; "if so, how shall I 
 forgive myself for being the cause of it ? I see 
 you are in pain ; pray take my arm, it will give 
 you more support than Miss Elton's." 
 
 " There is nothing to forgive or to be annoyed 
 about" (taking his arm) ; "even if my ankle should 
 be sprained, it is not your fault. I might have 
 slipped anywhere else ! " 
 
 " Nay, had it not been for me you would not 
 have walked upon stones covered with wet moss ; 
 I cannot avoid blaming myself! " 
 
 Helena's voice was now heard calling, " Mary ! 
 Flora ! what can you be about ? Mamma is so 
 impatient to be off; we are going, come on 
 quickly ! " 
 
 Mary turned to Flora : " Can you get down ? 
 or will you wait a little, and I or Mr. Earnscliffe 
 will go and tell them ? " 
 
 " I would rather go at once ; and, with Mr. 
 Earnscliffe' s kind help, I shall get down the 
 steps very well." 
 
 " Then let me really be of some assistance to 
 you ; lean heavily on me." And with the greatest 
 care he helped her down the steps.
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 33 
 
 " Thank you," she said, as they reached the 
 flat ground below ; " it was so kind of you to let 
 me lean on you as I did ; now, I think, I can get 
 on alone, and need not encumber you any longer." 
 She drew away her arm from his. 
 
 " It was anything but an encumbrance, Miss 
 Adair," and he smiled as she had scarcely thought 
 he could smile ; ''to help you was a most pleasing 
 reparation for the mischief I have caused. Do 
 take my arm again ! " 
 
 ''Yes, I will do so, though not to give 
 you a means of making reparation, since 
 there is nothing to do that for, but because I 
 find that I cannot walk as well as I thought I 
 could. And now let us try to overtake the 
 others." 
 
 As soon as the}^ reached the party Helena ex- 
 claimed, " Flora, what is the matter ? You look 
 so pale ! " 
 
 "I have sprained my ankle, I beKeve, and it 
 hurts me a little." 
 
 " Quel malheur ! Then you will not be able to 
 dance to-night. A loss to you gentlemen, I can 
 tell you. Flora was pronounced to be the best 
 dancer at the Wiltons' ball ! " 
 
 "We are all aware of Miss Adair's superior 
 dancing," rejoined Mr. Caulfield, " except perhaps 
 Mr. EarnscKfie ; and, being her countryman, as 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 the painter before a celebrated masterpiece said, 
 anch! io son pittore!^ I can say, 'I, too, am 
 Irish ! ' " 
 
 " But," said Flora, laughing, " there is a slight 
 difference between the two arts. One of my mis- 
 tresses at school remarked, on hearing dancing 
 praised, *Yes, dancing is certainly a great 
 accomplishment ; dogs can be taught to do it so 
 well ! ' We have yet to learn that dogs can be 
 taught to paint." 
 
 To poor Flora's great comfort, the gate and the 
 carriages beyond it now came in sight. Mrs. 
 Adair and Mrs. Elton were already seated. As 
 the former saw Flora limping and leaning on Mr. 
 Earnscliffe's arm, she said, '' My child, what has 
 happened ? " Flora answered that she had hurt 
 her ankle a little, and then she got into the 
 carriage, kindly and skilfully helped by Mr. 
 Earnscliffe, who, as he shook hands with Mrs. 
 Adair, asked permission to call on the next day 
 to inquire after the invalid, which request was of 
 course granted. Mrs. Elton pressed him to come 
 to them in the evening ; he refused politely, but 
 firmly ; accepting, however, Mrs. Penton's offer 
 of a seat in their carriage back to Rome. 
 
 And so ended the croquet party at Frascati.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Easter Tuesday had arrived, and all tlie ex- 
 citement of Easter in Rome was over. Our 
 fiiends had joined in the grand ceremonies of 
 Holy Week ; they had heard the silver trumpets 
 sound forth the Alleluias on Easter morn, and 
 on the evening of the same great day they had 
 looked upon the glorious illumination of San 
 Pietro ; on the next day they had seen the giran- 
 (hla, or fireworks, on the Pincio ; and Easter, with 
 all its festivities, had become b3"gone things. 
 
 Before we proceed we surely ought to ask how 
 Flora Adair had got over her accident at Frascati. 
 On the day after it happened Mr. Earnsclifie 
 called, as he had said, to inquire for her; and, 
 considering himself in some degree as the cause 
 of the mishap, he was quite distressed to find that 
 it was so serious as to give her a good deal of pain, 
 and keep her from walking for some time. It 
 was so tiresome, he said, to be obliged to lie 
 upon a sofa in such lovely weather — and in Rome,
 
 36 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 too ! Would that lie could do any thing to make 
 amends for the mischief he had caused ! 
 
 He exerted himself to the utmost to amuse and 
 interest her during the time of his visit ; and so 
 well did he succeed, that before he left her she had 
 become quite animated, and seemed to have for- 
 gotten her ailment. When he stood up to take 
 leave, he said, "I hope, Mrs. Adair, that you will 
 allow me to call again to see how the invalid pro- 
 gresses ? " 
 
 " Certainly, we shall alwa^^s be happy to see 
 you, and, now that Flora cannot go out, society 
 is particularly desirable for her. The interest of 
 conversation will make her forget her suffering — 
 for a time, at least." 
 
 ** Thank you ! Then I shall indeed avail myself 
 of your permission ; I shall be so glad to think 
 that I can m any degree lessen, even for half 
 an hour, the weariness of that imprisonment of 
 which, I must repeat, I feel I am the remote 
 cause." 
 
 Thus he went constantly, and Flora found a 
 charm in conversing with him which she had 
 never known before. They often disagreed and 
 looked at things each from a different point of 
 view, yet their 9va7/ of thinking seemed the same ; 
 there was sympathy even where they least 
 appeared to agree. As she recovered, and when 
 the excitement of Easter was over, she began to
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 37 
 
 feel tlie blank caused by the cessation of those 
 long and looked-for visits. There remained 
 nothing to expect from day to day with hope and 
 pleasure. She enjoyed his society as she had never 
 enjoyed that of any other person, and did not at all 
 like the prospect of being obliged to do without 
 it, or indeed without much of it, for the future. 
 
 There are women who centre every delight in 
 the object of theii' affections, and this, to a cer- 
 tain degree, even in friendship ; but in love alone 
 is it fully shown. To love, for such, is to centre 
 everything in the beloved ; they have no fits of 
 great ardour followed by calmness — theirs is one 
 unbroken act of love. Should there be no ob- 
 stacles to their love, it is to them a source of 
 happiness undreamed of by many, for their world 
 is full. They have attained happiness, as far as it 
 can be attained on earth from earthly things — for 
 the human heart is made for the Infinite, and 
 nothing finite can ever fully satisfy it. These do 
 not stop to calculate whetner loving another will 
 be for their own advantage ; they call that, ego- 
 tism — the very opposite of love. " Non amate 
 Dio per voi " is for them the expression of perfect 
 love ; and is not the love of God the model, ay, 
 and the motor too, of all true human love ? When 
 love is pure and disinterested it wants not its due 
 reward, but it obtains so much the greater recom- 
 pense the less it seeks.
 
 38 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 But should sucli obstacles arise, should tliey 
 be separated from the object of their love, their 
 misery is correspondingly great. Like a native 
 of some sunny clime banished in the noonday of 
 life to a northern land, clouded in chilly mists, it 
 is vain to surround him with all that should cheer 
 his heart ; vain to strive — how tenderly soever it 
 may be — to beguile his weariness ; he pines for the 
 beloved sun of other days, and sighs hopelessly 
 for the glowing brightness of his home. So is 
 the sun of their life beclouded, — he who was their 
 sun, he who threw a halo over all, is gone ; the 
 chilly mist is ever upon their hearts, and they 
 know in this life something of that terrible 
 torture — the pain of loss. 
 
 But another pang is often reserved for them, 
 and it is of all the most bitter ; it comes when 
 they have to choose between love and conscience, 
 and when, in obeying the dictates of the latter, 
 they have to bear the reproach of not loving 
 truly, whilst, as they know but too well, they 
 love so fully that few understand or realise it. 
 To feel all this, and yet to be powerless to prove 
 their love, is torture so great that they must 
 indeed be watched over from above if they get 
 safely through the ordeal. 
 
 Flora Adair thought and dreamed of the truest 
 love to be found on earth, and without it Life
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 39 
 
 seemed to her but a sunless sojourn. Could she 
 but have soared high enough so to love God, with- 
 out the intervention of any creature, how great 
 would have been her happiness ! 'No struggle, 
 no doubting, no separation possible ! To this, 
 however, she felt unequal, — she rested on a less 
 lofty height, yet it was still a height^ since all 
 love, in order, is homage to God ! 
 
 Was this great enjoyment of Mr. Earnscliffe's 
 society the dawning of her dream of day ? We 
 can only answer that she herself did not so think 
 about it ; she only felt that he pleased her more 
 than any other had ever done, and that she wished 
 her ankle had not got well so quickly, that she 
 might still have had the pleasure of meeting him 
 frequently. 
 
 To dissipate the weariness which she felt to be 
 stealing upon her, she proposed to her mother 
 and Lucy to go to the Blakes, as Mina Blake 
 had said something about going on that day to 
 the novitiate house of one of the teaching Orders, 
 to see Madame Ely, an old and intimate friend of 
 theirs, who was an inmate of that convent, and 
 had asked if they would like to go also. Flora 
 said that she would be delighted to meet Madame 
 Ely again in order to see if the warm poetic 
 South had softened that apt pupil of the frigid 
 discipline of her Order, or if she were still the
 
 40 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 same icy being as before in tbeir northern climes. 
 Mrs. Adair agreed to the proposal, but Lucy 
 declined, pleading that she had a pretty novel 
 and would rather stay at home to finish it than 
 go to see such a prim old lady as Flora described 
 Madame Ely to be. Accordingh^, Lucy was left 
 to her novel, and Mrs. Adair and Flora set off for 
 the Piazza di Yenezia, where the Blakes lived. 
 
 Of '' the Blakes " there were only the mother 
 and daughter then in Rome, Mr. Blake had not 
 been able to accompany his wife and their only 
 child, Mina, to Italy. Mrs. Blake was very lady- 
 like, clever, and agreeable. Mina and Flora had 
 been school companions and were great friends ; 
 there were some traits of similarity between the 
 two girls — ^both were habitually reserved and un- 
 demonstrative in manner, although enthusiastic 
 enough when they liked any one very much ; but 
 they were not easily attracted, and their apparent 
 indifference made them somewhat unpopular. 
 
 The arrival of the Adairs was greeted by many 
 expressions of pleasure, especially from Mina, who 
 exclaimed, ** Oh, Flora ! I am so glad that you 
 have come, because you and Mrs. Adair will, per- 
 haps, join Miss Lecky and me in going to the 
 convent, — you remember I spoke of it the other 
 day. Mamma has got a cold and cannot come, 
 so I was in despair at the prospect of an after-
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 41 
 
 noon's drive tete-d-tete witli old Lecky. "We are 
 to 2:0 to the Doria Yilla afterwards — do come." 
 
 " I shall be delighted/' answered Flora ; '' and 
 mamma, will you not come also ? " 
 
 Mrs. Adair assented, and Mina said she would 
 go and get ready, as they were to call at the 
 hotel for '' old Lecky " at four, and it was then 
 half-past three. She soon returned dressed for" 
 the expedition, and the Adairs took leave of Mrs. 
 Blake. Allien they reached the Piazza they 
 called one of the open carriages which are so 
 coimnon in Rome, and drove to the Hotel d' 
 Amerique, where Miss Lecky was stajdng. She 
 did not keep them waiting many minutes, so they 
 reached the convent a little after four. 
 
 They were shown into a small square room, the 
 walls of which were white-washed ; rows of cane 
 chairs and a table in the centre completed its furni- 
 ture. There was a glass door standing open lead- 
 ing into a garden which looked so fresh and green 
 in the bright sunshine that Mina said it would be 
 a blessed change from that little cold, prim room ; 
 she hoped that Madame Ely would ask them to 
 walk in it, so that they might mount the rising 
 ground at the back and see from it the cele- 
 brated view of Rome. This hope, however, was 
 not destined to be gratified by Madame Ely, who 
 made her appearance just as Mina ceased speak-
 
 42 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 ing. Slie was tall and slight, witli finely cut, 
 sharp features, dark brown piercing eyes, tliin 
 lips, and a firmly closed mouth ; she looked as 
 rigid as ever, and her manner was as freezing. 
 Flora saw at a glance that not even Italian suns 
 had succeeded in melting that block of ice. 
 She whispered to Mina, " Byron says — 
 
 * The deepest ice which ever froze, 
 Can only o'er the surface close ; ' 
 
 but I scarcely think he could say so here, as he 
 would see some which had frozen far beneath the 
 surface, or else there never was anything to freeze 
 over : perhaps it is so." 
 
 During the conversation with Mrs. Adair, 
 Madame Ely named a Madame Hird, whom, as it 
 turned out, Mrs. Adair had known very well. She 
 now expressed a wish to see her, which request 
 was granted, and Madame Hird came down. 
 
 She was the very opposite of Madame Ely — 
 short in stature and of drooping carriage; she had 
 small, delicate features, soft blue ej^es with a most 
 gentle expression, and, if she also was somewhat 
 cold, it was merely a conventual coldness, — it 
 could easily be seen that, in her, the ice had 
 indeed 
 
 " Only o'er the surface" closed. 
 
 She remembered Mrs. Adair quite well, and they
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 43 
 
 talked of former days and old acquaintances till 
 Mrs. Adair tliought it was time to say adieu, and 
 she asked Madame Hird if they could take any 
 commands for her to Paris, or indeed to Ireland, 
 whither they were eventually going. 
 
 "I thank you, no," she answered; but after a 
 momentary pause she continued, " Yet you could 
 indeed do me a great service, if it would not be 
 asking too much. It is to take charge of a little 
 protegee of mine as far as Paris, — instead of pr^o- 
 tegee I should rather have said one who has been 
 particularly recommended to my care by a dear 
 friend, Madame de St. Severan, a countrywoman, 
 but, as her name proclaims, married to a French- 
 man, Colonel de St. Severan." 
 
 Mrs. Adair said she would be most happy to 
 oblige her old friend Madame Hird. 
 
 " W.ell, then," answered the latter, " you must 
 allow me to hand over to you a sketch of my 
 little charge's history, which Madame de St. 
 Severan sent to me. You can take it with you 
 and read it at your leisure ; then come again and 
 tell me if you are still willing to take charge of 
 Marie. She is the daughter of an Arab chief, — 
 but all that you will see in Madame de St. 
 Severan' s account of her. I will go and fetch it." 
 
 She left the room, but returned quickly with 
 the packet. Mrs. Adair thanked her for it, said
 
 44 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 they would call again in a few days, and then the 
 whole party stood up to take their leave. 
 
 When they got to the door, Mrs Adair said, 
 " Come, Flora, we must get home as quickly as 
 possible ; it is already past five.'' 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Adair," exclaimed Mina, " please 
 not to take Flora away ; let her take a drive with 
 us and spend the evening ; you know mamma is 
 always delighted to have her, and as Miss Lecky 
 lives in your neighbourhood, she can see her 
 home." 
 
 " But she has not dined, child, and you have ! " 
 
 Mina look imploringly at Flora and glanced 
 with dismay at Miss Lecky. Flora understood 
 the mute appeal, and said — 
 
 " Eeally, mamma, I could not eat any dinner 
 as I made such a very good luncheon, therefore 
 t/iat need not keep me from going with Mina ! " 
 
 " And we shall have a ^ thick tea' when we get 
 home," added Mina ; " so, Mrs. Adair, you will 
 not be so cruel as to refuse to let her come with 
 us ; — but why will you not come also ? " 
 
 " Oh ! I am too rational to leave my dinner for 
 a drive ; besides, Lucy would be waiting for us. 
 I must go home, but if my fair daughter chooses 
 to go without her dinner she may do so." 
 
 " I thank you so much, Mrs. Adair," answered 
 Mina : " but you will let us take you home ? "
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 45 
 
 " Indeed I can allow no sucli thing, — it would 
 make you far too late for the Villa Doria. I will 
 say good-bye, now ; and, Flora, pray come home 
 in good time." 
 
 "You ma}^ depend upon my leaving her at 
 home in good time, Mrs. Adair ; I never stay out 
 late," said Miss Lecky. 
 
 Just then one of the little open carriages 
 passed ; Mrs. Adair called it and drove home ; the 
 other three ladies then started for the Villa Doria. 
 
 But we have not yet presented Miss Lecky to 
 the reader, — she has only been heard of as " old 
 Lecky." It is true she was no longer young or 
 interesting, yet a few words must be said, not of 
 her appearance so much as of her character. She 
 was, then, a desperate saint and a church-haunter, 
 but, at the same time, indefatigable in running 
 about to all the profane sights. In the galleries 
 of painting and statuary she evinced the most 
 rigid modesty in turning away her head and 
 looking down when any undraped figure — of 
 which there is no lack in Italian galleries — 
 caught her eye, and this to the great amusement 
 of the girls, who, whenever they went with her 
 to any of these places, took the greatest delight 
 in pointing out to her on the catalogue objects 
 which were particulaily to be observed, and after- 
 vrards v»^atching the poor old lady's start of horror
 
 46 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 at such representations ; being short- sighted, 
 moreover, she did not see anything until she was 
 quite near to it. For the rest she was a good- 
 natured, kind-hearted old creature, yet a little 
 wearisome withal to our young friends. 
 
 As they drove to the Yilla Doria the task of 
 entertaining her fell principally upon Mina, as 
 her mother's friend and guest. Flora sat silently 
 enjoying the delicious Italian evening ; she might 
 have been accused of looking a little abstracted, 
 as, with eyes apparently fixed on vacancy, she 
 leaned back in the carriage. Perhaps there were 
 floating before them visions of other and yet more 
 delicious evenings, when she lay upon a sofa near 
 an open window and listened to a voice and words 
 very different from old Lecky's ! 
 
 They drove out of the Porta San Pancrazio, a 
 little distance beyond which are the grounds of 
 the Doria Pamfili Villa, one of the most extensive 
 and park- like places to be found on the Continent, 
 and although somew^hat disfigured by avenues, 
 terraces, and fountains, it is an enchanting spot, 
 especially in the gorgeous Poman spring-time. 
 
 Such it was on the evening when our party 
 entered its gates. Had they come to see the 
 fashionable world it was rather late ; already the 
 carriages were disappearing, for the sun was 
 declining rapidly towards its setting in the west,
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 47 
 
 and the Romans are far too careful of their 
 health to brave the dangerous half-hour which, it 
 is said, precedes and follows sunset. Our friends, 
 however, did not come to see the monde, and the 
 lateness of the hour only enhanced the beauty of 
 the grounds. As for the health question, the 
 young ladies simply ignored it, and Miss Lecky 
 probably did not know an^^thing about it, or she 
 would not have been so recklessly indifferent to it 
 as her companions were. 
 
 One of the chief objects of interest is the 
 Columhariiwi. Perhaps, for the advantage of 
 our readers who have not been to Rome and have 
 not studied Murray, we ought to say that Colum- 
 barium is a name given to certain sej^idchral 
 buildings from their likeness to a modern pigeon- 
 house with its tiers of little niches ; and in these 
 were deposited in former days urns containing the 
 ashes of the dead, whose names are inscribed on 
 marble tablets above. In one of the Columbaria 
 on the AjDpian AVay there is a curious record 
 placed -by a lady over the ashes of a favourite 
 dog ; his portrait accompanies the inscription, 
 and he is designated as the delight — '' delicium'^ — 
 of his mistress ! . . . 
 
 The Cohanbariian in the grounds of the Yilla 
 Doria consists of one large chamber and several 
 smaller ones ; it contains a great nimiber of urns,
 
 48 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 but few inscriptions, and none of any great 
 interest, so the inspection of it detained our 
 friends only for a few minutes. They then drove 
 to the monument erected b}^ Prince Doria to the 
 memory of the French who fell there in the year 
 1849, when General Oudinot forced Garibaldi and 
 his Republicans from the Casino and grounds, 
 where they had taken up a strong position. It is 
 situated at the end of one of the great avenues of 
 evergreen oaks, and is an octagonal temple, sup- 
 ported by four columns of white marble, on which 
 is placed a statue of the Blessed Virgin, and on 
 the pedestal are the names of those who fell in 
 defence of the Villa. This is a beautiful object seen 
 from the other end of the a^'enue, — the white 
 marble contrasting so well with the dark green of 
 the majestic oaks. 
 
 It was now high time for them to think of 
 returning, as the gates of the villa were about to be 
 closed ; but the evening was still so lovely that 
 Mina declared it would be a sin to go home so 
 soon. Miss Lecky agreed with her, and asked if 
 there were any church which they could see on 
 their way back. Mina answered, " Yes, Santa 
 Sabina ; W(i shall pass close to the Bocca delta 
 Veritd, which is very near to it ; one of the 
 fathers of the Dominican convent is my cousin, 
 so I can ask to see him."
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 49 
 
 Miss Lecky said that slie would be deliglited 
 to go, as slie liad never seen that church. Miiia 
 whispered to Flora that she would not see much 
 of it, unless she had cat's eyes and could see in 
 the dark ; but it was a good joke to storm the 
 convent, after the Ave Maria, and astonish the 
 monks by the sight of three women at that hour. 
 
 Accordingly they drove to Santa Sabina, or 
 rather, to the foot of Mount Aventine, on the 
 summit of which it stands. The driver beo:j?ed 
 them to walk up as '^ the hill was so steep," and, 
 the light fading, he was afraid that his horses 
 might stumble and fall on their way down ; so 
 they got out and went up on foot, the carriage 
 waiting below for them. 
 
 On reaching the convent they rang at the door, 
 which was quickly opened by a lay-brother, who 
 looked wonder-struck on seeing the three ladies. 
 Mina ignored the look of surprise, and calmly 
 asked if she could see " il Padre Osmondo." 
 The lay-brother said he would inquire, and showed 
 them into the parlour. 
 
 It was already so dark that they coidd see but 
 indistinctly, and suddenly it appeared to dawn 
 upon Miss Lecky that it was somewhat of an un- 
 seemly hour for a visit to a monaster}^. Mina and 
 Flora could hardly suppress their laughter at the 
 thought that the old lady should only then have 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 arrived at the knowledge of tliat long evident 
 fact. 
 
 Just then the door opened, and in came Father 
 Osmond. He shook hands with Mina, who intro- 
 duced her friends, and laughingly apologised for 
 the lateness of their visit, saying that as they 
 were passing at the foot of the hill, and Miss 
 Lecky was so anxious to see the church before 
 she left Rome, they had ventured to call at that 
 hour, fearing they would have no other oj)por- 
 tunity. 
 
 Father Osmond was a tall, fat, good-natured- 
 looking Irishman, with ruddy cheeks and laughing 
 blue eyes. He answered, in a rich brogue, 
 " Shure inough. Miss Blake, I'd niver doubt you 
 to be me counthry-woman — to come and see a 
 place in the dark ; but as you are here, I suppose 
 I must bring you into the church, and thry if a 
 candle will help you to see Sassoferrato's sweet 
 Virgin.'* 
 
 ^' Thank you," replied Mina, as they followed 
 him to the church door, where he begged them to 
 wait a moment while he went to get a candle. He 
 quickly returned, with a lighted one in his hand, 
 and led them to the chapel where is Sassoferrato's 
 beautiful Madonna, a j)icture unsurpassed, perhaps, 
 in sweetness of expression, by any in Home. 
 
 The scene was indeed a strange one ; the large
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 51 
 
 dark churcli, with tlie glimmer of a small lamp 
 in one of the side chapels the three female 
 figures standing there, staring up at the picture, 
 and the Dominican in his white habit moving 
 the candle from side to side. The girls were 
 keenly alive to it, and the twinkle in Father 
 Osmond's eye showed that he too was not insen- 
 sible to its absurdity. At last he said — 
 
 " AVell, Miss Lecky, I think you'd do as well 
 to come some day to see the church, for shure 
 you can't judge of anything by thi^ miserable 
 candlelight." 
 
 "You are right," she answered; *' I must 
 manage to come some day to see the church, and 
 have a look at this beautiful picture. ]N^ow we 
 had better think of getting home." 
 
 Father Osmond led the way back to the 
 reception-room, and said he would call the lay- 
 brother to let them out, adding, " Your carriage is 
 at the door, I suppose." 
 
 " iS'o," replied Miss Lecky, — the girls did not 
 trust themselves to speak, — " the driver asked us 
 to walk uj) ; the hill, he said, was so very steep 
 for the horses." 
 
 " You don't mean to say that you came up by 
 yourselves ! Shure thin I don't know how you'll 
 ixQY git down again! Why this hill is so lonely 
 and dangerous a place after nightfall that one of 
 
 ll-Uno J" op,
 
 52 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 the lay-brothers would not go out alone^ and you 
 three ladies are going to walk down alone as late 
 as this ! 'No, that can't be ! " 
 
 The spirit of mischief must have taken 
 possession of the two girls, for, as they saw poor 
 Miss Lecky grow pale with terror, and heard her 
 exclaim, " Oh ! Father Osmond, what shall we 
 do ? " they laughed outright. 
 
 Father Osmond looked at them with a half- 
 amused, half-impatient expression, and said, "It 
 is all very well to laugh, young ladies, but may 
 be it's the wrong side of your mouth you'd laugh 
 if you walked down that hill alone to-night. 
 But that you'll not do. Shure I couldn't sleep 
 aisy in me bed for thinking of what might happen 
 to you. I'll go and get somebody to go down 
 with you." So saying he left the room. Poor 
 Miss Lecky expressed the most ardent wishes 
 that they had never left the carriage, and that 
 they were safe back in it again, and the young 
 ladies tried to regain a little gravity. 
 
 In a few minutes Father Osmond came back 
 and said" that the man who took care of the 
 garden would take a lantern and see them safe 
 to the carriage. They thanked Father Osmond 
 warmly for all his kindness, and as Mina shook 
 hands with him she begged him in a low voice
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 53 
 
 to excuse this wild freak of theirs, and forgive all 
 their laughing. 
 
 "You're young, me children, you're young, 
 and shure it's not meself that would find fault 
 with you for being merry; long may you remain 
 so ; — and now, good-night, and may God bless 
 you both." 
 
 They followed Miss Lecky, who was impa- 
 tiently waiting^ for them at the door, and tryinof 
 to make out something of what the man with the 
 lantern was saying, which, as she knew very 
 little Italian, seemed rather a hopeless task ; and 
 she looked as much afraid of him as of anything 
 else. In truth, he was rather a formidable- look- 
 ing personage, with his tall, gaunt figure wrapped 
 up in a long dark cloak, a large slouched hat 
 covering his brows so that nothing of his face 
 could be seen but two fierce black eyes, and a 
 profusion of dark hair. He did indeed look rather 
 bandit-like. 
 
 As the girls came out he said, '' Andiamo prestOy 
 Signoriiie,'" and started off at a brisk pace with 
 the lantern. Mina could not resist the temptation 
 of drawing out poor old Lecky's fear of their 
 protector, and giving Flora a sign to follow the 
 lead, she said, "Don't you think. Miss Lecky, 
 that the man looks to be a very suspicious
 
 54 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 character ? Suppose lie was to be an accomplice 
 of those dangerous people we hear of, and that, 
 when we are half way down the hill, they should 
 dart out from some dark corner I He might pre- 
 tend that he was frightened by their number, and 
 run away, leaving ns in their hands." 
 
 " But surely you don't think the fathers would 
 employ such a person, do you ?" 
 
 *' Of course not, if they knew it," said Flora, 
 gravely; ''but you know Italians are so cunning 
 that they easily deceive poor monks, and t/iat 
 man certainly is like the descriptions which we 
 read of bandits." 
 
 " Well, do you know," began Miss Lecky, in a 
 trembling tone, " it struck me as soon as I saw 
 him, but I did not like to say anything, fear- 
 ing " 
 
 '' What's that ! " interrupted Mina, as a low 
 whistle was heard ; " it is the signal perhaps ! " 
 
 " My God ! there they are !" exclaimed the 
 poor old lady, as she convulsively caught hold of 
 Flora's arm, " and he is speaking to the leader. 
 Oh ! let us run away ! " 
 
 Mina laughed aloud. Flora at the same time 
 trying to keep from following her examj^le, 
 and to calm poor Miss Lecky's fears by telling 
 her that it was only a flock of goats, and the 
 terrible leader a peaceable herdsman, with his 
 
 I
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 5o 
 
 crook, to wlioin their attendant spoke a few 
 words. 
 
 Miss Lecky, as we liave already learned, was a 
 good-humoured creature, so she laughed heartily 
 at her own mistake, and said she was so 
 ridiculously short-sighted that she coidd not dis- 
 tinguish anything at a distance ; but how she 
 wished they were safe in the carriage ! 
 
 The girls felt that it would be carrying a 
 joke to ill-nature to teaze her any more, so they 
 changed their tone, and began to reassure her 
 by telling her that they were nearly at the foc»t 
 of the hill, and then all cause of fear would be at 
 an end. It was almost too much for them to 
 keep from bursting into fits of laughter at the 
 thought of the poor goats and their herdsman 
 being taken for a party of bandits with their 
 leader. 
 
 At length they reached the end of their walk, 
 without any further adventures than passing now 
 and then dark-looking individuals enveloped in 
 cloaks, who stared curiously at them, but went on 
 their way without speaking. The girls, however,. 
 did afterwards admit that it would not have been 
 pleasant for them to have been alone. 
 
 The moment when they came in sight of the' 
 carriage Miss Lecky made a rush towards it, and 
 got in. Mina thanked their cavalier and gave him
 
 56 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 a couple of pauls, when lie took off his liat, 
 courteously wished them hiion viaggio e /dice 
 notte, and returned to the convent. 
 
 They told the coachman to drive back fast to 
 the Piazza di Yenezia, and when they got home 
 they found Mrs. Blake expecting them rather 
 anxiously, as it was so late. As Mina had said, she 
 appeared delighted to see Flora, and told them 
 that tea would be ready for them in a moment. 
 
 Mina hoped that there was plenty of good 
 substantial eatables, particularly for poor Flora, 
 who had not dined ; but Flora declared that she 
 did not deserve to be pitied, since she had enjoyed 
 the drive far more than she would have enjoj^ed 
 dinner. 
 
 A little after nine Miss Lecky left Flora at her 
 home. As soon as she got into the drawing-room 
 she threw herself into an armchair, and then 
 proceeded to give an account of their adventures.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 We must now turn our attention to some of our 
 other friends of the croquet party, and especially 
 to one about whom, as we have already seen, 
 Flora Adair's thoughts were not a little occupied, 
 namely, Mr. Earnscliife, in order to endeavour to 
 learn something of his appearance and his mode 
 of life. 
 
 He lived in the Piazza di Trajana, in a hand- 
 some and thoroughly Italian apartment on the 
 second floor — or, as it is more properly called, 
 seconclo piano — of a house situated at the lower 
 end of the Piazza, nearly opposite to the church 
 of Santa Maria di Loretto. 
 
 He was seated in an armchair by a table 
 covered with books and writing materials, — to all 
 appearance he had been reading. His tall and 
 strongly-built form seemed made for activity and 
 energy, and in keeping therewith was the well- 
 shaped hand, which rested upon the arm of his 
 chair, — a hand full of vigour, one of those which
 
 58 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 sliow at a glance that its support could be trusted 
 to in any trial or danger. His brown, yet almost 
 auburn, hair was brushed off from a high fore- 
 head, but one marked with many a line, — too 
 many for a man of six-and-thirty. Byron 
 speaks of 
 
 " Those fuiTOws which the hurning share 
 Of sorrow ploughs untimely there ; " 
 
 and so, perhaps, was it with Mr. Earnscliffe. 
 His large blue eyes had a strangely stern expres- 
 sion in them, ^^ pour les cloux yeux bleus,^^ but at 
 times, when moved by even a momentary feeling 
 of enthusiasm, there beamed in them a winning- 
 softness which looked far more natural to him 
 than that strange sternness. It may be, however, 
 that this w^as 
 
 " A light of other days." 
 
 His slightly aquiline nose, and his somewhat full 
 lips closed firmly over an imbroken and even 
 range of strong teeth, and his firm and resolute 
 mouth betokened an ardent, passionate nature. 
 A beard and moustache, of nearly the same colour 
 as his hair, covered the lower part of his face, 
 which was naturally fair, but somewhat bronzed 
 by southern suns. 
 
 He was dressed in a dark morning suit, without 
 any recherche ; but in a peasant's costume there
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 59 
 
 would have been tliat same air of ease and high, 
 breeding which so strikingly distinguished him, — 
 that distinction of nature which no outward 
 adornment of wealth or fashion, or even birth 
 with all its advantages, could give. " It is the 
 soul," says the great Christian doctor and philoso- 
 pher, " which is the form of the body and which 
 gives its beauty to it." 
 
 AYe have heard from Mrs. Elton that Mr. 
 Earnscliffe was rich. Why then did he live in this 
 unfashionable quarter ? Probably because it was 
 unfashionable, and out of the way of his sight- 
 seeing, gaiety-hunting country people, who con- 
 gregate about the Corso and the Piazza di Spagna ; 
 probably also because in the Piazza di Trajana, 
 where the houses look down upon the remains of 
 that once magnificent Forum and the unrivalled 
 cokmin which still stands there, he Mved in some 
 degree in the Pome of old, " the mistress of the 
 world, whose people were a nation of kings," as 
 he had said on that day at Frascati, and not 
 in the modem Pome, which to his clouded vision 
 appeared so despicable. 
 
 If the pride of human reason, which was so 
 strong in ♦him, would have permitted him to 
 endeavour to pierce that cloud, he would have 
 seen how much more glorious is her diadem now 
 than it then Vv'as. Then her sovereignt}^ rested
 
 60 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 on material force alone, — -slie was the capital of 
 the peoples whom she had conquered for her 
 Csesars by the force of arms, and her government 
 was the lower one — the government of power ; 
 now her sovereignty is a moral sovereignty, — she 
 is the capital of Christendom, of the nations 
 which she has won to God by the power of per- 
 suasion, and her government is the highest of all 
 — the government of love ! But these things 
 were hidden from Mr. Earnscliffe, — he " did not 
 believe, and therefore he could not understand." 
 
 Upon the table beside him lay Mbbi's '''Roma 
 Antica e Moderna,'" " Les Catacombes de Borne,'''' 
 by Louis Perret, an open volume of Plato, 
 Pulwer's " Zanoni " and " Godolphin.'' It was a 
 small but somewhat miscellaneous collection, and 
 forrfied a fair index to the mind of him who sat 
 in the armchair. There were few men who had 
 read or thought more than he had done in his. own 
 way ; but the more he read and the more he 
 thought, the more baseless everything seemed to 
 him. At times he would sit with an open volume 
 beside him, and, ceasing to read, bitterl}'- ask him- 
 self what he gained by all his study and thought ? 
 It only isolated him, he would sayj> from the 
 generality of people, and left him tossing without 
 a rudder upon the unstable waters of human 
 opinion, to which there seemed to be no attain-
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 61 
 
 able shore. . . . Yet tlie sliore was close to Kim, 
 only he would not see it. 
 
 There had just risen up before him a vision of 
 years long past and gone, when he dreamed of 
 love, of the unutterable delight of conferring 
 happiness upon another ; and for a moment his 
 blue eyes regained their natural soft expression — 
 but for a moment only ; the next it had passed 
 away ; and throwing his head back impatiently, as 
 if he would shake off 
 
 " Those spectres vliom no exorcism can bind," 
 
 he exclaimed, " What nonsense all this is ! Do I 
 not know by experience the hollowness of love ? 
 The best of women are but the best of actresses — • 
 for they are all so more or less — and would I sigh 
 again for aught so worthless ? A thousand times, 
 no. I made my choice long ago ; I determined to 
 be self-sufficing, true and virtuous for my own 
 sake, and to prove what man can be of himself 
 alone ! Ay, Plato," and he drew the book to- 
 wards him, ^'thou art my best friend, my only 
 master I But even thou dost not teach enough ! 
 Yet come, thou canst teach me more than any 
 other! '' And, ^ith the old stern look in his face, 
 he began to read again. 
 
 Will his proud spirit of self-reliance, his iron 
 will, ever be humbled? Will he ever learn to
 
 62 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 kiss tlie rod under wliich lie writhes? If so, it 
 must indeed be after a deadly struggle with his 
 mortal enemy, himself. 
 
 He did not go much into society, and rather 
 avoided that of ladies, although he could make 
 himself most pleasing to them when he chose to 
 do so, as indeed he had proved in regard to Flora 
 Adair. His sense of justice was unusually strong, 
 and therefore it was that he had broken through 
 his rule of rarely visiting by going so often to 
 the Adairs ; he considered it as a sort of moral 
 debt to render the time of Flora's imprisonment 
 as little wearisome as possible, having been, as he 
 said, the remote cause of her accident. As that 
 obligation was now over, he tried to persuade him- 
 self that he was delighted at it ; yet many things 
 which had happened during their conversations 
 were constantly recurring to him ; he wished he 
 had said this, or that, — something, in short, 
 which he had not said. He thought, moreover, 
 that he should like to be able to study Flora 
 Adair more closely, but merely to find her out, as 
 no doubt she was an actress like the rest of her 
 sex. He was generous too, ever ready to give 
 money to relieve others, and, notwithstanding his 
 assumed stoicism, his tell-tale eyes would light up 
 with a passing glow whenever he felt that he had 
 been the means of doing good to a suffering
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 63 
 
 creature, or given any pleasiu'e to otliers. To liis 
 servants lie Vv-as a kind master, altliougli habitually 
 reserved and distant, but never to tbem was lie 
 proud and scornful, as he often was to his equals. 
 For the rest, his character must develop itself. 
 AVe shall not now be astonished at acts of apparent 
 inconsistency caused by that perpetual warfare 
 between the two natm-es, the real and the ac- 
 quired. Thus hashes of the enthusiastic spirit of 
 his youth would every now and then dart athwart 
 the sombre hues of the philosopher and fatalist of 
 later years. 
 
 On this day there certainly seemed to be some- 
 thing very wrong with Mr. Earnscliffe, for he 
 coidd not as usual, by the mere force of his will, 
 fix his attention to the book before him. Closing 
 it with a jerk, he said to himself, " What on earth 
 has come over me ? "What has called up so many 
 memories which I thought buried for ever — 
 memories of days when I was not the cold lonely 
 being I now am ? Have I not found out the 
 hoUowness of all things P Have I not sought in 
 vain for proofs even of the Creator's goodness, 
 about which one hears so much cant ? I can see 
 only human beings endowed with sensitive powers, 
 and thi'own into the world for the greater part 
 to be tortured, and all left without any certain 
 guide, the sport of their own wayward minds !
 
 64 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 And then, indeed, people talk about tlie consola- 
 tions of religion ! Wliat are those consolations ? 
 What is religion ? A helpless human being in the 
 bright morning of this deceptive life is suddenly 
 struck down by a blow which not only strikes at 
 him, but at his faith in all goodness and truth ; 
 he turns to religion and asks for its consolations, 
 and religion turns out to be a collection of rules 
 and maxims laid down by one or more men 
 of different sects, who call themselves ministers 
 of God, and its consolations are certain texts of 
 Scripture interpreted by them as they please, 
 each giving a different meaning, whilst they 
 are united in nothing save in hating and at- 
 tacking the oldest and most dominant of their 
 creeds : and this perhaps is the best feature 
 about them, as it proves that even they have 
 an instinctive horror of deceit and supersti- 
 tion. A propos, I wonder how Flora Adair be- 
 lieves in it ; for although she too is an actress, 
 she is capable of thinking. However, I believe 
 it is supposed to be right for ladies to be religious. 
 Ah ! that's it, is it ? Yet she did seem to speak 
 from conviction at Frascati. I wish I could un- 
 ravel her ! She would be rather a new and 
 interesting study, — she takes a different role from 
 young ladies in general. I don't know that it 
 would be a bad plan to try to unearth her, — it
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 65 
 
 vould be sometliing new to tliink about, at all 
 events ; so, young lady, if you come in my way I 
 shall try to find out all the dessous les cartes. As 
 for religions, I am surely not going to fall back to 
 thinking about them and seeking that ignis fatuuSf 
 certaintj^ ! Reason is the only power which I can 
 recognise, and Plato is Reason's highest, noblest 
 disciple. How is it, then, that to-day I cannot 
 find in him food to satisfy — nay, he never satisfies 
 — but to stay the mind's craving? "Well, it 
 seems to be an unsolvable riddle. I only know 
 that I cannot solve it ; so, for dream-land ! Bidwer 
 is a good magician, and however unreal may be 
 the visions which he conjures up, it is a relief to 
 forget one's self in them even for a time." 
 
 He threw himself back into his chair and took 
 up " Godolphin," which he opened at about the 
 middle of tlie volmne. His eyes grew bright, 
 and a slight colour came into his face as he read. 
 Was it his only goddess. Reason, which thus 
 moved him ? We will leave it to those of our 
 readers who know ''Godolphin," — and who does 
 not ? — to answer the question for themselves. 
 
 Having discovered as much of Mr. Earnscliffe 
 as we can now see, we will transport ourselves to 
 a more fashionable quarter — to the Yia Babuino — 
 whore the Eltons lived. 
 
 Their apartment differed essentially from Mr. 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 66 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 Earnscliffe's ; liis was Italian, theirs was English 
 in everything, — an English servant opened the 
 door and ushered visitors into a handsome draw- 
 ing-room luxuriously furnished d rAnglaise, with 
 a rich soft carpet, couches, and lounging chairs of 
 various kinds. Mrs. Elton was still in her room; 
 being an invalid, she seldom made her appearance 
 much before one o'clock, and it had but just 
 struck twelve. 
 
 Mary Elton was seated at a table, writing; 
 her younger sister, Helena, lolling rather grace- 
 fully on a sofa, with a novel in her hand, from 
 which, however, her thoughts seemed to wander 
 not a little, and her restless eyes were fixed 
 oftener on her sister than on the page before her. 
 She seemed to be meditating — if such a word 
 could over be applied justly to one who was so 
 thoughtless and impulsive — something in regard 
 to Mary, and she shrugged her shoulders im- 
 patiently as she watched the incessant motion of 
 her sister's pen and her close attention to what 
 she w^as doing. 
 
 We must not pass over in silence the appear- 
 ance of these two young ladies, who were said, 
 indeed, to be very much admired. Mary's figure 
 was tall, rather full and stately ; she moved 
 quietly and with a certain degree of dignity ; 
 while Helena was not much above the middle 
 
 1
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 67 
 
 height, and slighter than her sister ; there was 
 a careless grace, too, in her quick, restless move- 
 ments, which was very attractive. Never were 
 there greater contrasts, in appearance as in all the 
 rest, than these two sisters. They had both red — 
 some called it auburn — hair, but in truth it was 
 scarcely auburn ; both had brilliantly fair com- 
 plexions and hazel eyes, but there the resemblance 
 ceased. Mary's eyes were large and round ; they 
 looked at one with a calm, steady gaze; they 
 could burn at times, and when they did, it was 
 with no mere flash, but a fierce steady flame. 
 Helena's were smaller and more almond-shaped, — 
 sparkling, dancing, laughing eyes they were in- 
 deed ! Mary had a broad and rather high fore- 
 head, a straight, almost Grecian, nose and a well- 
 cut but large mouth. Helena's forehead was low 
 and very narrow, her nose was slightly retrousse, 
 and her mouth small, with red pouting lips. The 
 expression of one of these faces was constantly 
 changing ; that of the other was habitually calm 
 and thoughtful, — a face which changed but 
 seldom, but when it did change it was no April 
 sunshine, or cloud, or summer storm that passed 
 over it. 
 
 Helena could bear the monotonous scratching 
 of Mary's pen no longer, and exclaimed, "For 
 goodness' sake, Mary, do stop writing, and give
 
 68 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 up looking so intensely interested in tliat stupid 
 letter to our saint of an aunt ! I know it must 
 bore you dreadfully ! '* 
 
 ** Because you are bored yourself, Helena ; is it 
 not so ? But mamma wishes this letter to go to- 
 day, so I must write it, in any case." 
 
 " Yes, of course, you dear delightful child ; 
 but there is plenty of time, and I want you to 
 talk to me now. Tell me, are you coming to the 
 Catacombs this afternoon ? You know that we 
 have tickets, and can join a party of which 
 Cardinal de Reisac is to be the cicerone." 
 
 " The Catacombs ? No ! What could have put 
 such an idea into your head ? Surely you are not 
 thinki}ig of going ? " 
 
 " Surely I am, though ! " 
 
 "And, in the name of all that is wonderful, 
 f )r wha^. ? You would not tell me that such a 
 maclci^p as you are can care to go poking about 
 in those damp underground pas&ages, listening to 
 Cizi i>ld Cai'diiiars fabulous legends of this Roman 
 nonsense? A little poetic association with the 
 pas; is very telling for them, no doubt ; but you 
 are :iever going for all this, Helena ? " 
 
 " I\ o, noo I ! I^»ut, my precious matter-of-fact 
 sister, can you not imagine any one going to the 
 Ca'aoombs for any other motive Llian (.hat, oi' seeing 
 them and listening to tiresome old histories ?
 
 FLORA ADAIR. W 
 
 * Poking about in those damp underground pas- 
 sages/ as you most irreverently designate visiting 
 the last home of the saints, the persecuted, the 
 martp^s ! " 
 
 Mary could not help smiling as Helena went on 
 with mock gravity. "Venturing to repeat your 
 profane mode of speaking, my dear Mary, I beg 
 to say that ' poking about in those damp under- 
 ground passages' might be made very pleasant 
 indeed, and one might hear there something far 
 more agreeable than the twaddling of a reverend 
 monsignore." 
 
 " Pray be sensible, if you can, Helena. I 
 suppose you have discovered that Mr. Caulfield is 
 to be of the party, and that is, no doubt, your 
 motive for going." 
 
 " AVith your usual wisdom you have divined it, 
 ' most potent, grave, and reverend ' lady I " 
 
 *'How silly you are! But I am sure I don't 
 know why you have told me your motive for 
 going, since you know it is one of which I cannot 
 approve. It would be mistaken kindness, indeed, 
 were I to encourage you in this wild fancy which 
 you have taken for Mr. Caidfield. You will not 
 be allowed to marry him, therefore all these 
 meetings wiL but make you unhappy I " 
 
 " Most admirably reasoned ! Only you seem to 
 ignore the existence of that tender passion called
 
 70 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 love, whicli is not remarkable for its obedience to 
 reason, as far as I know. I love Harry Caulfield, 
 so the mischief — if mischief it be^is done : 
 theiefore, whether I am allowed to marry him or 
 not, it is too late to think of saving me from 
 unhappiness by preventing me from seeing him. 
 Now listen to me, Mary, and I will be as serious 
 as you like ; I repeat I love him, — not perhaps in 
 the way that Flora Adair " (a strange ex- 
 pression passed over Mary's face as this name was 
 uttered ; Helena's quick eye caught it, but she 
 continued without making any observation) " and 
 her friend Mina Blake talk about,— a feeling into 
 which everything is merged, concentrated into 
 the one thought, can I make him happy ? How 
 amused I have been when listening to them ; you 
 know they say that a woman's happiness consists 
 not in the least in doing what she likes, but in 
 the happiness of the man she loves ! "Where 
 they learnt such notions I cannot conceive ! " 
 
 "Nor can I see what their ideas on the subject 
 can have to do with your reasons for making me 
 your confidant, which was what I wished to know." 
 
 " Nothing on earth, most lawyer-like of young 
 ladies; but I could not help telling you en 
 passant how Flora and her friend talk about 
 love." Had Helena really no other motive for 
 bringing in Flora's name ?
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 71 
 
 Mary shrugged tier shoulders impatientty, and 
 said, " To the point, Helena, if you please." 
 
 " Shure now, you wouldn't be for hurrying and 
 flusthering a poor young crature !'' answered 
 Helena, with provoking trifling ; but, seeing that 
 Mary looked really annoyed, she added in a more 
 sober tone, " Well, I said I would be serious, and 
 so I will ; please, Mary, do have a little patience 
 with me. My reasons, then, are threefold : 
 first, I wanted a confidant ; secondly, I chose 
 you because I know that, after all, you are fond 
 of your madcap sister, and can help her so much 
 if you choose to do so ; thirdly, I could repay 
 your kindness by telling ^^ou something which 
 you would be glad to hear.'' 
 
 " Helena ! " interrupted Mary, whilst an angry 
 flush spread itself over her face. 
 
 '' jN^ay, Mary, hear me out ; I did not mean to 
 speak of this as a bribe ; I know you too well to 
 imagine that you would be induced to help me to 
 a little enjoyment for the sake of any self- gratifi- 
 cation ; for that I depend on your afi"ection ; yet, 
 as I said before, it is pleasant to feel that I can 
 repay you ; or, if you will not help me, you shall 
 have my information gratis." 
 
 " I don't in the least know what you mean, 
 Helena," rejoined Mary, in her coldest manner. 
 
 " Of course not, you never knew a young lady
 
 72 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 who was considered a model of sense, held up as a 
 pattern to an incorrigibly wild younger sister, 
 who was always at some mischief or other, 
 flirting — what not ? Well, this young lady did 
 really seem to be a model one, and an immov- 
 able rock of sense; to possess those treasures, a 
 well-regulated mind, and a heart which, like a 
 good watch, but ticked slow or fast according to 
 the regulator ; and to have far too much dignity, 
 self-respect, proper pride, and all the rest of it, 
 ever to care the least for any man until he had 
 formally proposed, and was accepted with the full 
 approbation of her family; when — would you 
 
 believe it, Mary ?— all " 
 
 '* Nonsense, Helena, I shall not stay to hear 
 any more of this." Mary stood up looking flushed 
 and angry. " Let me go, please," she continued, 
 as Helena held her dress ; but Helena held on, 
 saying— 
 
 " Mary, you must sit down again, and let me 
 say what I have to say, or I shall be obliged to 
 describe the model young lady to somebody else, 
 and see if they can recognise the original." She 
 put her arms round her sister's waist, and, pulling 
 her down upon the sofa, seated herself on the 
 ground at her feet; then she went on, "When 
 you interrupted me, Mary, I was just going to 
 ask you if you could believe it, that all of a
 
 FLORA ADAIR. i <i 
 
 sudden this compoimd of dignity, self-respect, and 
 maidenly reserve fell in love with, a man who 
 didn't care a pin for her" — Mary winced — " and 
 this was not all : she became furiously jealous of 
 a young lady friend who did seem to interest him, 
 a supposed woman-hater, not a little. A few 
 glances and unheeded words betrayed it all to the 
 giddy girl, who immediately felt a new well of 
 love spring up in her heart fur that apparently 
 immovable sister, whom she had discovered to 
 be something more than the well-regulated time- 
 piece she had before seemed to be. She saw her 
 suffer silently ; she saw tears, all unbidden, start 
 into her eyes; she longed to throw her arms 
 round her, and win her to tell her pain, and thus 
 lessen its sting ; to help hdk", perhaps, and give 
 her hope. 3Iary, my sister, let me comfort you as 
 well as I can ; further secresy is useless, — I have 
 seen it all. Love makes us wondrously keen- 
 sighted. Had I not known something of the little 
 god's wiles myself, I might not have been so 
 sharp. Confide in me, Mary ; I am generally 
 thoughtless, it is true, and talk at random, but I 
 can be silent as the grave where I love, and I love 
 my sister." 
 
 Poor Mary could bear it no longer; the slowly- 
 gathering tears fell, at last, as Helena looked up 
 fondly and pleadingly at her. And the sisters
 
 74 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 changed roles: the calm reserved Mary sobbed 
 passionately, and Helena endeavoured to sootlie 
 and comfort her. 
 
 Mary Elton was not one who — young-lady-like 
 — " enjoyed a good cry ;" tears were rather a pain 
 than a relief to her, and seldom were they forced 
 from her save by a sudden shock, such as her 
 sister's discovery, and the laying bare of the 
 secret which she believed to be hidden deep in 
 the recesses of her own heart. After a few 
 minutes her sobs ceased, and she became calmer; 
 drawing back a little from Helena's arms, she 
 said, coldly — 
 
 " You have stolen into my confidence, Helena, 
 so I have no power to give or to refuse it ! " 
 
 "Oh, Mary!" ^d Helena's tone told how 
 much her sister's coldness pained her. 
 
 Mary felt it, and suddenly bending over her, 
 she kissed her fondly, saying, " Foolish child, do 
 not think that I am not grateful for all your 
 afiection, or that I do not return it. Ah, Helena, 
 you don't know how I love your frank, impulsive 
 nature, and how I envy you your light-hearted- 
 ness, your power of forgetting, in the enjoyment 
 of the hour, all pain and sorrow ; but I cannot be 
 tender now ; tenderness would unnerve me, would 
 break down the barrier of self-restraint. Child, 
 you don't know what it is when we habitually
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 75 
 
 calm people burst tiie bonds of tbe so-called 
 principles which bad before guided us ; all seems 
 to give way around us, and the passion by which 
 we are possessed becomes fearful. Yes, you are 
 right, — I do love this man, who cares not for me, 
 and I hate her who, though it be for a moment, 
 seems to interest him ; and dear, surpassingly dear 
 as he is to me, I would rather see him dead than 
 loving and beloved by her. I would plunge into 
 the fiercest fire that ever raged to tear her from 
 him ! " 
 
 She paused and sat with her head erect, and 
 her teeth clenched, glaring before her as if, in 
 imagination at least, she saw her yet unconscious 
 rival by his side. This burst of passion so amazed 
 Helena that she could not utter a word, and 
 before she had recovered from her astonishment 
 Mary continued in a calmer tone, " I trust you 
 fidly, Helena, and shall gratefully — yes, I have 
 fallen low enough for that — gratefully accept any 
 help you can give me. But all this time I have 
 not answered your question as to whether I will 
 forward your wishes as to Mr. Caulfield. First 
 tell me clearly how the case stands, and what you 
 
 wish me to do." 
 
 t 
 
 " The case stands thus, Mary : Mr. Caulfield has 
 asked me over and over again to let him speak 
 to mamma, but were he to do so I should probably
 
 76 FLORA ADATR. 
 
 only be forbidden to see him, and I love bim too 
 dearly to let bim risk tbe refusal wbicb I know 
 be would get. So, as I bave already told you, it 
 is too late to tbink of sparing me pain by prevent- 
 ing my meeting bim ; it would but take away 
 from me all tbe bappiness I can now bave — tbat 
 of seeing bim occasionally. Wbat I want you to 
 do, Mary, is to belp me in tbis, and still furtber, 
 to try to incline mamma more favourably 
 towards bim, and you bave great influence witb 
 ber. If you will do tbis I will promise not to 
 marry bim for a year, at all events, witbout ber 
 consent ; but if you drive me to desperation, if you 
 deprive me of tbe deligbt of being witb bim 
 sometimes, I cannot answer for myself.^' 
 
 Helena bad grown serious enougb, and ber 
 voice and manner borrowed some of ber sister's 
 determination, as sbe continued, '' And as for 
 mamma's ricb favourite, Mr. Mainwaring, notbing 
 on eartb could induce me to marry bim ! It is 
 all very well for calm, quiet people to marry from 
 respect and esteem, as tbey call it, but were I to 
 do it, I know I sbould run away before a year 
 bad gone by. Mary, you would not like to see 
 me wretcbed, and I am sure tbat you would do 
 more to save me from being so tban any one else, 
 tberefore bave I asked you to belp me now, and 
 you will ? " Helena laid ber bead upon ber sister's
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 77 
 
 knee, and lier arm tightened its clasp around her 
 waist. 
 
 Mary remained silent for a moment or two ; 
 then she said, " Yes, I will help you, poor child, 
 as far as I can, for I see tliat in your bright sunny 
 way yon do loye Mr. Caulfield. The cold, calcu- 
 lating- code imdor whicli we haye been schooled 
 
 o 
 
 could neyer be yours. I, being of a less easily 
 excited nature, accepted what I was told, and I 
 was fast becomino: wliat you described as the 
 model young lady. I met Mr. EarnsclifFc, and 
 thought of him first as eligible, in obedience 
 to what I knew were mamma's wislies; but 
 suddenly I found that something, the existence of 
 which I dreamed not of, liad taken possession of 
 me, and mastered me. What had become of all 
 the trite rules and maxims of which I had heard 
 so much, and which until then I had obeyed? 
 They were all swept away by that rush of feeling 
 which forced upon me the conyiction of their 
 emptiness and falsehood, that there was no real 
 principle in any of tlicm ; the reaction carried all 
 before it, and left nothing but tliis wild reckless 
 passion, goaded as it is by the mortification of 
 loving unloyed. . . But he skill loye me, or, 
 at least, he shall not be another's I'' 
 
 Again she had become excited, and Helena 
 seemed half frightened at her vehemence ; but the
 
 78^ FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 next moment she added, with a complete change 
 of manner, " Enough of myself. Thank heaven 
 you are not like me, Helena ! Did you not ask 
 me to go somewhere with you to-day ? " 
 
 *' Yes, to the Catacombs ; if you come, mamma 
 will not think it necessary to send my aunt to 
 guard me. We can go with Mrs. Penton ; I half 
 promised her that we would join her, and she said 
 she would call for us at two o'clock if I sent her 
 word that we wished to go ; so, if you consent, I 
 will send to her now." 
 
 "As you like!" 
 
 Helena accepted the somewhat ungracious 
 assent, and stood up to ring for the servant ; as 
 she reseated herself on the ground by Mary, one 
 of her old malicious little smiles played over her 
 face. Was she thinking that perhaps she could 
 change Mary's indifference into eagerness, equal 
 to if not greater than her own ? 
 
 The servant appeared at the door, and was told 
 to go to Mrs. Penton' s, and say that the Misses 
 Elton would be ready for her at the appointed 
 hour. 
 
 As soon as the door was closed Helena said, 
 " Can you not be natural, Mary, and say that you 
 are dying to hear the information which I said I 
 could give you, and which you would be glad to
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 79 
 
 know ? I am sure you are, only you are too 
 dignified to say so." 
 
 '' Too dignified ! why, cliild, tliat word and I 
 have parted company for ever. AVas it dignified, 
 think you, to betray such, a secret as mine? 
 AVhen and how did you guess it ? " 
 
 " At Frascati, during that thunder- storm, when 
 I was so frightened. You remember that I hid 
 my face in your lap ; suddenly I felt you tremble, 
 and, not seeing any lightning, I looked up at you 
 to learn the cause. Mr. Earnsclifie was gone, but 
 his voice could be heard speaking to Flora Adair, 
 and your eyes were fijs:ed in the direction from 
 which the voice came. Their expression was so 
 strange that I kept looking at you in wonder. 
 Then came a flash of lightning ; you covered up 
 your face with your hands, and kept them there 
 long after the flash had passed. "V\Tien you did 
 at last take them down, your eyes were red, and I 
 felt sure that hot tears had been standing in them, 
 tears which only your strong will had kept from 
 falling; you looked so inexpressibly sad and 
 sorrowful as you turned away and leaned your 
 head upon your hand, that it came to me at once, 
 ' Mary loves that man I ' Since then I have watched 
 you, noticed your eyes flashing when you heard 
 of his attention to Flora diu'ing her illness, and
 
 80 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 now, tills very day, how irritable you became 
 wlien I spoke of her ideas of love. How 1 Lave 
 pitied you, sister, and wanted to be allowed to 
 comfort you. ! " 
 
 " Fool that I have been ! I thought myself 
 less demonstrative/' 
 
 " You are undemonstrative, surely, Mary, and 
 I should never have guessed anything of this but 
 for tliat trembling at Frascati. Had you even 
 trembled opportunely, when there was a flash of 
 lightning, I should have supposed it was on that 
 account. But, Mary, is it not better so ? — better 
 to talk to me of it sometimes, than for ever to 
 brood over it alone ? And you know that you can 
 trust me ; yoa have even said so.'* 
 
 *' That I can, and do, Helena ; forgive me if I 
 seem ungenerous. As I said before, it is a sort 
 of barrier with wliich I am obliged to fence in my 
 heart, in order to enable me to keep up appear- 
 ances ; but, believe me, I aiu most grateful for all 
 your affection, even when I may the least appear 
 to value it." 
 
 Idelena caressed her hand as she said, " Listen 
 to my news. There is somebody else going to the 
 Catacombs, besides Mr. Caulfield." 
 
 " Of course there is ; I did not suppose that 
 Mrs. Penton, ourselves, and that redoubtable 
 gentleman were to compose the whole party."
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 81 
 
 " TTell, if YOU choose to be obtuse, Mary, and 
 then a ^xe bit impatient, I suppose I bad better 
 speak as plainly as possible. Mr. Earnscliffe is 
 going : " 
 
 *' Mr. Earnscliffe ! " Mary's indifference bad 
 yanisbed. " How do you know it ? He bates 
 parties of tbat kind ; be likes going to such 
 places alone, or merely witb anotber man." 
 
 " All tbe same, be is going to-day. Harry was 
 by wben some grand personage, meaning to com- 
 pbment bim, introduced bim to tbe Cardinal, wbo 
 asked bim if be would like to join tbeir party 
 to tbe Catacombs to-day. Harry says tbat Mr. 
 Earnscliffe did not look encbanted at tbe good 
 Cardinal's condescension, yet be bowed accept- 
 ance, probably because be knew tbat it would be 
 a breacb of etiquette to refuse a prince of tbe 
 Cburcb. Xow, is not tbat news wortb bearing ? 
 Wbat a reward for your goodness in consenting 
 to go for my sake ! But I baye otber news for 
 you, and wbicb you will like still better, as it may 
 be of lasting adyantage to you : Harry told me 
 tbat tbat ricb Mr. Lj'ne is going to marr}^ Flora 
 Adair ! " 
 
 "Ab, Helena! is it true?" exclaimed Mary, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " If I were to answer as I tbink myself, I would 
 say, no. Sbe eyidently does not care for bim, so 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 ^2 FLORA ADATE. 
 
 it could only be as a bon parti that she would 
 accept him, and that is not like Flora. Harry 
 says, however, that Mr. Lyne is quite certain of 
 success." 
 
 " Well, you know, Helena, that it would be the 
 height of folly for her to reject him ; she has no 
 provision whatever ; everything dies with her 
 mother, and a petted darling as she has been 
 could never bear the life of a governess. Penniless 
 girls cannot afford to refuse such an offer as Mr. 
 Lyne's, merely because they do not love in the 
 desperate way of which, you say. Flora talks. 
 How hard we try to persuade ourselves that that 
 which we wish to be true is true." 
 *' I can scarcely think Flora false." 
 " No, not false ; I am sure she thought all 
 that she said when you heard her speak ; but that 
 was in the abstract ; when it comes to a question 
 of choosing between wealth and position, and 
 poverty and humiliation, what girl would rather 
 take the latter than marry a man whom she does 
 not love intensely ? If Mr. Lyne was strikingly 
 plain, un gentlemanly, or disagreeable in any way, ' 
 it might be so ; but, as it is, there are numbers of 
 girls with fortunes who would be very glad to 
 get the chance. What signifies the probabilities, 
 however, if Mr. Lyne is sure of her? And of
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 83 
 
 course lie could not be so witliout some reason. 
 How does Mr. Caulfield know it ? " 
 
 ''From Mr. Lyne himself; lie likes Harry very 
 mucli, and talks to him quite confidentially, and 
 Harry innocently told it to me as a piece of good 
 fortime for our friend. He thinks Mr. L}Tie an 
 excellent fellow, and Flora a most lucky girl. 
 They are of the same religion too, so that is a 
 great point in his favour." 
 
 " Everything is in his favour," answered Mary, 
 quickly; "but I hear mamma coming, Helena; 
 are there any traces of tears upon my face ? " 
 
 *' None to speak of, none that will be observed 
 if you sit with your back to the light; the place 
 where you were sitting before will do perfectly." 
 
 Mary quickly changed her place to the writing- 
 table, and Mrs. Elton's entrance put a stop to all 
 further conversation on the subject about which 
 the young ladies had been discussing so eagerly. 
 
 Mrs. Elton was handsomely and appropriately 
 dressed, for a person of her age, although, perhaps, 
 a little too much in the extreme of fashion. Her 
 hair, or, at least, that part of it w^hich her coiffure 
 of ribbon and lace allowed to be seen, was of a 
 lightish brown colour, and braided over a high, 
 broad forehead, like Mary's. She had bright — 
 but coldly bright — brown eyes, a straight nose,
 
 84 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 and thill drawn lips ; lier habitual expression was 
 placid and determined, and it must be acknow- 
 ledged that, for a lady of fifty-five, she was 
 remarkably bien conservee, although she had 
 altered a good deal of late, and at times looked 
 much worn. As to character, she was a strange 
 mixture. We have heard what her ideas on 
 marriage were, yet she herself married a com- 
 paratively poor barrister, against the consent of 
 all her family. Every worldly thing prospered 
 with them ; he succeeded in his profession, and she 
 was left large sums of money by her relations, so 
 that eventually they became very rich. She was 
 a devoted wife ; and when, after thej^ had been 
 married about fifteen years, her husband died, her 
 grief w^as deep but undemonstrative. Thus she 
 became a widow at seven or eight and thirty, and 
 being wealthy, good-looking, and elegant, she did 
 not want for suitors, but none of them could tempt 
 her to be faithless to her husband's memory, 
 although, after the usual time for mourning, she 
 wore colours again, dressed richly, and seemed to 
 study the becoming. She never — widow-fashion 
 — made any professions of not marrying again ; 
 but she did it not. She would speak of her 
 husband calmly, but her cold, bright eyes would 
 fill with tears as she named *' William ;'' and in 
 speaking of her daughters, of her dread of their
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 85 
 
 falling a prey to fortune-liimters, slie would betray 
 deep emotion ; and yet, notwithstanding all this, 
 she was, as we have seen, a determined enemy 
 to love-marriages, and was sternly immovable 
 towards Helena's predilection for Mr. Caulfield, 
 merely because he had not a large fortune. 
 Nevertheless Mrs. Elton's life proved that her 
 only object on earth was her children's happiness, 
 however enigmatical it may appear to be. 
 
 " You don't look well to-day, mamma," said 
 Mary, as Mrs. Elton seated herself close to the 
 fire, although one would have thought that fire 
 in the room even was quite unnecessary. 
 
 " ISTor do I feel very well," rej^lied Mrs. Elton ; 
 "but luncheon and a drive afterwards will, I 
 dare say, do me good. Your aunt is coming at 
 two." 
 
 " I'm glad of that, as you will, perhaps, spare 
 Helena and me to go the Catacombs with Mrs. 
 Penton. She asked Helena several days ago, but 
 that giddy child forgot to tell of it until to-day ; 
 and now she wants me to go with her, as she 
 saj^s you do not always like her to go alone with 
 Mrs. Penton." 
 
 " Helena is quite right ; Mrs. Penton is too 
 young and too handsome for a chaperone, particu- 
 larly to one so thoughtless as Helena. You are 
 far steadier than either of them, and I can very
 
 86 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 well spare you to-day ; — indeed, if you did not 
 ^o, I would ask your Aunt Alicia to accompany 
 Helena. But of course it is pleasanter for her to 
 have you.'* 
 
 *' R-a-t-h-e-r, I should say," observed that young 
 lady. 
 
 ** Well, then, it is just one," said Mary, look- 
 ing at the clock on the mantelpiece ; "we lunch 
 at half-past one, and Mrs. Penton is to call for us 
 at two, so I will go and get ready." 
 
 Perhaps Mary was very glad of an excuse to 
 get away, but Helena exclaimed, '' Mary, you 
 don't mean to say that you count upon taking 
 half an hour to get ready, half an hour for 
 luncheon, so as to be prejiared to stand on the 
 step of the door at two waiting for Mrs. Penton. 
 How awfully punctual you are to be sure ; if you 
 had not me as a counterpoise it would be quite 
 dreadful ; you would be the terror of all your 
 acquaintance !" 
 
 " On the contrary, Helena, it would be well if 
 you would follow your sister's example in that as 
 in everything else." 
 
 " Indeed !" and Helena gave a sly glance at 
 Mary as the latter left the room. Mary blushed 
 slightly, and closing the door quickly, went into 
 her own room ; but instead of getting ready, she 
 threw herself into an armchair before the dress-
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 87 
 
 ing-table, speaking to herself in an undertone — 
 " Follow her sister's example; indeed, God forbid ! 
 I do wish that nianinia would let her marry 
 Mr. Caulfield and be happy ; it is enough that one 
 of us should be miserable ! Mamma, doubtless, 
 has nothing to do with my unhappiness, save in 
 having tried to make me what Helena calls a 
 well-regulated timepiece, and in having taught 
 mo to look upon every rich man as a possible 
 husband. But she must never know my secret ; 
 it would diive me mad to hear her talk and reason 
 calmly on this wild love which is consuming me. 
 Lena has discovered it, but no one else ever shall ; 
 none other must know that I have loved him, until 
 he is mine. Flora Adair, would that you had not 
 crossed my path I I liked — I like you still, but 
 stand in my way you shall not. I do not think 
 that he really cares for you yet, but he certainly 
 likes you better than any other woman ; therefore 
 you must be lowered in his estimation, and I 
 have the means now in my hands." 
 
 An expression of disgust settled upon her face 
 as she spoke these words. Having heretofore 
 been true and honourable, she hated herself for 
 thus acting towards one whom she liked, and 
 whom she had called her friend ; but the master- 
 passion must be gratified at any cost. '' Yes," 
 she continued, " I have the means in mv o^tl
 
 88 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 hands, althougli it is base and mean to resort to 
 it. I hardly believe that what I have heard is 
 true, but it has been told to me, and it shall serve 
 my purpose now. Mr. Earnscliffe shall hear from 
 me to-day that Flora Adair is going to sell herself 
 to Mr. Lyne, and, thinking as he does about 
 women, he will seize upon it at once, and so will 
 be dispelled that sort of latent unacknowledged 
 idea, which I felt he had, that she is something 
 different from and superior to the generality of 
 women. I will try to induce him to come to our 
 ball on Friday. He will see them there together, 
 and will probably inquire no further. I shall 
 have gained one victory, I shall have got her out 
 of his way ; for the rest, God knows how it will 
 end ! Why, why am I not what I was taught to 
 be, a well-dressed automaton, a stone, anything 
 but what I am ? What bitter mortification it is 
 to feel that I love this man so much that I can 
 stoop to do what my nature abhors, and even plan 
 and scheme in order to gain his love ! . . ." 
 
 She lay back in the chair with closed eyes, and 
 so remained for a few minutes, then, starting up, 
 she exclaimed, " This will not do, I must be calm 
 and ready before luncheon or Lena will give me 
 no peace.'* Again she looked at her watch and 
 found that it wanted but five minutes to the time. 
 Then she set about dressing as quickly as possible.
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 89 
 
 first bathing her face with cold water to remove 
 any traces of emotion which might still remain. 
 
 The luncheon bell rang a moment or two after- 
 wards ; she descended to the dining-room, where 
 she found her mother and sister ali'eady seated at 
 table. As she entered Helena expressed a hope 
 that Mary was *' got up " to her own satisfaction, 
 as she certainly had been long enough about it I
 
 CHxVPTEE lY. 
 
 As soon as lunclieon was over Helena went to 
 dress, and Mrs. Elton and Mary returned to the 
 drawing-room ; the latter seated herself in the 
 window, and gazed out abstractedly, until Mrs. 
 Elton said, "What has bewitched Helena, that 
 she should want to go to the Catacombs ? They 
 are not much in her line." 
 
 Mary answered as near to the truth as she 
 could do without betraying confidence : " Not the 
 least in the world ; but if she likes the people 
 who form the party, it does as well as anything 
 else." 
 
 " Then it is for the people that she is going, 
 and not for the Catacombs ? I thought there 
 must be some such motive. Mr. Caulfield will 
 not be there, I hope. Helena flirts far too much 
 with him. I do not know how far it has gone, 
 but I have told her that there must be an end of 
 it. I would never allow her to accept him ! He 
 is not rich enough to marry a girl of her position
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 91 
 
 and fortune, yet she goes on encouraging him. 
 and preventing that most eligible Mr. Main- 
 waring from coming forward, although he evi- 
 dently likes her." 
 
 ** But, mamma, are Lena^s feelings not to be 
 taken into any account ? Perhaps she does not 
 like Mr. Main waring, and does like Mr. Caul- 
 field." 
 
 " She should check that liking then, when I 
 tell her that I disapprove of it." 
 
 " Surely, mamma, the liking may be a stronger 
 one than can be checked so easily, merely because 
 you do not think him rich enough ; that is hardly 
 a sufficient reason to induce us to give up one 
 whom we love." 
 
 " Love, Mary ? I am amazed at you ! Have I 
 not always impressed on your mind that a girl 
 properly brought up should never allow herself 
 to love any man until she is regularly engaged to 
 him ; and that, too, with the consent of her 
 friends ? " 
 
 " Nonsense ! " exclaimed Mary ; then, blushing 
 at her own vehemence and rudeness, she added 
 quietly, *' I beg your pardon, mamma, for speak- 
 ing so hastily. You know that I am not romantic, 
 but one cannot love or be indifierent at word of 
 command. At first you only laughed at Lena 
 and Mr. Caulfield ; now you tell her to give him
 
 92 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 up all at once, merely because he lias not a very- 
 large rent-roll : if you can give her a good reason, 
 I am sure she will try to obey you ! " 
 
 " I really can scarcely believe that it is you 
 who are speaking, Mary — you who, as I thought, 
 understood how completely a girl should have all 
 her feelings under control" — Mary smiled bit- 
 terly — '' and that the happiest marriages are 
 those formed upon equality of position and for- 
 tune, accompanied by mutual respect and calm 
 esteem ! I should be very sorry indeed to advo- 
 cate that a girl should marry a person whom she 
 disliked ; but she ought not to take unreasonable 
 dislikes. If a man be good, gentlemanly, and in 
 every way suited to her, is she to dislike and 
 refuse to marry him because, forsooth, she has 
 taken a passing fancy to some ineligible person ? 
 And you, Mary, defend this ! What has come 
 over you ? I suppose that you, too, imagine 
 yourself to be in love with some poor esquire, 
 who, in reality, loves your fortune rather than 
 any other thing ? " 
 
 Mary looked her mother full in the face as she 
 answered, with heightened colour, " I do not love 
 any poor esquire, nor does any poor esquire love 
 me. Lena is more fortunate, if she loves and is 
 beloved : you need not fear for me, I shall never 
 seek to obtain your consent to marry a poor man.*'
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 93 
 
 Slie said this in an odd, determined tone, and 
 then continued pleadingly, "But if Lena really 
 cares for Mr. Caulfield, let her be happy in her 
 own way, mamma. He is not rich, it is true, but 
 he has quite enough for a gentleman's condition, 
 and for happiness ; and with her fortune there is 
 no reason why she should marry lor money." 
 
 " I can't say how much you amaze me, Mary ; 
 though you do possess a remnant of sense for 
 your self r 
 
 *^ Sense I " replied Mary immediately. " Yes, 
 
 indeed ; but here is Mrs. Penton I I must 
 
 call Lena." 
 
 "■ And pray, Mary, if Mr. Caulfield should be 
 one of the party, do not let her be much with 
 him." 
 
 Mary left the room without answering ; but as 
 she closed the door she murmured to herself, 
 "Xo, I cannot be a kill-joy!" Then she called 
 out, "Come, Lena, here is the carriage" — a loud 
 ringing of the bell having announced that Mrs. 
 Penton was waiting. 
 
 Lena came out of her room busily occupied in 
 getting on a pair of the palest lavender kid 
 gloves : the young lady had small hands, and liked 
 to do them justice. 
 
 Mrs. Penton was alone. " Her husband," she 
 said, " had so often seen those places that he did
 
 94 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 not care to go again ;" so away they drove to the 
 Catacomb of St. Calixtus, on the Appian Way. 
 
 In the Vigna Ammenclola — at the entrance to 
 the Catacomb — our friends loitered for some time 
 waiting for the Cardinal, who, although it was 
 somewhat past the appointed time, had not yet 
 arrived. They found many there before them, 
 but all were strangers except Mr. Caulfield and a 
 Signor Lanzi, both of whom they met near the 
 gate on entering. 
 
 Signor Lanzi — as his name denotes — was an 
 Italian, but he had been in England, spoke English 
 with a certain ease, and was particularly fond of 
 showing it off. He was one of Mrs. Penton's 
 most devoted admirers ; and, through her, had 
 become rather intimate with Mr. Caulfield and 
 the Eltons. 
 
 It must not be supposed that there was any- 
 thing reprehensible in Mrs. Penton's conduct 
 because we speak of her having admirers. She 
 was what is called a beauty, and was accustomed 
 to be admired and followed. Her husband and 
 herself were on the best of terms, and never 
 seemed to pull in different directions ; on the 
 contrary, they appeared fond of one another in a 
 calm sort of way, yet it could not be said that 
 there was anything very ideal in their happiness. 
 It is true, they were not quite a type of union in
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 95 
 
 thought and feeling ; perhaps neither of them was 
 capable of such love ; nevertheless, theirs was not 
 a lot to be despised, and they were quite content 
 with it, and with each other. 
 
 As soon as Mrs. Penton and the Elton girls 
 appeared at the gate the two young men joined 
 them, and they took a few turns up and down the 
 walk leading to the Catacomb. Mary then pro- 
 posed sitting on the wall near the gate, "as," she 
 said, " they would have walking enough under- 
 ground, and they had better not tire themselves 
 beforehand ; " and there they waited for the Car- 
 dinal's arrival. 
 
 In a few minutes the sound of carriages was 
 heard ; the gate was opened, and in came Cardinal 
 Reisac, and with him three or four priests. Mrs. 
 Penton at once went forward and spoke to his 
 Eminence, being personally acquainted with him. 
 During this interval the gate opened again, and 
 at last Mary's watching was rewarded — Mr. Earns- 
 cliffe entered. Mary was nearest to the gate, so 
 he could not avoid speaking to her, and even 
 walking with her, as the Cardinal quickly moved 
 on, and all followed him. 
 
 Mary felt that she must not lose this opportu- 
 nity of saying something to excite Mr. Earns- 
 cliffe's curiosity about Flora ; he would, she 
 thought, naturally try to hear more, if he were not
 
 96 FLORA ADATR. 
 
 indifferent to her — and it would be a good test ; — 
 80, as tliey were lighting the tapers, she said, '* I 
 hope we shall not have any falls or spraining of 
 ankles to-day. Do you remember Miss Adair's 
 accident at Frascati ? " 
 
 '' Surely I should be the last to forget it, having 
 induced you both to go upon the wet, slipj)ery 
 moss ; but she is quite well now, I believe ? " 
 
 " Quite well ; and, report says, going to be 
 married to that rich Mr. Lyne.'^ 
 
 '' Mr. Lyne ! " 
 
 " Yes ; you know him, don't you ? He is very 
 rich, very good, quite a saint, indeed ; rather 
 slow, they say ; but then poor Flora has no for- 
 tune, so it would be an excellent thing for her. 
 But we must not stand here talking about her, or 
 we shall be left behind ;" and Mary suddenly be- 
 came most anxious to follow close to the Cardinal. 
 
 A flight of steps leads down from the vineyard 
 into a sort of vestibule, in the walls of which are 
 numerous graves, and in the spaces between rude 
 inscriptions, supposed to have been made by pil- 
 grims who came to visit the last resting-places of 
 the saints and martj^rs. The guide went first 
 with a large torch, then the Cardinal, the eccle- 
 siastics, and the lay visitors, each carrying a 
 light. There were about fifteen in all ; so they 
 formed rather a long procession in the narrow
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 97 
 
 galleries or passages, wliere two can hardly walk 
 abreast — not two ladies, certainly, in those days 
 of crinoline. 
 
 From the vestibule a long gallery leads to the 
 Chapel of the Popes, and passes by one of the 
 sepulchral chapels which occur at intervals in 
 nearly all these passages. In many of the larger of 
 the crj^ts or chapels there are altars upon which 
 the Divine Sacrifice was offered during the perse- 
 cutions of the first centuries, when armed force 
 vainly strove to put down the religion of the 
 Cross inaugurated on Calvary. Long afterwards, 
 when that Cross had established its time- enduring 
 reign in Rome's high places, these crypts were 
 resorted to by the faithful for purposes of devo- 
 tion, as hallowed places consecrated by the sane- 
 tit}^ and martyrdom of those who lay entombed 
 in them. 
 
 As soon as the whole party was assembled in 
 the Chapel of the Popes, the Cardinal began to 
 explain the different monuments, and pointed out 
 the graves of the four popes of the third century 
 buried there, according to the inscriptions in Greek 
 characters which are still distinctly to be seen and 
 read by those who understand them. 
 
 From the Chapel of the Popes they proceeded 
 to that of St. Cecilia, and thence to the others of 
 less note, the Cardinal explaining the different in- 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 scriptions and paintings on the walls of the gal- 
 leries and cliapels. 
 
 Perhaps none of these are more interesting than 
 the curious paintings representing the celebra- 
 tion of Mass in those early days of Christianity. 
 The priest turned towards the people with his 
 hands stretched out in blessing ; the vestments 
 almost the same as those now used, and number- 
 less details proving the identity of the past with 
 the present. These striking evidences of the 
 early Christian practices had often puzzled Mr. 
 Earnscliffe before. *' If such outward ceremonials 
 then existed/' he would ask himself, " how can 
 they be a human invention ? . . . Human things 
 pass away ; even the greatest dynasties of earth 
 run their course and disappear to give place to new 
 orders of things. . . . Was immortality to be 
 found here only ?" . . . He could not comprehend 
 it, could not explain or reconcile it to his own mind ; 
 but, as he had often done before, he turned aside 
 this train of thought by saying to himself, " It 
 can make no diiference how far Christianity in 
 this or that form can be dated ; even should it be 
 shown that, as a religion, it was one with that of 
 Moses and the Patriarchs, — a progressive Divine 
 Eevelation, first by oral Tradition, then by the 
 written Law of Moses, and now, as they call it, 
 by the Reign of Truth, the dogmas of an Infallible
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 99 
 
 Cliurcli ; Christianit}' itself is but one of many 
 pretenders to tiie governance of mankind." 
 
 In the midst of these contendino^ thouo-hts his 
 mind turned to Flora Adair, and once more 
 he asked himself, " Can she really believe in all 
 this?" Then flashed upon him Mary Elton's 
 words, " She is going to be married to that rich 
 Mr. Lyne." TTas it true ? He himself had 
 heard her call him " a good-natured bore." He 
 determined to hear more about it, and with this 
 intention he turned to look for Mary Elton, whom 
 he had not seen since they had entered the 
 Catacomb. 
 
 Helena, who had candidly acknowledged that 
 she was not going to the Catacombs solely to see 
 them, but to have her eyes gladdened by the 
 sight of a bright, laughing, loving face, and her 
 ears gladdened by the sound of a voice whose tones 
 were music to her, took care to keep in the rear 
 of the party, and condescendingly informed Mr. 
 Caulfield that he might talk to her if he would do 
 so quietly, so as not to attract attention. Sad to 
 say, these irreverent young people only thought 
 of how "jolly" those dark narrow places were, 
 as they found them not at all inconvenient for 
 their pleasant little love passages and whispered 
 conversations. The nimierous chapels were cer- 
 tainly rather annoying interruptions, as they
 
 100 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 were of course obliged to be silent there, and, 
 apparently at least, to attend to the Cardinal's ex- 
 planations. Yet an ordinary observer could have 
 seen that their eyes were more occupied with each 
 other than with the paintings and monuments so 
 carefully pointed out to them. 
 
 As they got back into those " dear " galleries, 
 after visiting one of the chapels, Mr. Caulfield 
 succeeded in getting hold of one of the pretty 
 little hands, about the gloving of which their 
 possessor had been so particular. Perhaps she 
 expected that some such notice might be taken of 
 them ; but, be that as it may, Mr. Caulfield had 
 got the little hand prisoner, and pressed it 
 tightly in his own as he said, ^' Lena," — he had 
 learned the pet name by which her sister generally 
 called her, and appeared to have a particular 
 affection for it, — " I can't bear this uncertainty 
 any longer; you must let me speak to your 
 dragoness ! " 
 
 "Harry, you are very impertinent," and the 
 little hand made a feint to get itself free, but it 
 was only a feint. " You must not call mamma my 
 dragoness ; I will not allow it, sir ; nor must you 
 speak to her unless you want to be off ; if you do, 
 rush up early to-morrow morning and request an 
 interview with Mrs. Elton ; then formally demand 
 the hand of Miss Helena, her daughter, and be as
 
 FLORA ADAIR. IGl 
 
 formally refused. You will be politely l^egged 
 not to repeat your visit ; in otlier words, you will 
 be forbidden the house ; and when you have ranted 
 a little and finally bowed yourself out, your poor 
 A'ictim, Helena, will be sent for to be coldly 
 lectured on her levity and her flirting propensities, 
 and solemnly commanded b}' her obedience as a 
 child never to see or speak to you again, save as 
 the merest acquaintance. In fine, a distinct fiat 
 woidd be pronounced against Mr. Caulfield, who 
 does not, perhaps, know how determined a person 
 Mrs. Elton is ; but her daughter does know it, and 
 but too well. If you speak to mamma Ke are 
 done for, Harry." 
 
 That '^ rce" and that "Harry" soimded very 
 sweetly indeed in Mr. Caulfield's ears, yet he 
 answered indignantly — 
 
 "But you don't mean to say that you would 
 submit to all this, Helena ? " . . . He could not 
 aff'ord to call her Lena now, it was not impressive 
 enough. " You are mine by right of conquest^ 
 and what authority has your mother to keep you 
 from me?" 
 
 " For shame, Harry ! has a mother no voice iiL 
 the disposal of her child ? Xot that I think a 
 parent should refuse to allow a daughter to marrj- 
 one whom she loves, unless she had good reason 
 for so doing ; nevertheless, I could scarcely marry
 
 102 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 in defiance of her express command. Harry, do 
 not brusquer les choses, and force her to pronounce 
 that command ; have a little patience, and time 
 may do a great deal. Mary has promised to use 
 her influence to gain mamma's consent, and she 
 will facilitate my seeing you as much as she can. 
 Is she not a darling, Harry ? " 
 
 " Yes,'' he replied, but in a much less enthu- 
 siastic tone ; then he went on eagerly, ''It's all 
 very well for you, Lena, to talk about having 
 patience, and the wonders that time may work ; 
 you have a pleasant home, and this darling Mary 
 to pet you ; but it is quite otherv/ise for poor 
 me. There I am, all alone in an hotel, comfortless 
 and miserable, and unable to get out of my head 
 tantalizing visions of the happiness I might enjoy 
 if I could only have my little cricket with me." 
 And there was a very sensible pressure of the 
 imprisoned hand. 
 
 " Oh, come now, Harry ; it is too absurd to see 
 you trying to do the romantic. You know very 
 well that you go everywhere, and enjoy yourself 
 thoroughly. "Who would believe in your sitting 
 at home conjuring up visions, and becoming 
 miserable because you cannot realise them I There 
 is nothing grandiose about us, you know. Just 
 imagine our attempting a grande passion, and 
 declaring that out of each other's presence the
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 103 
 
 world is but a desert to us ! Xo, no, that is not 
 
 at all in cricket's line, Harry. All the same " 
 
 and her eyes drooped, " I am sure that horrid 
 hotel is very dull and lonely." 
 
 Perhaps had there been a convenient turning 
 in the passage to sejDarate them for a moment 
 from the rest of the party, that charming little 
 speech might have been rewarded; but fate was 
 not so propitious. The j^assage appeared inter- 
 minabl}^ long and straight, so there coidd not be 
 any warmer expression of gratitude than words 
 coidd give. 
 
 After a few moments Helena said again — " !Xow, 
 Harr\, you are to be very good and quiet, and if 
 you are so, I will give you a reward in the shape 
 of an invitation to our ball on this day week ; but 
 perhaps that is too far off. A cricket who goes 
 about chirping from hearth to hearth might, you 
 know, forget.'' 
 
 " How wicked you are, Lena I " 
 
 " Wicked, am I ? Then, master cricket, you 
 shan't have an invitation from me, and if you 
 wait till you get one from Mrs, Elton, you'll wait 
 for ever." 
 
 " Then the cricket will appear without one." 
 
 " Will he indeed I To be handed out by the 
 servants ! But I am going to be serious now, 
 and please to be rational for a few minutes and
 
 104 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 listen to me. The invitations are only to be sent 
 out to-morrow ; mamma was not well enough to 
 permit us to send them before ; indeed we were 
 beginning to fear that the ball would not come 
 oiF at all. It would be vain to exj^ect that mamma 
 would send you an invitation, but Mary shall ask 
 you to-day, and when we return home she can 
 say that she has done so, and mamma will not be 
 able to help it then. How good I am to plan all 
 this for you, considering that it is quite indifferent 
 to me whether you are there or not. I hope you 
 are fully sensible of my disinterested goodness 
 towards you, Mr. Caulfield." 
 
 " If I had but the opportunity, would I not 
 make you pay for all this, Lena ! '' 
 
 She looked up innocently at him, and asked in 
 a most apparently unconscious tone, " How, 
 Harry?" 
 
 What a temptation was that upturned smiling 
 face ! and, with a sigh for the bonne louche which 
 he was obliged to relinquish, he said, *' I declare, 
 Lena, it is cruelty to torment a man so ; but my 
 time will come " 
 
 She Withdrew her hand hurriedly, exclaiming, 
 " Here is a chapel ; now we must be demure," 
 and she followed the others with the air of a little 
 Puritan, which tried Harry's gravity sadly. 
 
 A glance from Mary told Helena that she had
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 105 
 
 flirted enough for that day, and, not being at all 
 dissatisfied with the day's adventure, she deter- 
 mined to obey the glance ; accordingly, as they 
 were leaving the chapel, she glided past Harry, 
 and whispered, " Good-bye, cricket ; I am going to 
 talk to Mary." 
 
 Poor Cricket looked rather woeful at this intel- 
 ligence ; but there was no help for it, so, making 
 a vain attempt to seize her little hand again, he 
 let her glide away from him. 
 
 We left Mr. Earnscliffe looking round for Mary 
 Elton, in order to obtain some information about 
 *' that Lyne affair ;" and, a moment later, Mary 
 heard a voice beside her saying — 
 
 '^ AVell, Miss Elton, are you deepl}^ interested 
 in the Catacombs ?" 
 
 As she listened to those words, she felt as if a 
 sharp knife were cutting awa}^ the hope she had 
 begun to cherish, that he was indifferent to Elora 
 Adair ; for she felt certain that it was from the 
 desire to hear more of what she" had said about 
 Flora and Mr. Lyne that he came to her. There 
 could be no doubt, she thought, that the Cata- 
 combs would otherwise have been far more attrac- 
 tive to him than a conversation with her ; never- 
 theless an answer must be given, and she said, 
 *' Not particularly so. I have scarcely read or 
 thought enough about the Catacombs to be greatly
 
 106 FLOUA ADAIR. 
 
 interested in tliem. Indeed, it was to please my 
 sister that I came to-day. '^ 
 
 *' Your sister ! does she then take greater 
 interest in these things than you do ? I should 
 hardly have supposed it." 
 
 His tone, even more than his words, made her 
 laugh, — the idea of Helena's being interested in 
 the Catacombs for their own sake, was certainly 
 very amusing ; so she rej)lied — 
 
 " Well, no ; Lena is not particularly devoted 
 to antiquarian researches, but she thought it 
 would be a pleasant party, and begged me so 
 earnestly to accompany her that I did not like to 
 refuse." 
 
 ^'Ah! I understand." 
 
 A silence ensued, while Mary thought, " Poor 
 man ! he does not know how to get at the subject 
 which he is so longing to talk about ; he thinks it 
 beneath him to let any one see that he could feel 
 curiosity about a young lady's proceedings, and I 
 have a great mind to make him pay for his 
 dignity, and not help him over the dilemma. 
 This I could do, but that it would defeat my own 
 purpose of crushing any incipient fancy which he 
 may have taken to Flora. Yet how mean it is ! 
 "Were I but sure that she is really going to marry 
 Mr. Lyne, I should not feel so false as I do now. 
 But what is the use of all this self-reproach? If
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 107 
 
 I am to do it at all there must be no lookinf> 
 
 o 
 
 back ; yet would it not be better to give it up 
 altog-etber, and let things take tlieir natm^al 
 course ? Yes, it would indeed be truer, nobler, 
 better to do so ; but " 
 
 Tlie silence continued, and she walked on like 
 one in a dream ; yet there was not much of 
 dreaminor in the hard struo^Me which was groin sr 
 on within her between her better nature and 
 passion. The former had almost triumphed ; she 
 felt it was too base to try to rob another — one, 
 too, whom she liked — of a man's love ; for, with 
 the quickness of jealousy, she /elt that he loved 
 Flora, even imkno^m to himself. But, whilst 
 good and evil thus hung in the balance, there 
 occurred one of those chances which so often seem 
 to decide a question. She was suddenly roused 
 from her reverie by Mr. EarnsclifPe's laying his 
 hand upon her arm and saying — 
 
 " Miss Elton, do you not see the flight of steps 
 before you ? What a fall you might have had ! " 
 
 She drew back with a start and looked at him — 
 the good angel was vanquished. That touch upon 
 her arm — that voice — that coimtenance, to which 
 circumstances lent a momentary interest in her 
 favour, were more than she could withstand. She 
 murmured to herself, " No, I cannot give him up 
 
 Then
 
 108 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 she calmly answered, *' Thank you, Mr. Earns- 
 cliffe ; had it not been for you I might indeed 
 have had a bad fall, so you have saved me.'' 
 
 Had he done so ? Did it not rather appear to 
 be the contrary ? A moment before good was in 
 the ascendant ; had she not been thus saved from 
 a fall good might have triumphed, but that saving 
 seemed to give the palm to evil. 
 
 When they had descended those steps Mary 
 said, '* ]^ow, Mr. Earnscliffe, I am going to ask a 
 favour of you ; and one which, I hope, you will 
 not refuse to grant." 
 
 He had quite resumed his cold indifferent 
 manner as he answered — 
 
 " Let me hear the request, for I can make no 
 guess as to what I can possibly have it in my 
 power to grant or refuse you." 
 
 " Undoubtedly it is in your power to grant it ; 
 whether you will do so is another matter. We 
 are to have some friends with us on Friday, this 
 day week, and mamma would be so pleased if you 
 will come also." 
 
 " Friday ? — let me see " 
 
 *' Do not try to improvise an engagement, or 
 say, ' Parties are not much in my way.' I know 
 that it is so ; but surely for once you might con- 
 descend to come ; particularly as we are going 
 away on the following Monday, so that — by us, at
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 109 
 
 least — you could not be importuned any more. 
 AVe sliall have some good music, of wliicli I know 
 that you are fond.'' And now to throw out her 
 bait without letting it appear that she thought it 
 was one : '' And — only I suppose you would not 
 care about that — you would have an opportunity 
 of seeing Flora Adair perfectly recovered from 
 her sprain, for our evening is to wind up with a 
 dance, and, as you heard at Frascati, she is a 
 great dancer. Mr. Lyne will also be there, so we 
 shall see how he plaj^s the lover's part." 
 
 She had watched him narrowly while she spoke, 
 and saw by the change of his countenance that 
 the bait had taken, and so she was not deceived 
 as to the motive of his accepting when he replied — 
 
 " Asked thus as a favour and a farewell, I can- 
 not do otherwise than say in the recognised form, 
 ' I shall be most haj^py to accept Mrs. Elton's 
 kind invitation.' " 
 
 " Very well, then, it is agreed that you will 
 come. Of course you will receive a formal invita- 
 tion, but you need not answer it, as I shall tell 
 mamma that you have already accepted. And 
 now, Mr. Earnscliffe, as you are almost an habitue 
 of these underground regions, perhaps j^ou can 
 tell me if we have nearly done them ?" 
 
 " Well, I have not been paying much attention, 
 but from the time we have been here" — looking 
 
 o
 
 110 FLORA ADATH. 
 
 at liis watcli — " I should say yes. I see we are 
 coming to a chapel, probably tbat of St. Cornelius, 
 wbich is generally the last.'' 
 
 It was the chapel of St. Cornelius, as he had 
 said, and there it was that Helena received the 
 glance from Mary, which she rightty understood 
 to be an intimation that her flirting had better 
 come to an end for that day.. When they were 
 once more in the passage, Helena succeeded in 
 getting close to her sister and whispered, *' You 
 are an angel, Mary ! " 
 
 " Don't be silly, Lena," answered Mary, almost 
 roughly. Perhaps the being called an angel just 
 then, when she knew how much the reverse of it 
 she was, irritated her. 
 
 " But you are indeed an angel, and I know you 
 will carry your angelic sisterly charity a little 
 farther by asking Harry to our ball ; then, when 
 you tell mamma that you liave asked him, it will 
 be too late for her to object. You will ask him, 
 Mary, will you not?" 
 
 " Yes," was the curt reply ; and she added, 
 " And now do be quiet ; surely you have talked 
 enough to-day." 
 
 " Not nearly enough, you dear dame Sag esse, 
 I am quite ready to begin again." 
 
 *^ Then I beg you will not do so ; and be 
 pleased, Lena, to give up that absurd habit of
 
 FLORA ADAIR. Ill 
 
 calling me sucli names as angel and Sag esse — you 
 ought to know how inapplicable those terms are 
 to me, and they annoy me." 
 
 Helena began a warm denial of this, but Mary 
 interrupted her by saying, " That's enough, Lena ; 
 do cease talking — my head aches. Thank good- 
 ness, I see the daylight, so I suppose we shall soon 
 get into the open air again ! " 
 
 Xo wonder that her head ached and that she 
 longed for rest, even for the rest of lying back 
 silently in the carriage. 
 
 A few minutes more and they were in the ^nne- 
 yard, enjoying the warm rays of the sun, which 
 still shone brightly in the clear blue sky. 
 
 Mrs. Penton, having kissed the Cardinal's ring, 
 received his blessing, and thanked him for all his 
 kindness, bade him farewell, and turning to her 
 own party, said — 
 
 " Will either of you three gentlemen take the 
 vacant seat in the carriage ? AVe are going to 
 take a turn on the Pincio." She looked at Mr. 
 Earnselifte, but he answered — 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Penton ; I think I must 
 have a walk in this clear fresh air, after the 
 darkness and damp of the Catacombs." 
 
 " Then Signor Lanzi, may we hope that he 
 will escort us ? " 
 
 " To escort la Signora Penton is alway de most
 
 112 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 high honour for me ; but I did ride here, also la 
 signora must have de goodness to allow me to 
 accompany her on horse. '^ 
 
 Mrs. Penton bowed, and smiled slightly as she 
 said, "Well, Mr. Caulfield, I left you for the last 
 as you are the youngest ; what say you to coming 
 with us?" 
 
 '' That I shall be delighted to go with you, 
 Mrs. Penton.'' 
 
 " With my company, rather, non e vero, Mr. 
 Caulfield ? And now let us start ; it is late 
 enough as it is." 
 
 Mr. Earnsclifie accompanied them to the car- 
 riage ; and, as he took leave of Mary, she said, 
 " Hemember Friday night." He bowed, and, 
 raising his hat, left them. 
 
 Mary immediately turned, and asked Mr. Caul- 
 field and Signer Lanzi for the same night. They 
 accepted ; and Signer Lanzi having mounted his 
 horse, the party proceeded to the Pincio, and 
 thence to their respective homes.
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 Flora's mind was filled with, interest in tlie 
 young lady of whom Madame Hird had spoken. 
 On the morning after their visit to the Villa 
 lanthe she read all the papers which Madame 
 Hird had given them about their little jyrotegee. 
 They consisted, first, of a letter from Madame de 
 St. Severan ; next, of the manuscript containing 
 Marie's history. They were as follows : — 
 
 "Although, dear Madame Hird, we have lost 
 sight of each other for many years, and you 
 would not recognise, under my present name, the 
 Caroline Murray of our merry school days, yet 
 I am sure that you, like myself, remember those 
 days. I venture, therefore, to ask you to interest 
 yourself in a young lady who will soon be an 
 inmate of your convent, and who is dear to me 
 because she is so to my husband. 
 
 " For some time I have been in correspondence 
 with your superioress, and have obtained per- 
 mission for our little friend to be received at the 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 Yilla laiitlie, and placed especially under your 
 care. We are very anxious tliat she should spend 
 a few months in a convent in Europe before 
 making her entree into the heau moncle of Paris, 
 and knowing that you are in Rome, I have made 
 every exertion to have her confided to your care ; 
 and in this I have fortunately succeeded. Will 
 you, then, dear friend, kindly undertake this 
 charge, and direct her studies ? 
 
 " A good priest will protect her from Algiers to 
 Rome. As I am writing to you I know that I 
 need not say, be very kind to her. She is, by all 
 accounts, a most affectionate little creature, and is 
 now in great grief at being separated from the 
 guardians of her childhood. 
 
 " I have compiled a little sketch of her history, 
 which I now send you. The first part of it is 
 drawn from my husband's account of his African 
 experience ; the rest from the joint accounts of 
 Marie and the good nuns who had charge of 
 her . . . ." 
 
 Here the remainder of the letter was torn off, 
 not relating, as Flora supposed, to the little Arab 
 girl. She next took up the manuscript, which 
 ran thus : — 
 
 *' After the battle in the plain of Cheliff, where 
 the Due d'Aumale and his little army so bravely 
 captured Abd-el-Kader's encampment, many of
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 115 
 
 the officers left their tents in the evening and 
 '^'andered over the scene of their late conflict. 
 Among them was Colonel, then Captain de St. 
 Severan. He had strayed to some distance be- 
 yond the rest, following the direction which the 
 fugitives had taken, and was about to return, 
 when, standing for a moment gazing back upon 
 the battle-field, he was startled by the sound of 
 a half- smothered cry. A few paces before him 
 lay the body of an Arab ; he approached it, and 
 as he shook the cloak which nearly covered it, 
 the cry was repeated. Within the folds of the 
 hernous there was a little child, whose large black 
 eyes were wide open with fright, and little hands 
 stretched out, as if to ward oflP some coming 
 danger. With no slijjht effort he drew the child 
 from the dead Arab, and tried to quiet its cries 
 by caresses and marks of endearment. After 
 taking it up in his arms he returned to his tent, 
 and sent for one of the camp women, to whom he 
 related his adventures, adding that he had de- 
 termined to adopt the child as his own, and 
 confiding it to her care. 
 
 "Having been wounded in one of the later 
 skiniiishes. Captain de St. Severan was sent back 
 to Algiers with a detachment of troops, when he 
 took care that the woman to whom he had en- 
 trusted the little foundling was to accompany
 
 116 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 them. The child was a little girl of ahout two 
 or three years old, and was christened Marie. 
 Day by day she became a greater darling — the 
 pet, indeed, of the whole brigade — and was in 
 danger of being completely spoiled, when her 
 protector was ordered again on active service. 
 Of course, he could not take little Marie with him, 
 so he yielded to the advice of his lady friends, 
 and, stipulating that she should learn her father's 
 language, placed her under the good guardianship 
 of the French nuns at Algiers. 
 
 " It so happened that he never returned to 
 Algiers, save to pass through it almost in a dying 
 state on his way home. After a long and tedious 
 illness in Paris, which left great depression of 
 spirits upon him, a friend, Mr. Molyneux, induced 
 him to accept an invitation to the family seat of 
 Mr. Molyneux' s father in England, and try there 
 the invigorating tonic of English country life. 
 At this house I met him, and the sequel of that 
 meeting was, that a few months afterwards I 
 became Madame de St. Severan. 
 
 " I need scarcely say that I heard many stories 
 of Algiers, and of Marie. We had agreed to send 
 for her as soon as we should get to France, but, 
 on our arrival in Paris, my husband was offered 
 an important post in one of the colonies, and 
 thought he could not well refuse it without re-
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 117 
 
 tiring from the army, which, he did not wish to 
 do, therefore he consented to go ; in consequence, 
 Marie was left at the convent in Algiers. AVe 
 remained away nearly ten years, and only re- 
 turned to Paris last winter, when we wrote at once 
 to request that Marie should be sent to us ; being 
 doubly anxious to have her, as we had, alas ! lost 
 our own dear ones. But the answer received 
 from the superioress caused us the greatest pain 
 and anxiety. She said, that shortly before our 
 last letter arrived Marie had been missed one 
 evening from prayers at church, when it was 
 found that she had obtained permission to walk 
 in the grounds, as she was suffering from head- 
 ache, and that, on search being made for her, a 
 door in the garden was discovered to have been 
 forced open from without, and a scarf, which had 
 been worn by Marie, found on the ground there. 
 These, with other facts, left no doubt that she 
 had been carried off by some Arabs, who had 
 before been seen about the place. 
 
 '' Three months passed without any tidings of 
 poor Marie. At length a letter came containing 
 the joyful news that she had been safely restored 
 to the convent, and was suffering? onlv from 
 weakness and exhaustion. 
 
 '' Marie's account of what occurred tells us that, 
 haA^ing obtained permission, she went out alone
 
 118 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 and sought shade and repose in a summer-liouse 
 at the far end of the grounds — a favourite retreat 
 of hers. She supposes that she had been asleep, 
 when she was roused by feeling something thrown 
 over her head and twisted tightly across her 
 mouth, so that she could not speak or scream. 
 She was then carried for a short distance, placed 
 upon a horse by some one, who got up behind her 
 and galloped away. Save the rapid movement 
 through the air, Marie remembers nothing until 
 she found herself lying on a bed of moss in what 
 appeared to her to be a rocky cavern. As she 
 awoke the bright rays of the sun were pouring 
 in upon her, and for a moment she thought she 
 must have dreamed some fearful dream. An old 
 man in a white bernous then entered the cavern, 
 and all the terrible reality was revealed to her. 
 He came and bent over her, when she exclaimed, 
 * Oh, sir, take me back ! What injury have I 
 ever done you that you should steal me away from 
 all those whom I loA^e ? Only take me back and 
 you shall have as much money as you like.' 
 
 " * Money ! ' he sorrowfully repeated. * Can 
 money buy me back my beautiful, my brave 
 children whom the hateful E-oumi killed ? Can 
 money make the old man young again, and give 
 him new sons to perpetuate his race ? ' 
 
 "'I pity you very much, sir ; but what have I
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 119 
 
 to do witli your misfortunes ? 'Why revenge 
 upon a poor weak girl like nie the death of those 
 who were dear to you?' 
 
 '' ' AVhat have you to do with my misfortunes ? 
 Are you not the child of my firstborn, his only 
 one ? Did they not tear you from his dead body, 
 to which you climg with all your baby strength ? 
 Did I not see it all ? Yes ; lying woimded at 
 some distance from my brave boy, your cries 
 roused me from the almost death swoon into 
 which I had fallen, and I saw you taken away 
 from him. I vowed then to the Prophet, that if 
 I recovered from my woimds, my life should be 
 spent in trying to rescue you from our enemies, 
 that you might become the mother of a race of 
 strong warriors to strug'S'le asrainst those hated 
 usurpers. During all those weary years I never 
 flagged for an hour, and rejieated failures did but 
 urge me to hq^- exertions. At last the great 
 Prophet rewarded my fidelity by giving you up 
 to me, and now you cry and pray to be taken 
 back to your father's murderers, and ask what 
 you have to do with my misfortunes? Child, I 
 have told you.' 
 
 *' He stopped as if exhausted by his own vehe- 
 mence, and gazed at her in seeming anger. Poor 
 Marie could not repress the shudder which crept 
 over her as her eyes rested on her grandsire.
 
 120 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 Yisions of what lier fate would be witli him, and 
 still worse as the slave — for what else is an 
 Arab's wife? — of an infidel husband, rose np 
 vividly before her eyes and filled her with horror. 
 " At length the old man went out, and Marie, 
 being left alone, rose from her rude couch, and 
 kneeling, she drew forth her silver crucifix — it 
 was Colonel de St. Severan's parting gift — and 
 prayed earnestly to Him who had died for her, 
 that He would save her now from worse than 
 death, and restore her to the care of His true 
 followers. Hearing a step she rose, and carefully 
 hiding the precious crucifix, she stood waiting to 
 see what would happen next. She had come to 
 the conclusion that the best chance of escape 
 was to endeavour to win the old man's heart, and, 
 as he entered with cakes and fruits which he had 
 brought for her on the previous night, she thanked 
 him and began to eat. This seemed to please 
 him greatly. 
 
 "As soon as she had finished he said, * IN'ow we 
 must start again, for we have a long ride to take 
 before we reach the tribe.' He gave her an old 
 cloak, and told her to draw its hood over her 
 head ; then he desired her to wait for a few 
 moments in the cavern while he got the horse 
 ready. Again he went away and left poor Marie 
 alone. Her heart began to sink. That night
 
 FLORA ADATR. 121 
 
 they were to reacli the tribe. "WTiat hope was 
 there now for her. 
 
 *' Journeying on, the old man tried to amuse 
 her by talking of the handsome yoimg chief whom 
 he wished her to marry. Then he related stories 
 of the brave deeds of her ancestors, and of her 
 father especially. He told her that her mother 
 was a Frenchwoman whom the Arabs had taken 
 captive, and whom his son fell in love with and 
 married. He spoke much, too, about the great 
 honour which his son had done her in making her 
 his wife, and about her ingratitude to him, and 
 said that she fretted and pined until she lost all 
 her beauty, got ill, and died shortly before the 
 battle on the river Tanguin. 
 
 " At last, after a long and, to Marie, a terrible 
 day's ride, they came to the encampment. As 
 soon as they got to the entrance of the circle of 
 tents they were surrounded by the men of the 
 tribe ; the women stared, but remained at their 
 occupations. Many questions were asked of the 
 old man, but, before he answered any of them, he 
 lifted Marie almost tend^erly from the horse ; she 
 could scarcely stand, and terrified b}' all those 
 strange faces which crowded round her, she clung 
 to him for support and protection. At this mo- 
 ment a witch-like looking women came and asked, 
 ^ Is this the lost child of thv brave son, Ben Arbi?'
 
 122 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 " ' It is, Masaouda/ lie replied ; ' help her to 
 my tent and take care of lier ; she is weary, and, 
 as I fear, ill ? ' 
 
 " The old woman obeyed, and as soon as they 
 got into the tent Marie saw a seat, and fell upon 
 it with a moan of pain. Masaouda knelt down 
 beside her, felt her hands, her forehead, and 
 cheeks, and then left her to repose. 
 
 " Marie was alone, but she could not rest ; all 
 that Ben Arbi had said to her about the chief 
 whom he wished her to marry haunted her, and 
 when at last sleep stole upon her, fantastic and 
 horrible forms seemed to crowd around, driving 
 her to despair. This, she says, is the last thing 
 that she remembers of that night. 
 
 " When next she awoke to consciousness it was 
 broad day-light, and she saw Ben Arbi and 
 Masaouda sitting at the door of the tent. She 
 felt strangely weak, and closed her eyes almost as 
 soon as she opened them, yet not before Ben Arbi 
 had seen that one returning ray. Approaching 
 her, he asked in a low anxious tone — 
 
 " * Does my child know me ? ' 
 
 " Again she looked up for a moment ; he saw 
 that she had recognised him, and exclaimed — 
 
 '' * Allah be praised ! She may live now ! ' 
 
 "By degrees Ben Arbi's presence and Mas- 
 aouda's recalled her sad history to her. Soon she
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 123 
 
 was able to connect all tlie links of that chain so 
 coiled around lier. One day as she lav with closed 
 eves thinking over her forlorn condition she heard 
 Masaouda and Ben Arbi talking together. From 
 their conversation she learned that she had been 
 more than three weeks ill, and that at one time 
 they had abnost despaired of her recovery. He 
 sj^oke much of his anxiety that she should get 
 well quickly, as war was menacing, and he wished 
 her to be married before it broke out, otherwise it 
 might be impossible for some time. 
 
 " How Marie's heart bounded as she heard 
 these words I And how she prayed that God 
 would not permit her to get well until this, for 
 her, blessed war should have begun ! She de- 
 termined to speak as Kttle as possible and to avoid 
 giving any signs of returning strength. Accord- 
 ingly, day after day she resisted all the efforts 
 made to rouse her, and refused much of the 
 nourishing things which they constantly brought 
 to her, and thus she endeavoured to retard this 
 diTaded recovery. Nevertheless, she felt that she 
 nas raj^idly improving, and every day it became 
 more difficult to repress the natm^al restlessness of 
 convalescence. 
 
 " Time passed on slowly, and nothing more was 
 said of the war ; she was beginning to lose hope, 
 when one evening she heard Masaouda come into
 
 124 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 the tent with Ben Arbi, who was questioning her 
 eagerly about his child's health ; he asked if it 
 would be possible for her to be married in a week 
 from that time, as the war had been determined 
 upon, and the chiefs would depart. ' It is im- 
 possible,' the old woman answered ; 'the child is 
 too ill, and a relapse would probably cause her 
 death.' Ben Arbi sighed deeply, but made no 
 reply ; while Marie felt that she could have fallen 
 at Masaouda's feet and have blessed her for speak- 
 ing these words. She knew, however, that she 
 must remain silent, and from the depths of her 
 heart she sent up a fervent thanksgiving to God. 
 She was not yet saved, but this was a respite, and 
 whilst it lasted might not her friends find and 
 rescue her ? It was a renewal of hope, and that 
 is almost a renewal of life. 
 
 "At length the happy day arrived when the 
 greater portion of the tribe set out for the scene 
 of war, and from that day forward Marie im- 
 proved rapidly. She devoted herself completely 
 to Ben Arbi, vaguely hoping that if she could 
 make him very fond of her she might perhaps 
 be able to induce him to take her back to Algiers. 
 She succeeded to her heart's content in exciting 
 his tender affection for her, but he would not 
 hear a word about taking her back, and appeared 
 to be as intent as ever upon her marrying.
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 125 
 
 "Marie obseryed tliat his strengtli seemed to 
 decline, and he himself said frequently that the 
 old man's course was nearly run, and that if he 
 could live to see his child married the object of 
 his life would be gained, and he would be glad to 
 sleep in peace with his brave sons. 
 
 "About two months from the time when the 
 chiefs set out for the war, the survivors returned 
 in triumph, and, with pride and joy lighting 
 up his countenance, Ben Arbi told Marie that 
 her husband elect was waiting to see her. She 
 fell upon her knees, and clinging to him, be- 
 souo^ht him not to force her to marry, if he woidd 
 not see her die of grief, as her poor mother 
 had died. He sternly repulsed her, and left 
 the tent in anger. It was a rude shock to 
 Marie's hopes, and now, for the first time, she 
 felt despair. 
 
 " Passively she submitted ; she heard them 
 agree that her marriage should take place in a 
 few days, and even this did not rouse her. Ben 
 Arbi tried to caress her and win her from this 
 deep sadness, but she shook off his hand roughly, 
 as she exclaimed, * Do not touch me, — do not add 
 hypocrisy to your cruelty. Is it not enough for 
 you to force me to do that which will be to me a 
 li\4ng death, without making false professions of 
 affection for me ? As you killed my mother, so
 
 126 FLORA ADAIE. 
 
 will you kill me ! ' She stopped her ears and 
 would not listen to a word from him. 
 
 ''A few days before the fatal one named for 
 Marie's wedding, Ben Arbi said that he must go 
 to visit some holy shrine, to which there was then 
 a great pilgrimage, but that he would be back on 
 the day of the wedding. They were to be 
 married, as is the Arab custom, in the evening. 
 
 " Early on the morning of this eventful day 
 an old man tottered across the encampment and 
 entered Ben Arbi's tent. Marie was already out, 
 and was sitting at a little distance from it in a 
 state of mute despair, yet she recognised her 
 grandfather's form, and followed him into the 
 tent. He had fallen upon the ground, and was 
 lying there moaning as if in mortal agony. A 
 feeling of sickness came over Marie as she looked 
 at him, and she leaned against the side of the 
 tent for support. 
 
 " At this moment the whole camp seemed 
 roused, and were gathering round the tent, and he 
 to whom she was betrothed implored her to come 
 to him, saying that they must lose no time in 
 departing from a place which was cursed by the 
 plague. 
 
 " ' What ! ' she cried ; * you would leave the 
 old man here to die alone ? Go ; I will remain 
 with him ! '
 
 FLOEA ADAIR. 127 
 
 " ' Are you mad, girl ! ' exclaimed her be- 
 trothed. ' Come before you are yourself infected 
 — before you have touched him ! ' 
 
 *'He advanced a little way into the tent and 
 took hold of her arm, but she shook him off, and 
 springing to her grandfather's side, she laid her 
 hand upon him and said — 
 
 " ' Xow come and take me away if you will, but 
 with me take this fell disease ! ' 
 
 " One and all they stood as if spell-bound, 
 gazing at her ; then slowly and silently they 
 withdrew. 
 
 " At last, Marie, and the sufPerer by whose side 
 she knelt, heard the heavy tramj)ing of men and 
 flocks, as the caravan moved away from the pre- 
 sence of the plague- stricken. Marie turned and 
 kissed the old man's forehead. 
 
 " That kiss seemed to thrill through him. He 
 raised himself up, and looking intently at her, he 
 exclaimed — 
 
 "'My child! — I have never wrought thee 
 aught but evil. I stole thee from those who 
 were dear and kind to thee. I spurned thy 
 prayers and tears, entreating to be taken back to 
 them ; and even this very day I was about to force 
 thee into a marriage against thy inclinations. 
 Nevertheless, in my hour of need and misery 
 thou remainest with me, whom all others have
 
 128 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 abandoned! Child, wlio taught thee to act 
 thus?' 
 
 " ^ Grandfather, it was the lesson which our 
 God came down from heaven to teach us. He 
 died to save those who most cruelly injured him. 
 His doctrine and example are summed up in this 
 one sentence — " Love thy God above all things, 
 and thy neighbour as thyself ! '' And it was He 
 who said, " Inasmuch as ye have done it unto 
 the least of these, my brethren, ye have done 
 it unto me ! '* And I have onl}^ done to you as 
 I would that you should have done to me were 
 I struck with this terrible disease, whilst I know 
 that in thus attending to you I am ministering to 
 Him.' 
 
 " The old man bowed his head, and said, * Thy 
 God shall be my God! The religion that could 
 make thee act as thou hast done must be divine. 
 Child, make me what thou art.' 
 
 " Marie clasped her hands together in deep but 
 silent thankfulness ; then she exclaimed, * Would 
 that some one were here to teach j^ou ; yet I can 
 baptize you and make you a Christian. Oh, how 
 happy you have made me ! I can even thank 
 you now for having stolen me from my dear 
 convent ! ' 
 
 ^^' Do not say thou canst not teach me, child ; 
 for thou hast taught me so great a lesson that
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 129 
 
 notliing could surpass it. Make me what thou 
 art, and I shall die in peace. But what is to be- 
 come of thee, my poor child ! If thou shouldst 
 survive this danger they will claim thee, and thou 
 wilt not escape them. "Would that thou wert in 
 safety with thy Christian friends ! ' 
 
 " Marie trembled ; yet a moment after she 
 smiled brightly, and said, ' Fear not for me, 
 grandfather ; God is with us, and He will protect 
 me. I no longer fear for myself ; but say, are we 
 far from Algiers ?' 
 
 "^Xot more than a good day's journey on foot. 
 I brought thee by a longer route, in order to 
 elude pursuit. But what does that avail ; there 
 is no one to send thither ! ' 
 
 " ' It is all in the hands of God, and all will be 
 well ; do not let us think any more about me, but 
 about yourself.' And when she had done all she 
 could to soothe him, she sat down beside him and 
 talked to him about the loving Saviour, whose 
 follower he wished to become ; and related to him 
 as much as she could remember of the touching 
 Gospel histories. 
 
 " Towards evening he fell into a light sleep, 
 then Marie went out to breathe the fresh air, and 
 was thinking of the happiness it would be to her 
 if she could send for the dear old chaplain of the 
 convent, who would baptize her grandfather, and, 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 if lie lived, find means to have him as well as her- 
 self removed to Algiers. Whilst she was musing, 
 a sound of footsteps fell upon her ear, and look- 
 ing up, she saw coming towards her a poor, half- 
 witted boy, to whom she had been kind, and who 
 seemed to have taken an ardent fancy for her. 
 He was leading a goat ; and, as soon as he saw 
 her, he hastened to her, and said he had brought 
 the goat for her that she might have some milk 
 to drink. 
 
 " Marie took his hand, and pressing it within 
 her own, thanked him warmly for thus thinking 
 of her. The boy blushed, and laughed sillily ; 
 then he asked if he could do anything for her. 
 
 "'Yes,' she answered quickly; * if you would 
 go to Algiers, and bring back something — some 
 medicine — for my grandfather, I shall love you so 
 much.* The boy assented gladly ; and then she 
 asked him to wait until she had obtained the ne- 
 cessary instructions. 
 
 " Finding Ben Arbi asleep, Marie had to wait 
 some time before she could speak to him; then 
 she told him that God had sent them in the poor 
 boy a messenger to Algiers, and asked him if he 
 knew any Arab there to whom she could entrust 
 a message to the convent. The old man thought 
 for a few moments, and said he knew one who 
 was under great obligations to him, and in whom
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 131 
 
 he could trust. ' Then all is well/ she answered ; 
 * only tell me how I am to describe the place 
 where we are?' She had her little pocket-book 
 still with her ; and what a treasure it proved to 
 her now, since it gave her the means of conunimi- 
 cating with her friends ! 
 
 " The old man having given her the necessary- 
 directions, dictated a few lines to the Arab, to 
 desire him to give the messenger a little phial 
 containing a certain cordial, and above all to lose 
 no time in conveying Marie's packet to its destina- 
 tion. 
 
 " WTien all this was done, and the messenger 
 had departed, Ben Arbi seemed inclined to sleep 
 again, and she began her night-watch ; a lonely one 
 indeed would it have been had not the bright star 
 of hope shone through all its gloom. 
 
 " Slowly passed the hours until the next day, 
 when, about noon, the faithful messenger appeared 
 again. He gave her the phial, and told her that 
 the Arab desired him to say that Ben Arbi's 
 wishes should be executed. Marie could have 
 cried for joy, and her gratitude to the poor boy 
 was far greater than she could express. It was 
 necessary, however, to send him away ; and this 
 cost her a severe pang, as she thought of when 
 he would return and find the place deserted by 
 them.
 
 132 FLORA. ADAIR. 
 
 "Every feeling was, however, soon merged 
 in an intense longing for the arrival of the good 
 chaplain. Her grandfather was sinking rapidly, 
 and she began to think that Pere de la Roche 
 would not be there in time to baptize him ; and 
 how she shuddered at the thought of being left 
 there alone with the dead. Evening came, and 
 twilight waned into night, but no Pere de la 
 Roche ; and poor Marie's heart began to droop 
 again. Perhaps he had not received the note, and, 
 if so, what was she to do ? She almost shrieked 
 aloud as she thought of her probably forlorn con- 
 dition, for she felt sure that her grandfather had 
 not long to live, — ^he had said so more than once ; 
 and during the whole day he had been tormenting 
 himself about what was to become of her if no 
 one came from Algiers. 
 
 " The old man had fallen asleep ; the bright 
 light of the moon showed Marie that his eyes 
 were closed. In her anxious hope she went out 
 of the tent and climbed up a tree which stood 
 near, to gaze across that vast plain ; but nothing 
 appeared. She then determined to descend, and 
 baptize her grandfather herself as soon as he 
 awoke. One last yearning look, however, brought 
 before her something which made her heart throb 
 almost aloud. It was but a small spot ; but it 
 seemed to move, and to draw nearer to her. At
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 133 
 
 last she could see tliat it was a man on horseback. 
 There was no Arab dress ; it must be, it was 
 Pere de la Roche I She almost sprang from the 
 tree, and ran towards him. 
 
 " Pere de la Poche and Marie hastened to the 
 tent, and Marie went in to announce the glad 
 tidings. The old man was lying with his eyes 
 wide open, and looked at Marie fondly and sadly 
 as she entered ; but when she told him that Pere 
 de la Roche had arrived, his countenance lit up, 
 and he exclaimed, ' Then thou art happy. I can 
 now die in peace, and thou \\-ilt go back to those 
 whom thou lovest ! But go, child, and send him 
 to me quickly, for my course is nearly run.' Marie 
 went out and led Pere de la Poche into the tent. 
 She left him there, and waited without for him. 
 
 " She was roused by the good father, whose 
 hand lightly shook her. ' Come, my child,' said 
 he ; ' thy grandfather would see thee again before 
 he dies. He is now a Christian, and will be with 
 his God before many minutes have passed. Ah I 
 what a great work thy faith has wrought ! ' 
 
 *' Hardly were Ben Arbi's eyes closed in his 
 happy death, when the sound of horses caused 
 Marie once more to tremble. Pere de la Poche 
 reassured her by sapng that it was probably a 
 detachment of cavalry from Algiers, sent to guard 
 theii' safe return. Taking her by the hand, he led
 
 134 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 her out of the tent, and there she saw again the 
 beloved French uniforms. This second shock of 
 joy, and the death scene she had just witnessed, 
 were too much for her. She sank down quite 
 overcome ; and they laid her upon the long grass, 
 where they left her to slumber, whilst they 
 hurriedly performed the last rites to Ben Arbi. 
 
 " When all was done, they gently awoke her ; 
 and placing her on horseback, they returned to 
 Algiers. Poor Marie was carried exhausted into 
 the convent just as the bell was tolling for 
 matins. The nuns came gathering round their 
 lost child, now restored to them, to their great 
 
 joy."
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 The Adairs were doubly anxious to know !Marie 
 and to have her with them, after reading the 
 papers which Madame Hird had given them ; 
 moreover, she would, they thought, so well supply 
 Lucy's place, and be a companion to Flora. 
 
 Accordingly, when the day arrived which had 
 been fixed for Lucy's departure, and they had 
 confided her to the care of the friends with whom 
 she was to travel to England, they determined to 
 drive straight to the convent. They got into an 
 open carriage, but the driver looked wonders 
 when he was told that their destination was the 
 Yilla lanthe, on the Lungara — a long distance 
 indeed from the Piazza dei Termini. He tried to 
 console himself, however, by driving as slowly as 
 possible, being too truly Italian to trouble himself 
 as to whether, in so doing, he lost other fares or 
 not. What true Italian does not prefer the dolce 
 far niente to gain ? Fortunately it was a matter 
 of indifference to the Adairs ; they were not pressed
 
 136 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 for time, and that slow motion throiigli the soft, 
 hazy air of Rome was far from disagreeable, so 
 they let him gang his ain gate. 
 
 Even their slow pace brought them, at length, 
 to the convent, and once more they were shown 
 into the little square room, with its prim air — 
 that room which not even the sun of Italy could 
 cheer or warm. 
 
 Madame Hird came down quickly, and when 
 the usual greetings were over, and they were all 
 seated, Mrs. Adair gave back the papers, and said, 
 " These have interested us so much that we are 
 longing to make the acquaintance of the little 
 heroine, and to have her with us. When can she 
 come ? We leave Rome on Tuesday week, and 
 should like it to be as soon as possible, that she 
 may get accustomed to us before we set out on our 
 journey." 
 
 " You can see her now, if you wish,'' replied 
 Madame Hird, " but the Superioress will say when 
 she can go to you. I had a letter from Madame de 
 St. Severan yesterday; she is greatly pleased to 
 hear that Marie is to travel with you, and that you 
 intend to make some detour; a little travelling 
 with you and your daughter will, she thinks, be 
 of great advantage to Marie. I wrote to her of 
 you from what I knew of you in former days, and 
 of Mademoiselle I said, that as far as I could
 
 FLORA ADAIR. ' 137 
 
 a visit, she would be an admirable com- 
 pam^ for my young charge/' 
 
 *' We are most grateful for your good opinion," 
 answered Mrs. Adair, " and shall do our best to 
 merit it, by making Marie as happy as we can 
 while she is with us." 
 
 *' I have no doubt that she will be very happy, 
 and the new and varied scenes which she will visit 
 with you will delight her. I will go and tell her 
 that 3"ou wish to see her, — she may be a little 
 sh}^ at first, as she is so unaccustomed to meet 
 strangers." 
 
 *' Yery naturally, poor child ; but she will soon 
 get over that with us, I trust." 
 
 " Then I will go to announce your visit." 
 
 After a short time Madame Hird returned, with 
 a tall, and rather an imposing-looking nun, whom 
 she introduced as " Madame la Super ieure." 
 
 The lady was French, but she spoke English 
 tolerably well, and at once addressed Mrs. Adair 
 in that language. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Marie will have the honour to 
 salute you in a few instants. Madame Hird tells 
 me that you have the goodness to permit her to 
 make the voyage to Paris with you, and that you 
 desire to know when she can go chez vous. It is 
 to-day Friday ; shall we then say Monday next ? 
 Madame de St. Severan has sent me a sum of
 
 138 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 money, whicli slie praj^ed me to give you, should 
 it be decided that Mademoiselle Marie was to 
 travel with you ; it is for her voyage. Shall I 
 give it to you now, or when you come for her on 
 Monday ? " 
 
 " Then, if you please, since I can have a receipt 
 ready to give you. You know, Madame, that it 
 is better to do these things en regie; it prevents 
 misunderstandings. " 
 
 " Just as you like. At what hour will you come 
 on Monday ? " 
 
 " Would five o'clock suit you, Madame ? '' 
 
 "It is equal to me, and Marie shall be ready 
 for you at that hour. I am astonished that she 
 has not come down to be presented to you. And 
 now that all our arrangements are made, I will 
 ask you to give me permission to retire, as I am 
 very much occupied. I will send Marie to you at 
 once. Adieu, Madame, — adieu. Mademoiselle.'* 
 And making a formal curtsey to each of them, 
 she left the room. 
 
 Flora drew a long breath as the door closed, 
 and had not Madame Ilird remained in the 
 room, we should probably have heard her utter 
 a fervent " Deo gratias! '' Madame Hird smiled 
 slightly and said, " Marie will get a reprimand 
 for dilatoriness, but in reality it is timidity
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 139 
 
 which, has prevented her from coming sooner. 
 I hear a step, — I will go and meet the poor 
 child ; she would never have courage to come in 
 herself.'' 
 
 She went into the passage and returned imme- 
 diately, leading in a young lady dressed in a black 
 silk frock. She was very short, but she had a 
 well-formed, plump figure, large liquid black eyes, 
 full red lips, a clear olive complexion covered with 
 blushes, and black hair curling round her head in 
 short curls. A pretty little creature she certainly 
 was, and she looked so innocent and clinging that 
 from the first moment it was hardly possible not 
 to be fond of her. 
 
 Madame Hird presented her to Mrs. Adair and 
 said, " This is the lady who is so kind as to take 
 charge of you to Paris, Marie ; and to whom I am 
 sure you will be very grateful." 
 
 Marie made a shy curtsey and muttered some- 
 thing in French ; but Mrs. Adair took her hand 
 and kissed her, saying, " Oh, this is quite too 
 formal ; ... we must be friends, Marie — or must 
 I call you Mademoiselle?" 
 
 '' Oh non, Madame,'' and she blushed more than 
 ever. 
 
 Flora now came and kissed her also, as she said, 
 " Come and talk to me, Marie." She drew her to
 
 140 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 the window and made her sit down beside her. 
 Meanwhile Madame Hird devoted herself to Mrs. 
 Adair, and they wisely left the young people to 
 themselves. 
 
 " You must not be shy with me, Marie ; I do 
 not appear very terrible, do I?" 
 
 ''Mais non, Mademoiselle,^' answered Marie, 
 with a smile. 
 
 " Well then, you must call me Flora, and not 
 Mademoiselle. I call you Marie.'* 
 
 " Queljoli nom vous azezT 
 
 "You like it! — then you must show me that 
 you do by using it. But you speak English they 
 say ; I see that you understand it well." 
 
 " Oui,J3 le comprends tres hien^ Made " 
 
 Flora looked at her and shook her head. Marie 
 smiled, hesitated for a moment, and then said, 
 coyly, " Flore.'' 
 
 " Wonderful ! " exclaimed Flora, " there is a vic- 
 tory already gained ! But you were going to say — 
 
 " Mais je ne le parle pas bien, etfai peur de 
 vous." 
 
 Marie turned, and for the first time looked up 
 fully in Flora's face. 
 
 " But you are not much afraid of me, Marie, 
 after all?" 
 
 " Mais vous, vous parlez Frangais^ — c^est tres 
 heureux p)our moil "
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 141 
 
 " Well, I must say tliat I do not quite see that, 
 Marie ; perhaps you can explain it to meP" 
 
 " Old, et tres Men meme. Je n'aime pas dparler 
 line langue etrangere avec vous, parceque f ai peur 
 de cous^ mats vous n^ avez pas peur de moir^ And 
 she laughed merrily, as if she thought it an absurd 
 idea that any one could be afraid of her. It made 
 Flora laugh also, and the laughing seemed to set 
 Marie more at her ease, — very soon all fear of the 
 formidable Flora appeared to have yanished. 
 
 After some little time Mrs. Adair said, " I am 
 glad, Marie, to see that you and Flora are becom- 
 ing friends." 
 
 " Oui, Madame^ et je n^ai plus peur d^ellef' 
 
 " So I perceiye, nor must you be afraid of me, 
 either. Xow we must leaye you, but only until 
 Monday. Flora has told you, I suppose, that the 
 Superioress has given you leave to come to us 
 then." 
 
 "• Oui, Madame, et ce sera un bonkeur pour moi de 
 faire ce voyage atec vous et avec Mademoiselle 
 zotrefille!'' 
 
 " I hope you may find it so. Good-bye, then, 
 for a few days." She kissed her, and then turned 
 to bid Madame Hird adieu. 
 
 '^ Only four o'clock ! It is too early for us to 
 go home," said Flora, looking up from her watch 
 as they got into the street.
 
 142 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 "Is there anything near that we have not 
 seen ? " 
 
 " The Farnese Palazzo is quite close, but if the 
 king and queen are not away it is only shown to 
 visitors on Sundays at five in the evening." 
 
 " Let us try, at all events ; they may perhaps be 
 absent." 
 
 As the two ladies turned off the Lungara into 
 the Via del Pontey they met Mr. Lyne coming 
 down the Via delle Fornaci. 
 
 " Mrs. Adair ! who would have thought of 
 seeing you here?" and he shook hands with her 
 and with Flora. 
 
 . "We are returning from the Villa lanthe," 
 answered Mrs. Adair. 
 
 " And I," rejoined Mr. Lyne, " from the beau- 
 tiful Fontana Paolina. Are you going to walk 
 home?" 
 
 " Yes; or rather we are going first to the Palazzo 
 Farnese to try if we can see it. Flora says it is 
 quite near." 
 
 "So it is, and I think you can see it. I know 
 that the royal family were absent yesterday, and 
 they may not have returned. May I have the 
 pleasure of accompanying you, Mrs. Adair ? " 
 
 He addressed Mrs. Adair, but he looked at 
 Flora, who replied, " Well, I suppose you may, as
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 143 
 
 I dare say your coming will not prevent our 
 seeing tlie pictures." 
 
 " I should think not," added Mrs. Adair, smil- 
 ing. So they went on together. 
 
 Ah ! Flora, could you have known the past 
 events of the day before, or the coming ones of 
 that day, how different would have been your 
 answer when Mr. Lyne asked to accompany you 
 to the Farnese Palace ! 
 
 Mr. Lyne was about the middle height and 
 rather slight ; \ie had regular, well-cut features, 
 brown eyes, and dark hair. He was certainly 
 gentleman- like in appearance, and was generally 
 called handsome, being so, indeed, to those who 
 think more of form than of expression ; not that 
 his expression was wanting in goodness or even 
 in intelligence, but it was devoid of animation or 
 energy. He was essentially what is called a good 
 young man, — one who fulfilled every duty with 
 the greatest exactitude, who always did just what 
 was expected of him. His ideas and conversation 
 on most subjects were just, calm, and deliberate, 
 but never original, and he was perfectly guiltless 
 of ever allowing himself to be carried away by 
 feeling or enthusiasm. Xo one ever heard of his 
 doing a startling act of kindness, self-devotion, or 
 generosity ; but on the other hand he was invari-
 
 144 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 ably kind in a general way, a sincere friend, too, 
 and moderately generous. 
 
 We have heard that he was going to be married 
 to Flora Adair, or at least that he intended to 
 propose for her, and felt no doubt about being 
 accepted. This was true, and his courtship and 
 love were quite in keeping with the other features 
 of his character. As his mother was French, and 
 he had been brought up chiefly in France, he had 
 acquired much of the French ideas about marriage. 
 The Adairs were old friends of his family ; so much 
 so, indeed, that Mrs. Adair always called him 
 George; and he was aware that a marriage between 
 him and Flora would be agreeable to his own and 
 to her friends. It was just the connection which 
 his parents wished for, but he was not a person 
 ready to marry any girl who was pointed out to 
 him as eligible ; on the contrary, he was deter- 
 mined never to marry any one whom he did not 
 like very much. If he could like one an alliance 
 with whom would please his family, he thought it 
 would be a most desirable thing, and therefore 
 he cultivated an intimate acquaintance with the 
 Adairs. 
 
 Flora, strange to say, did inspire him with a 
 feeling as nearly akin to love as it was in his 
 nature to feel, and she treated him with a friendly, 
 cordial manner, as the son of a very old friend of
 
 FLORA ADAIR, 145 
 
 her motlier's, never for a moment supposing that 
 he coiild think of wishing to marry her, feeling, 
 as she did, that their characters were too essen- 
 tially different for anything like union between 
 them. Thus she innocently encouraged him to 
 belieye that she liked him, and he did not under- 
 stand the different s}Tuptoms of love and liking, 
 otherwise her friendly but indifferent manner 
 woidd haye driven him to despair. Her real 
 opinion of him was that he was a good-natured 
 "bore,^' very obliging, gentlemanly, and quite 
 capable of taking his place creditably in conver- 
 sation ; better informed, indeed, than the majority 
 of those aroimd him, but tiresome withal. And 
 this was the man whom Mary Elton had told 
 Mr. Earnscliffe that she was going to marry ! 
 
 Allien they got to the palazzo they found — as 
 Mr. Lyne had said — that the royal family had 
 not returned. They were told that the custode 
 had gone upstairs a moment before with a gentle- 
 man. They hurried on and overtook them just as 
 the door of the gallery was opened. The gentle- 
 man turned to let them pass before him, — it was 
 Mr. Earnscliffe ! 
 
 The unexpected meeting of those whom we 
 esteem greatly is a delicious sensation, and this 
 Flora then felt. Had she known all that had 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 passed between Mary and Mr. Earnscliffe, How 
 diiFerent would have been her feelings ! 
 
 The Adairs were in advance when Mr. Earns- 
 cliffe turned, and bis expression seemed to ligbt 
 ■up a little as be saw tbem, but it grew dark again 
 as be caugbt sight of their companion, and be 
 appeared to be in one of bis banghtiest moods as 
 be shook hands with them and Mr. Lyne. 
 
 ''This is a fortunate day for me,'' said the 
 latter ; ''as I was returning from a walk to the 
 Fontana Paolina, I met Mrs. and Miss Adair, 
 who kindly permitted me to accompany tbem 
 here, and now we meet you who are such a con- 
 noisseur in painting, our visit will be doubly in- 
 structive." 
 
 *' I believe the custode undertakes to point out 
 everything of note,'' replied Mr. Earnscliffe, 
 stiffly. *' It is usually so when one goes round 
 with visitors in such places. But we are keeping 
 the man waiting." He motioned him on, and they 
 all followed. 
 
 It would have been too harsh had be not asked 
 Flora if she felt perfectly recovered from her 
 sprain ; and in formal poKteness Mr. Earnscliffe 
 was scrupulously exact ; so he said in a cold tone, 
 " I hope. Miss Adair, that you do not feel any 
 lingering inconvenience from your sprain ? " 
 
 *' None in the least, I thank you, as you will
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 147 
 
 see by my dancing at Mrs. Elton's on Friday 
 night. Helena told me tliat we were to have the 
 pleasure of meeting you there." 
 
 "• Yes, I promised Miss Elton to go ; she said it 
 was a farewell." 
 
 ''So it is ; they leave Home on the Monday 
 after. We met them j^esterday evening on the 
 Pincio after their visit to the Catacombs." 
 
 " Indeed !" He turned away, and seemed intent 
 upon looking at the frescoes and listening to the 
 guide's remarks about them. 
 
 Flora was gazing abstractedly at Domenichino's 
 Deliverance of Prometheus, as she leaned back 
 against the wall opposite. She could not rid 
 herself of the chill which she felt from the 
 moment that Mr. Earnscliffe had shaken hands 
 with her, and yet had she been asked why, she 
 could not have given a very clear answer. But 
 who does not know that vague sensation of un- 
 happiness which the manner of one dear to us 
 sometimes causes us to feel, although there may 
 not be any positive or, at least, any definable 
 change in it such as an indifierent person could 
 see ? 
 
 How well she remembered what Mr. Earnsclifie 
 had said to her about this Farnese Palazzo. All 
 that he had told her of its founder, Alessandro 
 Farnese, afterwards Paul III. ; of its architecture,
 
 148 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 of its frescoes ; how it had descended to the royal 
 family of Naples, and eventually become their 
 refuge and dwelling-place in exile. But how 
 different he was on this day. He hardly noticed 
 or spoke to her, save those few words of ordinary 
 civility about her accident. She thought it was 
 too provoking of him to be so changeable, but the 
 next moment she felt indignant against herself 
 for harbouring even a suspicion against him, and 
 thought it was but natural that a clever man like 
 him should not care greatly to talk in such a place 
 to one like herself. When she was a prisoner it 
 was otherwise ; then he thought himself in some 
 measure bound to try to amuse her ; but that was 
 all past, and his manner to her now was just what 
 she ought to have expected. 
 
 Nevertheless, Flora wished that they had not 
 come there then. Suddenly it struck her that it 
 was all that tiresome Mr. Lyne's fault ; if he had 
 not met them and said that the king and queen 
 were away, perhaps they might not have come. 
 
 The custode seemed at length to think that they 
 had spent sufficient time in admiring the frescoes, 
 and he led them into the two large halls looking 
 on the Piazza, where there are a few remnants of 
 the fine collection of statues which this palace once 
 contained. Mr. Lyne appeared to be much struck 
 with the gigantic group hewn out of the stone
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 149 
 
 taken from the basilica of Constantine, and repre- 
 senting Alessandro Farnese crowned by Victory. 
 He was most anxious to bear all about Moscbino, 
 wbose work it is, and expressed bis wonder tbat be 
 bad never beard of it before. 
 
 Mr. L}Tie will, doubtless, be considered to be a 
 very strange lover, since be was so occupied witb 
 tbe statues wbilst in tbe company of bis beloved ; 
 but it sbould be remembered tbat Mr. Lyne never 
 allowed bimself to be carried away by feeling, 
 tbat be always did tbe rigbt tbing at tbe right 
 time ; and be considered tbat in ^dsiting celebrated 
 places and galleries of art tbe object was to learn 
 as mucb as be could ; afterwards be could afford 
 to please bimself, and be devoted to tbe lady of 
 bis choice. At last bis questionings came to an 
 end, and tbe guide, seeing that the rest of tbe 
 party were quite ready to go, moved towards tbe 
 door. 
 
 Would Mr. Eamscliffe walk home witb them ? 
 This was a question upon which Flora had been 
 pondering for tbe last ten minutes, and she would 
 have given a great deal to have had it satisfac- 
 torily answered. When they got into the 
 Piazza she said, " Mamma, we can return bv tbe 
 Gesii, and inquire for our friend there who has 
 been so ill." 
 
 " Tbat was a bappy thought, Flora. I am de-
 
 150 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 lighted to call to-day, as I fear tliat to-morrow we 
 may not have time to do so. Do we say good-bye 
 to 3^ou here, Mr. EarnsclifFe ? " 
 
 " 'No, as far as the Cor so my way is the same as 
 yours," he replied, after a moment's hesitation. 
 
 *' Then come, George,'* said Mrs. Adair, turn- 
 ing to Mr. Lyne ; *' let us lead, and you must be 
 m}^ guide, for I do not know the way." 
 
 They went on, and Mr. Earnscliffe and Flora 
 followed. She wondered whether he would now 
 talk to her as he used to do, or remain in his silent 
 mood. She need not to have feared ; he was far 
 too well bred to make a lady feel any such ^eve 
 while walking with him, but she hoped in vain 
 that he would be the same towards her as he had 
 been three weeks before. 
 
 He spoke of the toj)ics of the day, of the cere- 
 monies of Holy Week, and of the Easter rejoic- 
 ings. It was very dull work ; and when she saw 
 that he was determined not to glide into their 
 former intercourse, she gave up making any ejffort 
 to sustain the conversation. She knew that he 
 took no pleasure in speaking of ceremonies and 
 illuminations, and as she certainly did not, why, 
 she thought, should she bore him or herself with 
 such things ? 
 
 Nor was he slow to discover that she did not 
 care to continue their conversation, and, as is so
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 151 
 
 often the case, lie fixed upon a ^vrong motive as 
 tlie cause of her silence. He supposed that she 
 was thinking of the change which was about to 
 take place in her life. He did not see how dif- 
 ferent his o^\Ti manner was to her, but concluded 
 that all he nad seen on that day was proof of 
 what Mary Elton had told him ; and Flora's seem- 
 ing indifference towards Mr. Lyne only made him 
 think still less kindly of her, as it showed that 
 she had not the grace even to pretend that she 
 loved him, although she was ready to marry him. 
 
 What a run of ill-luck there was against Flora 
 on that day ! Everything seemed to confirm what 
 he had heard ; yet how different was the realit}^ ! 
 
 When they reached the Gesu, she said, '' I 
 suppose you have had a very dull walk. I know 
 I was ver}^ silent, but you must feel that it was 
 your fault. I saw that you did not care to talk. . . . 
 Here we are, however, at our destination, so 
 good-bye." 
 
 She held out her hand, and as he took it he 
 answered, " I do not quite understand what you 
 mean ? " 
 
 Flora smiled, turned away, and went up the 
 steps as Mrs. Adair and Mr. Lyne wished him 
 good- day. He stood for a moment until he saw 
 them go into the convent, and then walked slowly 
 away murmuring to himself, " What could she
 
 152 
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 have meant by saying, *You must feel that it 
 was your fault?' ... The look, too, which 
 accompanied those words seemed to ask some 
 question. . . . But what is all this to me ?'* 
 
 He quickened his pace, and soon arrived at his 
 apartments in the Piazza di Trajana.
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 Ox Friday morning — tlie morning of the Elton s' 
 soiree — Marie Arbi, who had been with the 
 Adairs since the Monday before, was in a state of 
 great excitement, mingled with no little terror, 
 about her first ball. Flora could but laugh at the 
 timid fears of the world's novice, for she knew 
 that her prettiness and simplicity would amply 
 cover any want of self-possession, and, indeed, 
 render her doubly attractive. 
 
 One moment Marie was in ecstasies of delight 
 with her dress and wreath ; the next she would 
 rush into the drawing-room to Flora and ask a 
 score of questions. Then she would declare that she 
 knew she should be \iQTinh\j gauche, and looked half 
 ready to cry over her anticipated awkwardness. 
 But a word from Flora about her toilette would 
 set her off again into a rapture of admiration, and, 
 with all a Frenchwoman's delight in the details of 
 dress, she would descant on each particular of it. 
 All this made Flora think of her own first ball,
 
 154 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 and of how comparatively indifferent she was 
 about it, although she really was fond of dancing ; 
 but she had never possessed any of that almost 
 childish gaiety which characterised Marie. 
 
 A few minutes before nine o'clock the im- 
 portant business of dressing was satisfactorily 
 completed, and the young ladies went into the 
 drawing-room to Mrs. Adair, who was already 
 dressed. Both the girls were in white. Marie's 
 dress was trimmed with lily of the valley and 
 pink convolvulus ; she wore a wreath to match 
 this trimming, and necklace and earrings of 
 topaz. Flora's was looped up with bunches of 
 scarlet geraniums, and a spray or two of the same 
 flowers gleamed through the masses of her hair ; 
 she wore a band of pearls round her neck, and 
 earrings to correspond. Marie was, according to 
 all rule, by far the prettier of the two, as she 
 stood there with her black eyes dancing merrily, 
 and her full red lips parted in eager expectation ; 
 her short plump figure harmonised, too, so well 
 with the child-like expression of her face. Flora 
 looked well also, and her slighter and more deli- 
 cately formed figure gave to her a grace which 
 was quite her own. 
 
 " I hear the carriage ! " Flora exclaimed^, " so 
 let us put on our cloaks. Mrs. Elton said that 
 the music was to begin exactly at nine, and it is
 
 FLORA ADAIR. ' 155 
 
 striking that now ; so we shall not be too early at 
 all events." 
 
 At tlie door of the brilliantly lighted saloon 
 they were received by Mrs. Elton and Mary. 
 Did the latter feel a qualm of conscience as she 
 greeted Flora, after she had been plotting so 
 against her ? No change of countenance betrayed 
 any such feeling. She looked as usual, calm and 
 dignified, as she motioned to her to pass on, 
 sapng, " A little farther on in the room you will 
 meet Charles and Helena, who will find seats for 
 
 you." 
 
 The entrance of the Adair party was followed 
 by that of Mr. and Mrs. Penton. She looked 
 queen-like in her training dress of black velvet, 
 which well displayed her majestic bearing; and 
 the smallness of her head was rendered especially 
 remarkable by the way in which her hair was 
 dressed. It was combed back plainly from her 
 forehead, plaited up tightly at the back, and sur- 
 mounted by a magnificent tiara of pearls. Her 
 fair roimd-faced husband looked the character of 
 a gentleman farmer quite as well as she did that 
 of a queen. Immediately afterwards came a 
 number of gentlemen, and among them were 
 Signor Lanzi, Mr. Mainwaring, Mr. Caulfield, 
 Mr. Lyne, and Mr. Earnsclifie. 
 
 The music-room, which was rather small, was
 
 156 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 quite full, and the room next to it nearly so, 
 when Helena went to ask her mother if she 
 wished the music to begin. On her way, how- 
 ever, she discreetly managed to pass close to 
 Mr. Cauliield, and to exchange a few words with 
 him. He cast a questioning glance towards the 
 place where Mrs. Elton stood, as if to ask if there 
 was any hope of her looking favourably on him. 
 Helena shook her head and turned away. In a 
 few moments she returned with her mother and 
 Mary, and the music began. 
 
 There were but short intervals between the 
 pieces, so by a little after ten, as the last notes of 
 one of Beethoven's sonatas died away, they were 
 answered from the other end of the room by the 
 inspiriting tones of the Overland Mail Galop. 
 This was a special favourite of Helena's, and she 
 had asked the leader of the band to commence 
 with it ; accordingly a few bars of it were played ; 
 then there was a pause in order to give the 
 couples time to form. 
 
 What a scene of confusion there was at that 
 moment ! The girls looking anxiously to see if 
 the right one was coming to them ; the gentle- 
 men rushing about seeking for those to whom 
 they were, or wished to be, engaged. Gradually 
 the ladies and their partners paired off into th-e
 
 FLORA ADUR. 157 
 
 dancing-room, so that single couples could easily 
 be distinguished. 
 
 Mr. Lyne, in his usual deliberate way, waited 
 until the first rush was over, and then he went 
 up to Flora and asked for the honour of her hand 
 for this galop. 
 
 *' I am not engaged," she answered ; " but you 
 will oblige me very much if you will dance with 
 my friend instead of with me. She is a little shy, 
 as it is her first ball, so it would be pleasant for 
 her to begin by dancing with one whom she has 
 met before. You will do this, will you not?'' 
 and she looked up smilingly at him. 
 
 "I would do much more than that to oblige 
 Miss Adair," replied Mr. L}Tie, and he offered 
 his arm to Marie. She hesitated to accept Flora's 
 partner, but the latter insisted. 
 
 As they went into the dancing-room Flora 
 looked after them with an expression of amuse- 
 ment at Mr. L^-ne's answer, which she supposed 
 was meant to be very complimentary, but which 
 was in reality just the contrary; imph-ing as it 
 did, that to give up a dance with her was a very 
 slight sacrifice indeed. 
 
 Meanwhile Mary and Helena Elton went about 
 to see if all their friends had partners. They did 
 not adopt the fashionable style of leaving people
 
 158 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 to get on as well as they can whether they know 
 any one or not. 
 
 Mr. Caulfield was watching Helena with long- 
 ing eyes. She had told him that she could not 
 give him the first dance, so he felt half inclined 
 to do the dolorosOy by not dancing it at all, and 
 he really thought that he could have refrained 
 had the band played anything but that " Over- 
 land Mail." To stand still during such a galop 
 was more than nature could bear, so as he saw 
 Helena going towards Flora with a man "in 
 tow," as he expressed it, to be introduced to her, 
 he hastened in the same direction, and said in a 
 low voice as he passed her, " Well, if I can't have 
 you, I'll have the best dancer in the room," and 
 the next minute he was making his bow to Flora. 
 
 " Why did you not say, ' Miss Adair, I want 
 you to dance with me faute de mieux .^ ' " she said 
 laughingly, as she took his arm. 
 
 "By Jove, Miss Adair, I would rather have 
 you for a partner than almost any one in the 
 room ; you do go the pace to such perfection ! " 
 
 She blushed as she felt how humbling it was to 
 be told by Mr. Caulfield that he had chosen her 
 for such a reason ; but she knew that he meant 
 it as a very great compliment, and therefoie she 
 thought it was unreasonable to be annoyed at it, 
 so she answered lightl}^, " Well, let us begin."
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 159 
 
 Mar}^ had asked Mr. Earnscliffe if lie would 
 allow her to get him a partner, but he replied, 
 " Thank you, I very seldom dance ; especially 
 these dances.'' He bowed, turned away, and 
 joined some gentlemen who were talking in 
 another part of the room. Mary looked annoj-ed, 
 and murmured to herself, "He might at least have 
 asked me to dance a quadrille, if only from mere 
 politeness. Ah ! I see that I shall never succeed, 
 but, at least, I need no longer to fear a rival in 
 Flora Adair. My plan is working well," and a 
 sinister expression came into her eyes as Flora 
 passed with Mr. Caulfield. 
 
 The dancing continued with unflagging spirit 
 until supper was announced, and even then it 
 ceased only because the musicians went away to 
 take some refreshments. Helena, however, con- 
 sidered that it would be too sad to lose such a 
 delightful opportunity of dancing and flirting 
 with Mr. Caulfield, so she managed to induce 
 some obliging lady to sit down to the piano and 
 play a valse. In a moment his arm was round 
 her waist and away they twirled, enjoying in- 
 tensely the pleasure of stealing a march on the 
 ''dragoness," as Mr. Caulfield irreverently per- 
 sisted in calling Mrs. Elton. Their example was at 
 once followed by all the lovers of dancing, who 
 always prefer the supper dances to any others.
 
 160 
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 Marie seemed to have got over Iter shyness, and 
 was quite a focus of attraction ; her naivete, and 
 even her blunders in English, attracted every one, 
 and she became a general favourite. 
 
 " Time flies when it should linger most," and 
 Mr. Caulfield thought that this was the truest of 
 all things, as Mary came to tell them that the 
 people were coniing back from supper. There 
 was a deep recess in one of the rooms, in which 
 was an ottoman. Here they had seated them- 
 selves, and were making plans for bright hours to 
 come. For the moment they appeared to have 
 forgotten the existence of a *'dragoness" who 
 might possibly prevent the realisation of visions 
 so fair, but it was forcibly called to their recol- 
 lection by Mary, who exclaimed, ''Helena, how 
 can you be so imprudent ? In another moment 
 mamma would have caught you ! " 
 
 "Not while I have such a dear, thoughtful 
 prig of a sister to guard me," replied Helena, as 
 she jumped up and kissed her ; then waving her 
 hand to Mr. Caulfield, she glided away humming, 
 " Addio del passato hex sogni sorridentiJ^ A few 
 minutes afterwards she was seen walking into the 
 supper-room leaning on Mr. Mainwaring, and 
 looking as demure as possible. 
 
 To Mary's surprise and delight Mr. Earnscliffe 
 came and asked her to dance the next quadrille
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 161 
 
 witli Mm. As slie took his arm she saw Mr. 
 L}Tie and Flora Adair coming towards them, and 
 said, ^'Let us ask them to form part of our 
 set.'' 
 
 He bowed and led her to them, but he did not 
 speak. Mary said, " I am so glad that I chanced 
 to see you. Flora; will you be our vis-d-vis?'* 
 The stereotyped answer, '' With pleasure," was 
 given, and they took the places opposite to each 
 other. How often in the world are these two 
 words uttered mechanically and untruly. 
 
 Mary was looking unusually pleased and ani- 
 mated. xSot so was Flora. She felt puzzled 
 about Mr. L^Tie. His marked attention to her 
 during the whole evening, and his — for him — 
 devoted manner, made her wonder if so wild an 
 idea as his imagining himself in love with her 
 could have got into his head ; but she rejected 
 such a supposition as absurd, and persuaded her- 
 self that his increasing attention to her might be 
 the effect of champagne, which would quickly 
 wear off, and that it would be best to treat it 
 lightly, so she tried to aj^pear gay and amused. 
 8he little knew how closely she was watched, and 
 how false an interpretation was given to whatever 
 she did. 
 
 In taking the usual promenade after the dance, 
 they passed the recess where Mary found Helena 
 
 VOL. 1. M
 
 162 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 and Mr. Caulfield after supper. Pointing to tlie 
 seat, Mr. Lyne said to her — 
 
 " Will you rest here a little, Miss Adair ?" 
 " Thank you ; I would rather rejoin mamma." 
 " Nay, Miss Adair, I beg you to grant me a 
 few moments." 
 
 She did not see how she could well refuse, so 
 she allowed him to take her to the ottoman. She 
 seated herself, and he took the place beside her. 
 How she wished to say to him, *' If you are going 
 to propose to me, I pray you not to do so, and it 
 will save us both pain." But of course she could 
 say nothing of the kind, and must leave him to 
 take his own course ; she had already done all 
 that she could to avoid the threatened conversa- 
 tion. He did not keep her long in suspense, but 
 plainly and directly asked her to be his wife. 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Lyne ! " she answered, " I am so 
 sorry that this should have occurred ; for although 
 I feel deeply gratified by your preference, I would 
 much rather not have had that gratification than 
 be obliged, as I am, to inflict the pain of a refusal 
 upon you." 
 
 " Pray hear me for a moment. Miss Adair," he 
 exclaimed, eagerly, *' before you give so decided 
 an answer. Your mother has given her full 
 approbation to my suit, and my family would be 
 enchanted to receive you among them ; for myself.
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 163 
 
 I can truly say that I have the highest possible 
 respect and admiration for you, and you have 
 always appeared to like me. I would do every- 
 thing to make you happy — agree to anything you 
 could desire. AVhat obstacle, then, is there to 
 your marrying me ?" 
 
 She looked at him in amazement, and was on 
 the point of giving him rather a sharp answer ; 
 but remembering that more or less a refusal 
 must give him pain, she felt that it would be 
 unwomanly not to make hers as gentle as she 
 could ; therefore she determined to restrain her- 
 self, and after a little hesitation she said — 
 
 " There is one grand objection, Mr. Lyne. I 
 feel no love for you, and I could not do you the 
 wrong of marrying you without loving." 
 
 " Oh I if that's all, I'll forgive you the wrong. 
 I will try to win your love, and I am too sensible 
 to want that sort of romantic love about which 
 some people rave. Indeed, I do not think it in 
 the least necessary to the happiness of marriage." 
 
 This was too much for Flora ; she forgot all 
 her good resolutions, and retorted with heightened 
 colour, " I dare say you do not ; you probably 
 think, as I have heard good people in France say, 
 that V amour Tiest rien dans le manage, c^est 
 line affection — un d&couement chretien, qui doit 
 exister entre les epoux^ et cet amour Tie vient
 
 164 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 qu^apres le mariage. Perhaps you would be 
 satisfied with that sort of thing ! " 
 
 No sooner had the words escaped her than she 
 felt heartily ashamed of herself, and she added, 
 humbly, " Forgive me ; I have been rude and 
 ungrateful. I have no excuse to offer save that I 
 was carried away by momentary excitement. This 
 is a subject upon which I feel very strongly, and 
 I cannot, as I know many estimable people do, 
 look upon marriage as a sort of half religious, 
 half social duty, for which suitable position and 
 fortune, without any prominent incompatibility 
 of disposition, are the only requisites. If I have 
 ever misled you as to my sentiments towards you, 
 believe me, Mr. Lyne, that it was unintentional. 
 I never thought of you in any other way than as 
 a friend, and, until this evening, I never imagined 
 that you otherwise regarded me — surely we are 
 too unsuited to each other for anything more." 
 
 " Yes, I do feel now that we are unsuited to 
 each other ; yet I never admired you more than I 
 do at this moment. As to your having misled 
 me, the fault, if any, was all my own. I might 
 have seen how reluctant you were to grant me 
 these few minutes, and yet I would persevere, 
 so you are perfectly free from blame. Whatever 
 pain you may have caused me I freely forgive. 
 E-emember also, Miss Adair, that should you
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 165 
 
 ever want a friend you will find a true one in 
 me. 
 
 '' Of that I am sure." 
 
 He looked gratified, pressed her hand, and 
 murmured, *' God bless jom ! " and then left her. 
 
 Flora felt so unhappy that it was difficult for 
 her to prevent the tears which stood in her eyes 
 from falling. She had fortunately refused to 
 engage herseK for the dance which was now 
 beginning, pleading a wish to rest before the 
 cotillon which was to follow it, so she had a little 
 time to recover herself. 
 
 This conversation was not long in passing, yet, 
 short as it was, Mr. Earnscliffe had observed it, — 
 he saw the parting, and the tears in her eyes 
 afterwards, yet he never doubted that she had 
 accepted Mr. Lyne, and he thought to himself, 
 *' AVhat ! even in the first moments, is she bewail- 
 ing the sale which she has made of herself, and 
 the wrong she is doing to him ? I suppose she is 
 not quite hardened as yet in her role, and that 
 it costs her a few tears to act it — soon enough it 
 will become a second nature to her ! . . . . What 
 soulless things women are ! And I was once so 
 silly as to worship them ; but I was cured of that 
 folly long ago. This is only another proof of 
 their worthlessness ; and that, too, in one of whom 
 I felt haK inclined to believe better things. How
 
 166 FLORA ADAIR, 
 
 she excited my curiosity as we walked liome the 
 other day from the Farnese Palace ! I could not 
 
 comprehend her Well, at all events I 
 
 will go and say good-bj^e to her, since we may 
 perhaps never meet again." 
 
 As soon as he got close to where she was sitting 
 he said, "I am come to bid you farewell. Miss 
 Adair. I leave Rome to-morrow." 
 
 She started as she heard his voice, for she had 
 been leaning her head upon her hand, and had not 
 seen him approach, and now, as he took the vacant 
 place beside her, she looked rather confused, and 
 felt very much at a loss for something to say, so 
 she repeated, " Leaving Rome to-mcrrow ?" 
 
 '' Yes, I am going to the neighbourhood of 
 IS^aples ; it is so beautiful there in spring." 
 
 " I should imagine so ; spring is beautiful 
 everywhere, and in Southern Italy it must be 
 doubly so." 
 
 He did not answer, and, to break the silence, 
 she added, " We go in the very opposite direction 
 — northwards. I am longing to see Yenice." 
 
 " But you do not go immediately," he rejoined ; 
 looking at her inquiringly, *' you remain here 
 some time longer, and then you begin ^our 
 travels ?" he laid a slight stress on ^our. 
 
 " No, we go at once. What should we remain 
 here for when all our friends are gone? New
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 167 
 
 scenes give variety, and — for the time at least — 
 interest." 
 
 Her tone was sad and listless as she said this, 
 and again he fixed his full blue eyes on her face 
 with a meditative and a questioning gaze. She 
 wondered what he meant by looking at her thus, 
 as if he would read her very thoughts, and feeling 
 that it was most unpleasant to be gazed at in this 
 way, she exclaimed, " Mr. Earnsclifie ! " 
 
 He was on the point of saying, "And Mr. Lyne 
 goes with you, of course?" when the sound of 
 his name, uttered by Flora, arrested his words : 
 had they been spoken, he must have discovered 
 his mistake ; but, alas ! they were not, and she 
 continued, " Will you take me to mamma ? " 
 
 This annoyed him, yet he stood up at once and 
 ofiered her his arm. As they went she said, " I 
 must thank you once more and for the last time, 
 as we say good-bye to-night, for all your kindness 
 to me when my ankle was sprained, — it was so 
 good-natured of you to condescend to come and 
 lighten my close imprisonment. I cannot say 
 how grateful I feel to you." 
 
 " There is no cause for gratitude. Miss Adair ; 
 I did nothing for you beyond what I was bound 
 in justice to do." It was now her turn to feel 
 annoyed. " Besides, I enjoyed those hours very 
 much."
 
 168 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 " Wonderful ! I thought you hated women too 
 much to derive pleasure from their society?'' 
 
 • " Hate them, Miss Adair ! — ah ! I should do 
 anything hut that if I could only trust them. 
 How diiFerent this life would be if they were only 
 true ! if they were not, as the best of them are — 
 even those to whom it costs a pang to act so — 
 ever ready to sell themselves for wealth and 
 position." 
 
 Flora became scarlet. Mr. Earnscliffe noted 
 that vivid flush, and considered it to be caused by 
 consciousness of guilt, whilst in reality it was 
 from a sense of injured innocence. A few minutes 
 before she had been called upon to decide between 
 wealth and possible dependence and humiliation — 
 humiliation in the eyes of the world — and she had 
 chosen the latter ; but it was useless as a proof of 
 the falseness of that sweeping accusation — in 
 honour she was bound not to speak of it. She 
 waited until the rush of excited feeling had 
 subsided a little, and then said quietly — 
 
 " I know that you are wrong, Mr. Earnscliffe — 
 we are not all ready to sell ourselves ; there are 
 many women who would refuse any man, no 
 matter what advantages he could offer them, if 
 they did not really love him." 
 
 His eyes flashed and he exclaimed, ^* You ! " 
 but he stopped suddenly, changed his tone, and
 
 FLOKA ADAIR. 1G9 
 
 added in his usual cold, polite manner, ^' Here is 
 Mrs. Adair ; but I see that she is speaking to 
 some one, so I will not interrupt her ; and now 
 allow me to wish you AddiOj e febce tiaggio !'^ 
 
 He held her hand for a moment, whilst he 
 looked at her a":ain with one of those searching? 
 glances which had annoyed her before. Mrs. 
 Adair turned round just as he left her, and said, 
 *' AVhy, Flora, how tired you look I Here is 
 Marie as fresh and gay as ever I" 
 
 The gentlemen now came to claim them for 
 the cotillon. Marie was engaged to dance with 
 Charles Elton, and Flora with Mr. Caulfield ; but 
 Mrs. Adair said to him, " I really think that 
 Flora ought not to dance any more, she appears 
 to be so tired." 
 
 Flora saw Mr. Caulfield's look of annoyance, 
 and answered with a smile — although it was 
 rather a weary one if the truth must be told — 
 '' Xot so much so, mamma, that I cannot fulfil 
 my engagement," and she took Mr. Caulfield's 
 arm. 
 
 At last the cotillon came to an end, and it was 
 with a feeling of relief at not being obliged to 
 talk or dance any more that Flora followed her 
 mother down the stairs and got into their car- 
 riage, Marie declaring that she wished the ball 
 was going to begin again.
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 The Eltons' ball, that ball to wbicb our friends 
 Flora Adair, Marie Arbi, and the two Elton girls 
 bad looked forward with so much eagerness, was 
 over. Had it brought them pleasure or pain ? To 
 Helena and Marie it had brought pleasure ; but 
 to Flora and Mary, pain. Mary felt that, al- 
 though she had succeeded in prejudicing Mr. 
 Earnscliffe against Flora, she had not advanced 
 one step towards winning his admiration for her- 
 self ; and when Helena congratulated her on his 
 having danced with her — that being an honour 
 which he did not often confer on any one — 
 she answered bitterly, " You mistake, Helena ; 
 Mr. Earnscliffe danced with his hostess's eldest 
 daughter, and not with Mary Elton ! " 
 
 Yet the more the attainment of the object upon 
 which she had set her heart seemed remote, the 
 more wildly did she long for it. To gain Mr. 
 Earnscliffe's love, or even to hinder another from 
 possessing it, she would stooj) to any, even the-
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 171 
 
 most unwortliY, means. Hers was a powerful 
 passion, but it was a passion for evil rather than 
 for good ; it was not a passion of devotedness but 
 of selfishness ; she would sacrifice his happiness 
 to her love, and not her love to his happiness. 
 Evidently she did not know that a woman's 
 happiness consists ''in another's love become her 
 own." The song of Solomon represents the love 
 of the Saviour and His Church under the type of 
 human love ; — the Christian marriage ceremony 
 says, "Let a woman be subject to her husband 
 in all things, as the Church is subject to Christ ; " 
 and Saint Paul tells "wives" to "be subject to 
 their husbands as unto God ! " It is in such sub- 
 mission, and in such alone, that a woman's happi- 
 ness consists. Short-sighted people call this 
 bondage, but it is that bondage in which alone 
 is true liberty ! . . . To serve truly is indeed to 
 reign ! 
 
 " What ? " we hear young ladies, ay, and 
 old ones too, exclaim — " Are we never to do what 
 we like, — never to think of pleasing ourselves ? 
 A curious notion of happiness indeed ! " Never- 
 theless it is the only true one. Woman was 
 created to be "a help meet for man ; " her 
 m.inistry in the world is one of love, and she can 
 never be really happy save in fulfilling the end 
 for which she was created. A mere preference.
 
 172 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 accompanied by calm affection and esteem, will 
 never enable a woman to be to her husband what 
 the Church is to her Lord. It must be a feeling 
 such as Leibnitz speaks of when he says, *' To 
 love, is to place our happiness in the happiness of 
 another ; "—and as an illustrious French writer 
 beautifully describes it, so beautifully that we 
 would not venture to translate it, and must be 
 pardoned for quoting somewhat at length in a 
 foreign tongue — " L' amour ne s'arrete pas a 
 I'acte de choix, il exige le devouement a Tetre 
 choisi. Choisir, c'est preferer un etre a tons les 
 autres ; se devouer, c'est le preferer a soi-meme. 
 Le devouement, c'est I'immolation de soi a Tobjet 
 aime. Quiconque ne va pas j usque la n'aime 
 pas. La preference toute seule n'implique en 
 effet qu'un gout de Tame qui a besoin de 
 s'epancher dans la cause d'oii il sort, gout honor- 
 able et precieux sans doute, mais qui se bornant 
 la n'aboutit qu'a se rechercher soi-meme dans 
 im autre que soi. Si beaucoup d' affections 
 s'arretent a ce point, c'est que beaucoup d'affec- 
 tions ne sont qu'un egoisme deguise, on eprouve 
 un attrait, on s'y abandonne, on croit aimer, on a 
 peut-etre des lueurs de I'amour veritable, mais 
 I'heure du devouement arrivee, on reconnait a 
 I'impuissance du sacrifice la vanite du sentiment 
 qui nous preoccupait sans nous posseder."
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 173 
 
 When a woman loves, she creates happiness, so 
 to say, for herself and for those around her, and 
 obtains so much the greater recompense the less 
 she seeks it. In this submission she is im- 
 measurably more free than if she had no law but 
 that of her own will, just as a true Christian is more 
 free than those who follow their own opinions, 
 for " where the law is, there is liberty." ^ 
 
 All this was indeed a sealed fountain to Mary 
 Elton ; her idea of happiness was not centred in 
 ** another's happiness become her own," but in 
 the triumph of her own unbridled will. Yet she 
 was rather to be pitied than blamed. The too 
 popular code, alas ! now-a-days is, that anything 
 like real ardent feeling is to be ruthlessly crushed 
 down. In this she was educated, and, being of a 
 less impulsive disposition than her sister, she 
 succumbed more to this training. She was like a 
 vigorous young tree whose owner willed that it 
 should grow in a particular form, quite regardless 
 of the one which nature intended it to take, and 
 for this purpose had bound and constrained it 
 with what he thought to be strong bands ; but 
 one day a strange hand cut one of those bands, 
 and at once all the others gave way : the tree then 
 rebounded from its constraint, and took a more 
 natural form, and the trainer found with dismay 
 that it had grown wild and unmanageable. He
 
 174 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 had but produced deformity ; liad lie helped to 
 develop the plant, and not tried to force it from 
 its natural bent, it would have grown in the beauty 
 of its own unity : under his hands it had become 
 a deformed and an unsightly thing ! 
 
 Such, too, was Mary Elton. Her mother had 
 tried to swathe her mind and heart in bands of 
 unnatural propriety and worldliness, and for a 
 time she seemed to* have succeeded. Mr. 
 Earnscliffe was the strange hand which chanced 
 to cut one of the bands, and thus caused all the 
 others to give way ; then her natural strength of 
 feeling burst forth, rank and untrained. Had her 
 mother carefully directed and not endeavoured to 
 crush this, it would have made her character as 
 beautiful as it was strong. Unfortunately Mrs. 
 Elton had not done so, and the result was, that in 
 all probability nothing less powerful than that 
 religion of which Mary knows nothing could show 
 her the difference between a '* disguised egotism," 
 in which one only seeks one's self in another, 
 and love, which is an immolation of one's self to 
 the beloved object. 
 
 We must leave her alone with her gloomy re- 
 trospections, which were not the less dark and 
 unpleasing from the partial success which had 
 attended her planning. She was haunted by 
 the consciousness of having acted falsely as well
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 175 
 
 as meanh^ towards Flora ; for she as well as Mr. 
 Earhscliffe had seen the parting between her and 
 Mr. Lyne, and she judged it more truly than he 
 had done. Since then she felt certain — if indeed 
 she ever doubted it — that Mr. Lyne would never 
 be more than a friend to Flora; yet she had done 
 all she could to make Mr. Earnscliffe believe that 
 they were to be married, and she knew that in 
 this she had been successful. 
 
 Helena's remembrances of the ball were as 
 bright as Mary's were dark. She dwelt with 
 heartfelt delight on all the enjoyment which it 
 had afforded her, and, as Mary listened to her, 
 her smile grew brighter and more genial than 
 usual. Her protecting affection for her sister 
 was the one virtue amidst many faults — the one 
 feeling from which she could draw unalloyed 
 pleasure. 
 
 A contrast not altogether dissimilar might 
 have been witnessed between Flora and Marie. 
 The latter was all animation, and related with in- 
 finite zest her adventures of the previous night ; 
 while the former spoke but little, and appeared 
 tired and weary. She could not help feeling that 
 she had behaved somewhat unkindly towards Mr. 
 Lyne. She was angry with herself for not having 
 sooner seen that he meant to propose, and that 
 she had not taken care to prevent his doing so ;
 
 176 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 still, were slie in a palace of truth, slie would 
 probably have been obliged to confess that it was 
 not the remembrance of the pain which she had 
 inflicted on Mr. Lyne that weighed most heavily 
 upon her spirits, but rather Mr. EarnsclifFe's 
 conduct to herself. Save to shake hands with 
 her in the beginning of the evening, he had not 
 approached her until just before the cotillon 
 when his manner and words appeared so unac- 
 countable to her. 
 
 We have already said that there is no greater 
 pang than that of being misunderstood by one 
 whom we esteem, and the sharpness of the pang 
 increases with the strength of our affection. Thus 
 Flora felt most bitterly the injustice to herself 
 which Mr. Earnsclifie implied when he said how 
 different it would be if women were not — as even 
 the best of them are — ready to sell themselves to 
 the first man who asks them to marry him, if he 
 can give them wealth or position. It was 
 certainly not a pleasant farewell, and she sighed 
 as she thought that probably she would never 
 know again such pleasure as she had felt in his 
 society. Even the memory of it was more to 
 her than any other actual enjoyment had 
 been ; nevertheless she did not deem herself in 
 love. A day after a ball seemed to possess a 
 fatality for Flora ; she found this day a very sad 
 
 1
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 177 
 
 one, yet tlie time may come when, by comparison 
 with others, she may perhaps think it had 
 brought her happiness. 
 
 Fortunately for her their approaching departure 
 from Rome, and the preparations necessary for it, 
 did not leave her much time for brooding. As 
 usual, the week after Easter saw Kome thinning 
 rapidly. Some of our acquaintances were going 
 to the south, others to the north : for the former 
 were bound the Eltons, Pentons, Mr. Lyne, Mr. 
 Caulfield and Mr. Earnscliife, and for the latter 
 the B lakes and the Adairs. 
 
 On the Tuesday after the ball, at seven in the 
 morning, a large travelling carriage stood before 
 the door of the Adairs' apartments. It was open, 
 and in it was seated Mrs. Blake. Mina was in 
 the cabriolet, and her uncle, Mr. Vincent Blake, 
 who had joined them a few days before on his 
 wa}^ from the East, and who was to return with 
 them to Ireland, was standino^ on the flairs in- 
 specting the packing of the luggage. The Adairs 
 were to complete the party ; and as soon as they 
 came down, Mr. Blake hurried them into the 
 carriage with Mrs. Blake — that is, Mrs. Adair and 
 Marie. Flora was to go in the cabriolet with 
 Mina ; and having handed her up, and taken his 
 own seat beside the coachman, he gave the word 
 to start ; the whip was flourished, and ofi" they 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 went, the wlieels rattling noisily over the pave- 
 ment to the merry accompaniment of the bells 
 round the horses' necks. 
 
 At the Porta del Popolo they were obliged to 
 halt, in order to have their passports examined. 
 Mr. Blake got down, and went into the office. 
 During the delay which this caused, Mina and 
 Flora stood up to take " one last long look " at 
 Eome, that city which, it is said, few — even of 
 those who have suffered there — ever leave without 
 a feeling of regret and a desire to return. It is a 
 strange fascination which Pome possesses even 
 for those who are aliens within her walls ! We 
 know how one of the most celebrated of these 
 apostrophises her : — 
 
 " Eome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 
 The orphans of the heart must tura to thee, 
 Lone mother of dead empires ! and control 
 In their shut breasts their petty misery." 
 
 If Eome is so dear to those who regard her 
 only as a standing record of a mighty past, what 
 must she be to those to whom she is not merely a 
 
 *' Lone mother of dead empires," 
 
 but a living mother of a living world — the heart, 
 the centre, the capital of Christendom itself! 
 
 Mina and Flora were fond of Pome for both of 
 these reasons. Flora loved it especially as the
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 179 
 
 scene of the happiest hours she had ever known, 
 and so she could not leave it without a feeling of 
 sadness and a longing to return. How often do 
 we yearn to revisit places where we have been 
 ha^^py, even when all around us has changed ! 
 
 " Cari luoghi, io vi trovai 
 Ma quel di noa trovo piu 
 
 After a few moments Mr. Blake reappeared 
 with the passports all in order. A scudo has a 
 particularly accelerating eftect on the movements 
 of Roman officials. At length they bade adieu to 
 Rome, yet not to its memories and associations, 
 for their route lay along the far-famed Flaminian 
 ^Yay. 
 
 There is surely no such pleasant travelling for 
 pleasant people as vetturino I AVhen it is through 
 a beautiful country, in fine weather, and -^-ith in- 
 timate friends, it is truly delightful. The irregular 
 meals, furnished from the contents of caj^acious 
 baskets, the ever- changing scene, the never-end- 
 ing variety of flowers and foliage, the newness of 
 all around, the expectation of coming events, 
 the evenings at country inns, where the very 
 '' roughing" gives zest to a life so difterent from 
 the regularity of ordinary existence ; the unflag- 
 ging chatter, the buoyant spirits, — these, yes, and 
 a thousand other charms, tend to make such
 
 180 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 happy journeys the sunniest of sunny spots in the 
 pilgrimage of life. As for the cabriolet, if a pair 
 of lovers could only get possession of it, it would 
 be the perfection of human enjoj^ment — a sort of 
 moving elysium. Ah ! this is a picture upon 
 which we must not dwell, or we might be teased 
 by importunate wishes to have it realised, and so 
 become dissatisfied with the dull plodding routine 
 of stay-at-home days. 
 
 Our new friend, Mr. Blake, was tall, stout, and 
 nearly sixty, but withal strong and healthy in 
 appearance. His fair, florid complexion, large 
 features, and light blue ejes, and, indeed, the 
 whole expression of his countenance, gave strong 
 indications of good- humour and benevolence ; nor 
 was there any visible want in it of intellectual 
 power. He proved a most amusing and instruc- 
 tive companion, having travelled over this route 
 more than once before. He pointed out to Mina 
 and Flora the objects of note and of classic in- 
 terest, quoted scraps from the Latin poets, which 
 he rendered into extempore English for them. 
 The position of Ci^dtta Castellana called forth his 
 loudest praises, and he talked much of the days 
 when it was the proud capital of the Yalisci, who 
 dared to contend with Rome herself, even in the 
 days of her warlike glory ; and he made them 
 laugh heartily over the story of Camillus and the
 
 FLORA ADATR. 181 
 
 schoolmaster. Some years before, Mr. Blake had 
 spent a few days at Civitta Castellana, exploring 
 the beautiful neighbourhood with some friends, 
 and he related many anecdotes of their excur- 
 sions, declaring that there were few things more 
 enjoyable than such excursions made in agreeable 
 company. 
 
 The girls assured him that it was not necessary 
 to impress that upon their minds, as they could 
 easily belieye how delightful it would be so to 
 wander about in such beautiful scenery. To 
 make it perfect, they said, there should be a 
 Valerie de Yentadour, and an Ernest Maltravers 
 to re-people each scene for her with the heroes 
 and legends of old, to unroll before her the lore 
 of the ancient historians and poets, and thus to 
 light it up again with a light once its own. 
 And Flora laughingly added — 
 
 " Now, Mr. Blake, you will be obliged to play 
 Ernest Maltravers to one of us." 
 
 " Indeed, young lady ! and do you mean to 
 imply that * re-peopling some lonely scene for 
 you, with the heroes and legends of old, unrolling 
 before you the lore of the ancients, and thus 
 lighting it up with a light once its own,' would 
 be at all the same thing done by a rough, grey- 
 headed old man, as by an Ernest Maltravers ? If 
 so, I am afraid I must say that you are a sad
 
 182 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 deceiver. 'Now, I'll lay a wager on it you are 
 thinking of some one who could play Ernest Mai- 
 travers to your Yalerie de Yentadour, very much 
 to your satisfaction ? " 
 
 Mr. Blake chuckled with delight as he saw 
 Mora get red and turn away her head. 
 
 Thus the day passed quickly away, and about 
 five in the evening they arrived at Civitta Castel- 
 lana, where they were to sleep on the first night 
 of their journey. 
 
 It took them about six days to travel from 
 Rome to Florence by this route. Were we to 
 follow them step by step, we should be writing a 
 guide-book and not a story. Nevertheless, we 
 cannot pass by in silence two such spots as the 
 Falls of Terni and Assisi. Byron says that the view 
 of the falls either from above or below is worth 
 that of all the cascades and torrents of Switzer- 
 land put together. The Staubach, Reichenfels, 
 are rills in comparative appearance. Who could 
 forget his description of the contrast between 
 the " giant element leaping from rock to rock 
 with delicious bound," and the lovely smiling 
 valley by which the falls are surrounded ? It 
 is indeed 
 
 " Love, watching madness with unutterable mien." 
 
 Then the church of Assisi, with all its wealth
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 183 
 
 of interest ! To ttie lover of the picturesque, of 
 art, or of religion, it has special attractions. 
 Dante sings the loveliness of its site ; Cimabue 
 and Giotto's works adorn its walls, and mark the 
 progress of painting ; and Saint Francis throws 
 over it a halo which dims the glory of poet and 
 artist, and makes Assisi — for those who know and 
 love his life — another holy land. Such is the 
 creative power of charity or love. Centuries ago, 
 Saint Francis died in self-imposed poverty and 
 privation, barely covered with the cloak of 
 another ; yet hardly had the grave closed over 
 him, when a structure, matchless even in Italy, 
 was built in his honour, and the precious^ germs 
 of love and self-sacrifice which he planted in the 
 hearts of his spiritual children went on fructi- 
 fying imtil his Order spread itself throughout 
 Christendom, and now blesses the world almost in 
 spite of itself. 
 
 Our friends thought that if this route could 
 boast of Assisi alone, it would have been almost 
 unrivalled ; but Assisi was only its crowning 
 point. It traverses a track of country, for upwards 
 of two hundred miles, where beauty, history, and 
 poetry combine to give a charm to all around. 
 The vale of CKtumnus and its stream — 
 
 " Haunt of river nymph ! " 
 
 the lake of Thrasimene, where Hannibal and his
 
 184 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 swartliy hosts revelled in their sanguinary victory 
 over the brave Flaminius ; the towns perched on 
 mountain-tops, and surrounded by deep romantic 
 ravines, where still stand a ruined arch or pier to 
 tell of the massive bridges which once spanned 
 them — the colossal works of the mighty Romans. 
 It was altogether so delightful a journey, that 
 to some at least of our party it caused a feeling 
 of regret when about six o'clock on Sunday 
 evening they reached the top of the hill of San 
 Donate, and for the first time looked upon Firenze 
 la bella, and the beautiful view over the valley of 
 the Arno. They quickly descended to the Porta 
 san Nicolo, by which they entered the city — 
 crossed the Ponte alle Grazie, drove along the 
 Lung' Arno, passing the arcades of the Uffizi, and 
 the Piazza di Santa Trinita, and drew up at one 
 of the hotels which face the river. And here, in 
 beautiful Florence, let us leave them to repose.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Ox the morning after their arrival our travellers 
 — the younger ones especially — were all im- 
 patience to see something of the fair city of 
 Florence, so famed, moreover, for the beauty of 
 its position ; and the scene, as they looked from 
 the windows of the hotel, inclined them to join in 
 singing its praises. 
 
 The fine quay of the Lung' Arno ; the river 
 itself flowing along calmly, and glittering beneath 
 the sun's bright rays ; the hill on the opposite side 
 with its olive-trees and gardens, reKeved here and 
 there by an imposing building, were all beautifid. 
 seen from a distance. The narrow dusty roads 
 between high walls, the faded and dried-up 
 appearance of all around, are then hidden ; but a 
 closer view raises a sigh for the lovely lanes with 
 their flowery hedges, and the fresh green verdure 
 of our owm dear country, or even of the neighbour- 
 hood of Rome, whei*e the dampness of the climate 
 counteracts the efiect of the scorching sun, and
 
 186 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 prevents, in some degree, tlie washed-out look 
 which is so striking everywhere about Florence. 
 When our friends come to explore that which 
 looks so pretty from the hotel windows, they may, 
 perhaps, be tempted to think that the beauty of 
 the country round Florence has been overrated, 
 and, were it not rash to say so, even to prefer the 
 charms of some of the other towns which they 
 passed through on their way from Rome. They 
 must, however, visit the *' lions " within the gates 
 before they extend their excursions beyond them; 
 and although it is very possible that they may be 
 slightly disappointed with the latter, they certainly 
 cannot be with the former. With such treasures 
 as those which adorn her galleries of the Uffizi, 
 the Pitti, and the Belle Arti, surely Florence 
 could afford to be surname d la brutta instead of 
 la bellal Yes, she might well dispense with all 
 exterior loveliness, and pointing to the long line 
 of celebrated men to whom she has given birth, 
 say, in the words of the mother of the Gracchi, 
 " Here are my jewels! " As it is, Nature too has 
 been bountiful to Florence, for she has undoubt- 
 edly given her a large share of beauty in addition 
 to all the rest. 
 
 Their first visit was to the Uffizi, and in the 
 far-famed tribune they saw, with wondering eyes, 
 Mr. and Mrs. Penton, and her brother, Mr.
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 187 
 
 Barkley. As they shook hands with Mrs. Penton, 
 and expressed some surprise at seeing them there, 
 since they supposed them to be in Naples, she 
 replied, "We did go to Naples on the evening 
 after Mrs. Elton's ball, and we spent a week there; 
 then Edmund" — looking towards Mr. Barkley, 
 who was in another part of the room — " came to 
 us from Sicily; we sailed direct to Leghorn, and 
 arrived here yesterday." 
 
 " You certainly have lost no time," said Mrs. 
 Adair; "for we came straight from Rome, and 
 yet we only arrived yesterday. We travelled how- 
 ever b}^ the Perugia route, which is a long one, 
 but oh, how beautiful!" 
 
 " So every one says. We were, however, pressed 
 for. time, and therefore we had to get over the 
 ground as quickly as possible ; but how we shall 
 ever tear Edmund away from Florence is more 
 than I can say. You know my brother, do you 
 not?" 
 
 " Yes, — that is. Flora and I know him, but the 
 Blakes have never met him; he would, I am sure, 
 find Mr. Blake a delightful companion ; he knows 
 Florence so well, and is quite an enthusiastic 
 admirer of its works of art; in fact, he is a most 
 desirable guide to them." 
 
 " Then please to ask him if I may introduce my 
 brother; to make his acquaintance would be quite
 
 188 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 a trouvaille for Edmund." Mrs. Penton was one 
 of those who like to introduce French words into 
 their conversation. " Gerald and I, not being 
 such worshippers of painting, should be quite 
 exhausted if we attempted to keep pace with him ; 
 it is so fatiguing to look up at pictures for any 
 length of time. We have been here more than 
 an hour already, and I do not want to be tired 
 before the afternoon, when we intend to drive in 
 the Cascine to see the beau monde of Florence ; so 
 it will be an excellent thing if we can get Edmund 
 and Mr. Blake together, and then I can make 
 Gerald take me home." 
 
 Accordingly Mrs. Adair turned to Mr. Blake, 
 who was near to them, examining a picture, and 
 said that Mrs. Penton wished to introduce him to 
 her brother; and Mrs. Penton added, ''Edmund 
 will have a double pleasure in making your 
 acquaintance, as Mrs. Adair tells me you are a 
 connahseur here." 
 
 *' It is indeed true that I am a warm admirer of 
 the great treasures which Florence contains, but I 
 have no claim to the title of connaisseur. I shall 
 be most happy, however, to be introduced to 
 your brother, and to give him any information 
 I possess about the Florentine galleries, — they are 
 old acquaintances of mine, but strangers, I 
 suppose, to him."
 
 FLORA ADATR. 189 
 
 " Yes, it is our first visit to Florence ; we only 
 arrived yesterday. Let us go to Edmund ! " 
 
 They crossed to Mr. Barkley, and his sister — 
 laying her hand upon his shoulder — said, 
 "Edmund, I have just met Mrs. Adair, her 
 daughter, and some friends of theirs, whom I had 
 tlie pleasure of meeting in Rome. Mr. Blake 
 knows Florence a cceirr, I believe, and he kindly 
 says that this knowledge is at your service: Mr. 
 Blake — my brother, Mr. Barkley.'' 
 
 They bowed, and Mr. Barkley said, " I am 
 most grateful for your kind offer, Mr. Blake, and 
 shall gladly avail myself of it." 
 
 After a few moments of conversation Mrs. 
 Penton said, "You must speak to the Adair s, 
 Edmund ; but first tell me, where is Gerald ? " 
 
 " I think he went into that room," pointing to 
 the door on the left side of the tribune. 
 
 " Will you then take me to my husband, Mr. 
 Blake, while Edmund goes to the Adairs?" 
 
 Mrs. Penton made this request in the manner 
 and tone of voice of one who feels certain that any 
 man — even an old one — would be pleased at being 
 asked to walk with her. 
 
 Mr. Barkley was like Mrs. Penton, but hand- 
 somer, and, apparently, of superior intelligence. 
 His complexion was dark — if black hair, eyebrows, 
 and moustache, with grey eyes and a pale face,
 
 190 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 constitute the dark style ; his well- formed fore- 
 head was almost ivory-like in its whiteness, his 
 nose straight and finely cut, and his mouth small 
 and sufficiently expressive, without, however, being 
 very remarkable for that distinctive quality. He 
 was just the sort of man that the greatest number 
 of women rave about, — quite a kerosde roman^ with 
 his tall, straight figure, and air of refinement. 
 Nevertheless there was something wanting; it was 
 not a face which gave one the idea that its pos- 
 sessor was a man of courage — we mean moral 
 courage, or fortitude; nor did his fair and deli- 
 cately-moulded hands redeem his face : they were 
 not hands formed for a firm grasp, or to hold on 
 steadfastly through time and difficulty. He was, 
 however, generally considered to be quite an 
 Adonis, a lady-killer. Of this he was fully con- 
 scious, but he had far too keen a sense of what is 
 really worthy to be admired ever to betray this 
 consciousness in his manner or conversation; and 
 towards women he was almost chivalrous in his 
 courtesy and deference, — another reason, doubt- 
 less, why he was so great a favourite with them. 
 
 Meanwhile he went to speak to the Adairs, and 
 was introduced to Mrs. Blake, Mina, and Marie. 
 
 Mrs. Penton returned in a few moments with 
 her husband and Mr. Blake, and, addressing her 
 brother, she said, ''Edmund, Gerald and I are
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 191 
 
 going ; but I suppose you will not come with 
 us?" 
 
 " Xay ; here is something more attractive," 
 answered Mr. Barkley, with a smile and a bow 
 towards the three girls who were standing 
 together. 
 
 " But you will come to drive in the Cascine, 
 will you not ? There will, I suppose, be plenty of 
 attraction for you there, in the youth and beauty 
 of Florence." 
 
 *' Then you may depend upon me." 
 
 Did Mrs. Penton divine what her brother's 
 wishes were ? For she turned to Mrs. Adair, and 
 said, " We shall have a vacant seat in the car- 
 riage ; will you allow one of your young ladies to 
 accompany us?" 
 
 ^'AVith pleasure." 
 
 " Then I will call at a little after four. But 
 which of them am I to have the honour of 
 chaperoning ?" 
 
 " Marie," replied Flora, quickly. " Mina and 
 I are great walkers, and shall probably go for a 
 walk in the country with Mr. Blake." 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Penton left the tribune, but the rest 
 of the party remained. Mr. Blake and Mr. Barkley 
 agreed to go on the following day to the Accademia 
 delle belle Arti and also to San Marco. " I know a 
 good little Padre there," said Mr. Blake, "who
 
 192 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 will sliow US everything. He and I are tlie best 
 of friends, although I cannot help regretting his 
 blindness in matters of faith. And I dare say he 
 has* the same sort of feeling towards me.'' 
 
 " No doubt he has," re2:)lied Mr. Barkley, laugh- 
 ingly ; " and I, as you probably know, side with 
 the Padre." 
 
 " Oh, yes, — I know that you do ; so I must be 
 upon my guard, as you will be two to one. But 
 the ladies have gone on ; we had better follow 
 them." 
 
 They left the tribune, and went into the small 
 rooms on the right-hand side of it, and there 
 they found the ladies. Marie and Flora were 
 standing together, — the former talking eagerly of 
 the goodness of Flora in wishing her to drive 
 with the Pentons instead of herself. To all of 
 which Flora answered — 
 
 " I deserve no praise whatever, for I really do 
 not care to go. I shall be quite as much pleased 
 to have a nice long walk, which would only tire 
 you. You don't know, Mignonne, how often an 
 appearance of goodness may spring from indiffer- 
 ence. You may indeed enjoy your drive without 
 imagining that I have made any sacrifice whatso- 
 ever in not going." 
 
 Just then Mr. Barkley joined them, and asked 
 what they were talking about so earnestly ?
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 193 
 
 " My sliare in the conversation," said Flora, 
 ^' consisted in trying to persuade Marie that I am 
 not making any sacrifice in giving her my place 
 for the drive this afternoon, — indeed, as I have 
 already told her, I shall prefer a walk to driving 
 up and down a public promenade, with nothing 
 but fashion to look at." 
 
 It is probable that an Adonis like Mr. Barkley 
 found it rather difficult to believe that any girl 
 should prefer a walk with other ladies, or, at 
 least, with an old gentleman, to a drive in his 
 society ; and he said, with a smile, " It is fortu- 
 nate for our vanity that at least one of you wishes 
 to come out with us. We shall do everything in 
 our power to make it an agreeable drive to Made- 
 moiselle 1 have not caught her name." 
 
 '' Arbi," replied Flora. 
 
 *' Thank you ; " then turning to Marie, he con- 
 tinued — '' Then, Mademoiselle Aibi, we may ex- 
 pect to have the pleasure of your company this 
 afternoon?" 
 
 " Old, Monsieur, ^^ replied Marie, blushing. 
 Whenever she was eager about anything, or par- 
 ticularly sh}^, as she was at that moment, she 
 spoke French. 
 
 Flora now moved on after the others, who had 
 gone into the next room, and Marie followed her 
 as closely as possible, in terror at the thought of 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 having to keep up a tete-d-tete talk with Mr. 
 Barkley. 
 
 The conversation now became general, and natur- 
 ally turned upon painting ; so, between talking of, 
 and admiring, the many beautiful works contained 
 in the Uffizi, the hours sped on until past two 
 o'clock. It was then decided that they should go 
 home for luncheon, and take a rest before the 
 fatigues of the afternoon began. 
 
 After leaving the gallery, they stopped to 
 fldner a little in the Arcades. Mr. Barkley had 
 succeeded very fairly in dispelling Marie's shyness 
 of him. He made her laugh merrily at his 
 account of some of his adventures in Sicily, and 
 his ridiculous mistakes in the language, which 
 he then knew but slightly. His French, however, 
 was perfect ; and this was to Marie a great boon. 
 He purposely lingered at one of the stalls, ex- 
 plaining something which he had pointed out to 
 her, until the others had got into the Piazza della 
 Signoria ; and having thus managed that she 
 should walk home with him, he exclaimed, " I 
 declare they are half way across the Piazza ! 
 "What a hurry they are in ! But do not tire your- 
 self; we shall easily keep them in sight, and that 
 is all we require. But that we must do, or we 
 should not find our way to our hotels." 
 He took care, however, not to overtake them
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 195 
 
 before they reached the hotel, at the door of which 
 they had to wait a minute or two for Marie. 
 TVlien she and her cavaKer did come up, Mr. 
 Blake said, " Can you find the road to your 
 abode, Mr. Barkley ; or shall I accompany you?" 
 ** Thank joii, it is so near that I cannot mistake 
 my way. Good morning."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 At breakfast on Tuesday morning tlie plans for 
 the day were talked over. Mr. Blake began by 
 saying, " I suppose you know, ladies, that I am 
 engaged to go witb Mr. Barkley to the Accademia 
 at eleven ; but in the afternoon I shall be at 
 your service. *' 
 
 "Which is a polite intimation, uncle," said 
 Mina, " that our company is not wished for in 
 the morning." 
 
 " Eeally, I never thought about your coming 
 with us, for after we have been to the Accademia 
 we are to go to San Marco ; and you know that 
 ladies are not permitted to pass the outer cloister. 
 There's one of your pretty Roman rules for 
 
 you!" 
 
 " Not badly turned, uncle. I suppose that 
 closing observation was intended to excite our 
 indignation, and so make us forget the truth that 
 you do not want us to go with you. But don't 
 be afraid, — we shall have no design upon you ;
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 197 
 
 indeed, before we came down we had agreed to 
 go to tlie Pitti/' 
 
 ''Then the morning is disposed of; and what do 
 you mean to do in the afternoon?'* 
 
 *' Mamma and Marie are going to drive with 
 the Pentons," answered Flora, " and as for the 
 rest of us, we have not thought about what we 
 shall do." 
 
 *' Then you two girls had better come with me 
 to San Miniato. The church is well worth a 
 visit, and the walk round the hill upon which it 
 stands is most lovely. Will you come also, 
 Agatha?" 
 
 " Perhaps," replied his sister-in-law ; '' if I am 
 not very tired after the Pitti. My going, however, 
 is not a matter of any importance ; the girls can 
 go with you whether I do or not." 
 
 " Well then, young ladies, I shall be ready for 
 you at any time after three ; and now, adieu for 
 the present." 
 
 The ladies remained some time longer at the 
 breakfast table laughing at Marie's animated de- 
 scription of the people whom she saw on the 
 Cascine on the day before, and at the theatre in the 
 evening. She was most enthusiastic in her praise 
 of Mrs. Penton and her brother's kindness, and 
 asked naively if Englishmen — meaning natives 
 of the United Kingdom — were generally as hand-
 
 I9d FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 some and as cliarming as Mr. Barkley, adding tliat 
 there were not any so nice at Mrs. Elton's ball. 
 
 **You think so, Mignonne, do you?" said 
 Flora. " Well, I should say that, had he been at 
 Mrs. Elton's, he would not have been unrivalled, 
 or perhaps unsurpassed." 
 
 *'But who den, Flore, was so seducing (seduisant) 
 as he?" 
 
 " Oh ! / should say this person ; somebody else 
 would say that person ; it is all an affair of taste, 
 you know," answered Flora, smiling at the ques- 
 tion itself, and also at the ver^ literal translation 
 of seduisant, as she stood up and went to look out 
 of the window. Marie jumped up and followed 
 her, put her arm round her waist, and leaning 
 her little curly head upon Flora's shoulder, she 
 looked up coaxingly at her and said, " Flore, will 
 you not tell your Mignonne who it is dat you 
 have found better than Mr. Barkley ckez Madame 
 Elton?" 
 
 " What a little goose you are, Marie. I did 
 not speak of any one in particular. I only said 
 that he would not have been unrivalled. You 
 know — as I also said — that it is all a matter of 
 taste. Helena Elton, I dare say, would prefer 
 Mr. Caulfield." 
 
 " Mr. Caulfield ! But you are not of her advice, 
 Flore?"
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 199 
 
 " Opinion you mean, Mignonne, and not advice, 
 whicli is the English for conseil. For your satis- 
 faction I am glad to be able to say that I do not 
 agree with. Helena ; and as you are going again to 
 enjoy tbis afternoon the society of the person wbo 
 suits you7^ taste best, I consider tbat you are a 
 most enyiable little being. But see, they are all 
 gone, — we must go also." 
 
 Marie held up her fair face for a kiss, which 
 was cordially giyen, and then they left the room. 
 
 The difference in their characters, as shown in 
 their manner, was most striking. Marie was shy 
 in the simple acceptation of the word, but she 
 was not reseryed. She knew nothing of Flora's 
 bugbear — that dread of importuning or weary- 
 ing others. As soon as Marie had got oyer the 
 childish timidity which she always felt on a first 
 acquaintance, she was demonstratiyely affectionate. 
 It neyer crossed her simple little mind that her 
 caresses might bore any one ; so that whilst Flora 
 would stand at a distance from those whom she 
 liked, longing to be near them, yet afraid to go to 
 them without a word or look which seemed to call 
 her, Marie would at once run to her fayourites, 
 throw her arms round their necks, and tell them 
 how much she loyed them, without stopping to 
 think whether they wanted her or not. 
 
 How Flora enyied this simplicity, and wished
 
 200 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 that she had a little more of it. It would have 
 saved her so much pain ; but it is one of those 
 things which cannot be acquired, at least by a 
 person like Flora, who could not summon up suf- 
 ficient courage even to touch the hand of any one 
 whom she liked extremely, unless she were un- 
 mistakably made to feel that it would give 
 pleasure. Flora had said after reading Marie's 
 history, " We shall be such contrasts ! " and so 
 they were ; but this difference of disposition only 
 seemed to make them greater friends. 
 
 But it is time for us to leave the ladies, and 
 follow the two gentlemen to the Accademia. As 
 it was Mr. Barkley's first visit to Florence, he 
 had still most of Beato Angelico's masterpieces to 
 see. He had indeed seen his works, on the day 
 before, at the Uffizi, and the " Crowning of the 
 Blessed Virgin," in the Louvre, was an old fami- 
 liar friend to him ; but another treat was now in 
 store for him, for Beato Angelico was his master- 
 painter. 
 
 On their way they talked of the different sub- 
 jects from his pencil which they were about to 
 see, and especially of the " Descent from the 
 Cross " and the " Last Judgment." Mr. Barkley 
 said that he meant to keep these for a don?ie houche^ 
 and begged to be taken straight to il Beato's 
 " poem in painting," the " Life of our Lord."
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 201 
 
 Mr. Blake could not tielp rallying liis friend a 
 little about his. desperate enthusiasm for the Frate, 
 which he thouo^ht somewhat extrava^rant. 
 
 " But here we are," he exclaimed, " so you 
 will soon be gratified. I shall, as you wish, take 
 you straight to the ' Life of our Lord,' and 
 then leave you to your ecstasies for a time. When 
 I come back, be pleased to impart some of them 
 to me." 
 
 Accordingly Mr. Blake left him to the contem- 
 plation of this august history, and did not join 
 him again for a considerable time, which he spent 
 in papng long visits to his favourite pictures. 
 He was not at a loss for occupation during this 
 time, as a most varied experience and a fair share 
 of study had rendered him caj)able of really en- 
 joying fine paintings. 
 
 When he did at length return to Mr. Barkley, 
 he found him at the closing subject — the '' Last 
 Judgment ;" not the great picture on that subject, 
 but an older one, and asked, " Well ?" 
 
 " Well : " echoed Mr. Barkley, '' this . is art 
 indeed ! Here we see that the painter had a 
 higher aim in view than that of displaying his 
 own talent in originality of design, or even cor- 
 rectness of outline. These indeed have not been 
 neglected, but they have been used only as means 
 to a great end, and that end was to teach a sub-
 
 202 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 lime lesson. Each of these thirty- eight compart- 
 ments is a study in itself, a study in which the 
 mind of the angelic painter speaks to us through 
 his works, causing us to know, and by knowing, to 
 love something of * the splendour of unity* — the 
 Beautiful itself. To produce this — you will agree 
 with me — is the highest triumph of art. Where 
 this is not, what do we see but the works of copy- 
 ists, who portray, more or less well, what they 
 see with their mortal eyes ?" 
 
 " I quite agree with you that we cannot rightly 
 call anything a work of real art which is not in 
 some degree a creation, and a teacher, whose pur- 
 pose it is to draw us from the lower and material 
 world to the contemplation of higher things. 
 But we must have a standard of truth, and 
 therefore I cannot altogether share in your admi- 
 ration of Angelico's 'History of our Lord,' as 
 there are many things represented in it for which 
 we have no authority, and in some places the 
 meaning is obscure and unintelligible. Much of 
 it seems to be inspired rather by the mystic ima- 
 gination of a pious monk than by the grand and 
 simple written record of our Saviour's life upon 
 earth, the beauty of which these paintings ought 
 only to illustrate. When your favourite keeps to 
 this he is truly great, as in the ' Descent from the 
 Cross,' for instance."
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 203 
 
 *' Ah, true ! "Will you forgive me if I say that 
 you can hardly seize all the speaking beauty de- 
 picted in this great history ? I do not say this, 
 as you will believe, in any way to depreciate your 
 judgment, but in regard only to the extent of 
 your belief." 
 
 " I do not quite catch your meaning. Have 
 we not an unerring standard to direct us here ? " 
 " The letter of Scripture, no doubt ? . . . Yes, 
 you have that, but you have it surely without 
 the spirit. Moreover, you have, so to say, dislo- 
 cated yourselves from the family traditions of 
 Christianity — from the memory of Christendom ; 
 and ha^4ng lost this, and therewith all traditional 
 intercourse with the past, you hopelessly seize 
 upon our first written records, and in them alone 
 have vou anv knowledo^e or faith. The livins: 
 voice which from ao^e to ao^e has handed down 
 every detail of the glory of Christ and His 
 saints, is silent for you. You are strangers here, 
 and these family records, which to us are so 
 precious, are the objects of your suspicion, are 
 even rejected by you as unworthy of belief; it is 
 thus, I mean, that you are unable to seize all the 
 speaking beauty depicted here." 
 
 "AVouldyou have us then to accept as truth 
 the wild fantasies of individual painters ? ... It 
 is far too much."
 
 204 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 " Most assuredly not ; tliat would, I should say, 
 be to fall into another snare like the very one 
 which has already caught you. When I said 
 that you can hardly seize all the beauty of il 
 Beato's poem on our Lord, my meaning was, that 
 having rejected the recognised sources of sacred 
 Tradition, you can receive nothing but what is 
 written ; although, by the way, even there it is 
 said that * there are also many other things 
 which Jesus did, the which if they were written 
 the whole world itself could not contain the books 
 that should be written.' Think for a moment : if 
 you so confine the works of art to the text of 
 Scripture, how greatly you limit and narrow their 
 field, and how many great pictures, which 
 through ages Christendom has honoured as its 
 family heirlooms, you will be forced to condemn 
 as false. You object to the touching scene of Saint 
 Veronica — to this exquisite painting of Jesus 
 carrying His Cross and meeting His blessed 
 Mother on her way to Calvary. Scripture does 
 not say that He did meet her; therefore, to you it 
 appears to be a deviation from truth ; but these 
 facts are household words in Christendom, resting 
 upon the highest of all moral certainty — Christian 
 Tradition. The spoken testimony of His chosen 
 companions and the dogmas of our faith, in 
 harmony with the loving memory of Christendom,
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 205 
 
 hand down these family records to us with holy 
 and unerring care. You would hardly believe 
 how jealous we are of any mutilation of them. 
 Numberless, however, would be the great pictures 
 which must thus seem to you to be false or unin- 
 telligible, whilst to us they are rich in truth and 
 supernatural meaning. I love Saint Paul's cry, ' Be 
 ye enlarged! ' You know not how much you 
 lose even of Scripture itself; — the very parables 
 of our Lord, which, you will remember, are not so 
 to those 'to whom it is given to know,' are 
 parables indeed, or at very best but beautiful 
 histories, to you.^^ 
 
 " You are too hard upon us. I grant you that 
 the principle of limitation, in our sense, fully 
 admitted and carried into practice, would go far 
 to strip our galleries of their treasures, and leave 
 us without connection with the past. I am a 
 sincere lover of art, and I am old enough to have 
 the courage to confess to you that the conse- 
 quences of the proper application of such a prin- 
 ciple terrify me. I frankly acknowledge that it 
 woidd hardl}^ leave a monument standing of more 
 than a few centuries old, and how few, I fear even 
 to say. I comfort myself by the hope that the 
 great storm has already past, and there I rest, 
 with the principle still in my belief, that you 
 must not venture into the work of God — ScrijDture
 
 206 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 itself, — there all is holy, because all is Divine. The 
 parables are far more to us — believe me — than 
 beautiful histories." 
 
 " Let me explain what I have expressed with, 
 I hope, pardonable enthusiasm. It is not a 
 question, as you seem to suppose, of criticising the 
 divine work, but of appreciating it in a greater 
 or lesser degree. You will grant us, I think, the 
 larger comprehension of what was intended to be, 
 to some, simply parables or riddles. In the 
 parable of the prodigal son, for instance, we learn 
 how God receives repentant sinners. The young 
 man leaves his father's house, and, in a far 
 country, wastes his substance in wrong-doing ; 
 he soon feels the want of the spiritual life which 
 he has squandered away, and of which there is 
 a famine in that country. Still he cleaves to one 
 of the chief citizens there, who sends him to feed 
 swine ; but his hunger is unappeased. At last he 
 resolves to return to his father and confess his 
 error and his sin. His father runs to meet him 
 while he is yet a great way off, and falls upon his 
 neck and kisses him. Then He says to His servants^ 
 * Clothe him quickly with the robe of innocence, 
 put the ring of adoption upon his finger, the shoes 
 of safe direction upon his feet, offer the Holy 
 Sacrifice, and feed him with the food of life, for
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 207 
 
 this my son was dead and is alive again, lie 
 was lost and is found I ' Here, we have Dogma, 
 Tradition, and Scripture, harmoniously illus- 
 trating this, as indeed all the other parables. 
 To us they are neither riddles nor beautifid 
 histories, but sublime declarations and proofs 
 of the divinity of our faith, since to us — by 
 our Divine teaching: — 'it is ffiven to know the 
 mysteries of the kingdom of God.' Xow how 
 would one of your painters portray this ? Were 
 he merely to represent it as Scripture relates it, 
 it would be simply a riddle; or did he attempt 
 a higher meaning, there would be evident dis- 
 crepancy between the truth of Scripture and your 
 belief and practice. So that should he aim at 
 an^'thing beyond drawing graceful figures and 
 giving dramatic effect to his picture, he would be 
 forced to abandon the subject altogether, or turn 
 to us for its true illustration. So it is, and it is 
 a very momentous fact that no country fallen 
 away from Christian unity ever produces real 
 artists ; it may even outstrip all the rest in material 
 discoveries and progress — ' the children of this 
 world,' you know, ' are wiser in their generation 
 than the children of light ' — but it has lost the 
 Divine power of creation. Like Mirabeau to 
 Barnave, we may indeed say to each of them,
 
 208 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 * There is no divinity in thee ! * You may find 
 painters who can copy a dog to a hair, a blade of 
 grass, a battle, anything that the eye of man can 
 see and measure ; but you will never find an 
 Angelico where 'the evidence, the light, the 
 splendour of unity ' is no longer intact." 
 
 " I have listened to you with all the admiration 
 of an artist, although with some patience, since I 
 cannot admit your starting-point — namely, that 
 you have an unerring source of tradition and 
 knowledge. There are few subjects, however, in 
 which I feel so wide an interest : so let us return 
 to it again on another occasion. We have for- 
 gotten time: it is already one o'clock, and we 
 ought to be with the Padre in half-an-hour, as 
 that is the best time for seeing the convent ; and 
 I suppose you would not be willing to leave this 
 gallery without having a look at the two pic- 
 tures which you said you would keep for a ' bonne 
 louche?''' 
 
 " Certainly not. I must have a look, as you 
 say-— if nothing more. Let us go to them." 
 
 If Mr. Barkley was pleased with the '* Last 
 Judgment," which closes the " Life of our Lord," 
 what must have been his delight with that later 
 one, and with the " Descent from the Cross ? " 
 
 After a little time spent in admiring these two 
 masterpieces, our friends proceeded to San Marco,
 
 fLORA ADAIR. 209 
 
 and found tlie Padre at home. He received tlieni 
 most graciously, and took tliem over the convent, 
 sparing no trouble in showing Mr. Barkley every- 
 thing of interest, and especially the matchless 
 frescoes of il Beato. 
 
 "When they had made the tour of the convent, 
 they were shown the relics of Savonarola, the 
 church, and its exquisitely illuminated choir 
 books. Having now seen all San Marco's trea- 
 sures, they thanked the good Padre for the great 
 pleasure he had afforded them, and took an affec- 
 tionate leave of him. 
 
 As they walked home, Mr. Blake said — 
 
 *' You will confess, I suppose, that the relics of 
 Savonarola rightly belong to us ; that soaring 
 spirit, who could not submit to injustice and 
 tyranny in the person of Alexander YL, and so 
 became the forerunner of the great emancipation 
 of mind which was brought about a century 
 later. Savonarola is truly one of our most illus- 
 trious forerunners and martyrs." 
 
 "His brother — our kind friend, the Padre — 
 would not like to hear you so slander him ! The 
 whole life of our great Dominican, — all his teach- 
 ing, — his pubKc acknowledgment of the sujDremacy 
 of the Pope, accepting his absolution on the way 
 to death, — all will rise up against you. TTe 
 have no lack of reformers of morals ; but we have 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 no reformers of Divine dogmas amongst us. The 
 life of the illustrious Savonarola has yet to be 
 written ; but if you will read one, published not 
 long ago by Yillari, and which is already in 
 English, you will hardly have the courage to talk 
 of Savonarola as one of your 'forerunners and 
 martyrs.' He died as he lived, in the unity of 
 the Christian faith." 
 
 Mr. Blake looked at his watch, and exclaimed — 
 
 " I declare it is three o'clock ! and I promised 
 to be at home by that time. I had no idea it was 
 so late ! " 
 
 " Nor had I. So it seems that all our battling 
 only made the time fly ? " 
 
 " Indeed it did. I have seldom spent a shorter 
 or a pleasanter morning." 
 
 *' Thanks. Then I hope you will feel inclined 
 to spend another in the same way very soon." 
 
 " Shall it be to-morrow ? " 
 
 *' Most willingly ! At the same time as to- 
 day?" 
 
 "If you please. And now I must say good- 
 bye, and hasten home to keep my appointment 
 with the young ladies." 
 
 "With many thanks."
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Loitering amidst tlie artistic haunts of Firenze 
 la bella, we seem to have forgotten some of our 
 Roman acquaintances, who, when leaving the 
 Eternal City, took the southern instead of the 
 northern direction. 
 
 We know already that Naples, or its neigh- 
 bourhood, was the Eltons' destination ; it was also 
 that of the three gentlemen who played so pro- 
 minent a part at their ball. How strange it is 
 that such a trio should have fixed on going to the 
 same place, each moved by motives so unlike 
 those of the others ! 
 
 Mr. Earnscliffe went there because he wanted 
 change of scene, and thought IN^aples the most 
 interesting ; — Mr. LjTie, because it was a part of 
 his plan to visit the south of Italy before return- 
 ing to France ; had Flora Adair accepted him, 
 he would have done so with her, as his bride ; 
 now he would do so alone, for he was far too 
 methodical to allow a disappointment to interfere
 
 212 FLOKA ADATR. 
 
 with any of his arrangements ; — Mr. Caulfield's 
 motive was to meet the Eltons, and he wished to 
 get there before them, in order that the **dra- 
 goness " might not be able to say he had followed 
 them. 
 
 Mr. Earnscliffe chose Capri. He liked boating 
 excessively, and would sometimes spend hours 
 alone in his little craft, accompanied by a poor 
 fisherman called Paolo, whom he had engaged as 
 his boatman, and who interested him greatly by 
 his free and amusing tattle. Mr. Earnscliffe was 
 fond of mixing in this way with the people in 
 foreign countries. Thereby he learned their habits 
 and thoughts ; and although among his equals 
 he was considered as haughty and proud, such 
 thoughts were never entertained of him by his 
 inferiors. With them his generosity and readiness 
 to help any one in real distress, combined with 
 an evident determination not to let himself be 
 imposed upon, caused him to be truly liked and 
 respected. He thought about difference of j)osition 
 and inequality of fortune just in the same way as 
 he did of the creation arovmd him — namely^ that 
 all was full of inexplicable mystery. Beason told 
 him that when he and Paolo came into the world 
 there was no real distinction between them ; it 
 appeared unaccountable why the one was born in 
 a wretched hovel and was only to have rags to
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 213 
 
 cover him, whilst the other fii-st saw light in a 
 luxurious chamber, and servants waiting ready to 
 serve him. He would often sit looking at Paolo, 
 as he lolled with careless grace in some part of 
 the boat, singing or reciting something with all 
 the characteristic animation of his country, and 
 wondered what each woidd have been had their 
 conditions been reversed, — had Paolo been the 
 highly-born rich man, and he the poor lovdy 
 fisherman. This train of thought woidd often 
 lead him to ask, '^AVhy do these inexplicable 
 contrasts exist?'' Then, with a gesture of im- 
 patience, he would begin sometimes to row vigo- 
 rously, much to the wonder of the indolent Italian, 
 who saw no cause for this sudden display of 
 energy. 
 
 Mr. EarnscliSe's equals in the social scale were 
 not unjust when they called him haughty and 
 overbearing ; so he was, to them : an open scoffer, 
 indeed, at many of their opinions, and even at 
 their faith ; but to the poor he was all gentle- 
 ness, he respected their religion, and even their 
 superstitions he refrained from ridiciding. Into- 
 lerance towards persons of his own rank, or above 
 it, was a marked feature in his character ; if one 
 of these had not cultivated his mind — if he were 
 not all that he thought a man ought to be, he 
 looked upon him with contempt, and considered
 
 214 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 himself . merely obliged to treat him with cold 
 politeness. To the jDoor, on the contrary, he was 
 most indulgent, because he felt that fortune had 
 denied to them all the advantages which she had 
 given to the rich. The poor are forced to toil 
 incessantly to gain their daily bread, they have 
 scarcely any means of acquiring knowledge, of 
 seeing and knowing what is good and true, and 
 therefore it was that he, who in his own sphere 
 would turn into ridicule the most solemn obser- 
 vances of Christianity, never even smiled at any 
 practices, or cast a shadow of ridicule towards the 
 feelings, of these poor Capri fisherpeople. 
 
 One day an acquaintance of his came to Capri, 
 and he proposed that they should go out in his 
 boat. As they got to the shore they found Paolo 
 there playing with a beautiful little girl of about 
 nine years old, who, as soon as she saw them 
 coming, ran towards Mr. Earnscliffe. He caught 
 her up in his arms, seated her on his shoulder, 
 and carried her back to Paolo, who, with a 
 gratified look, said, "Come e buono sua eccellenza!^* 
 and then turned to get the boat ready. 
 
 *' You will come with us, Paolo," said Mr. 
 Earnscliffe. 
 
 "Bene, signore ; but would their excellencies 
 wait a moment while I take la ragazzina to her 
 mother ; she is so precious ! "
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 215 
 
 " Certainly," answered Mr. Earnscliffe, *' I 
 would not for worlds expose my little Anina to 
 any danger." He bent down and kissed her, 
 saying, '^Acldio, carina f^^ 
 
 As Paolo and Anina turned away, Mr. Earns- 
 cliffe's companion, Mr. Elliot, said, "Well, you 
 do appear in a new character here, Earnscliffe ! " 
 
 " I was not aware that you did me the honoui 
 of studying my character so well as to know 
 what is old or new in it," was the reply, with a 
 haughty look ; " but is not Anina a beautifu] 
 little creature?" 
 
 '' Yes, very much so indeed ; but what did the 
 man mean by saying, ' She is so precious,' and at 
 the same time looking up to heaven in that 
 strange manner." 
 
 " Ask Paolo to tell jo\x ; the story will sound 
 far better from his lips than from mine." 
 
 Paolo returned, and they all got into the boat. 
 Soon after they were fairly afloat, Mr. Earnscliffe 
 said, " Paolo, my friend wants to know why you 
 said that Anina was so precious — will you tell 
 him?" 
 
 " With pleasure, illustrissimo,''^ and his eyes 
 looked the pleasure which his words exj)ressed, 
 for he was always happy and proud to talk of 
 Anina ; " but," he added, " perhaps it will weary 
 his excellency, as he knows it all so well."
 
 216 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 "Not at all — I never tire of hearing about 
 her." 
 
 The father's face lit up with pleasure as he said, 
 *' The signor must know, then, that last year there 
 was great distress in our poor island — so much so 
 that the poorer fishermen, like myself, were hardly 
 able to live. In the month of April our great 
 trial fell upon us : our eldest child, a boy about 
 a year older than Anina, sickened and died. 
 Our little Anina herself began to fade too ; she 
 grew weaker and weaker, and lay in the sun all 
 day hardly moving or speaking. One day the 
 doctor happened to pass, and my wife asked him 
 for charity's sake to examine la poverina. He 
 did so, and said, ' She is sinking from weakness, 
 and I fear in this time of distress there is but 
 little hope for her.' 
 
 " That evening, as we sat outside looking at 
 the child's little pale face and closed eyes, lying 
 as she was in her mother's arms, we shuddered to 
 think how soon those eyes might be closed, like 
 our other darling's, never, alas ! to open again. 
 All at once Maria, my wife, exclaimed, ' Take me 
 to Sorrento to-morrow, Paolo, that we may go to 
 the shrine there and pray to the Madonna to save 
 our child.' 
 
 " * Via ! Maria, via ! Have I not already 
 prayed to the Madonna and the saints, as only a
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 217 
 
 despairing father could pray, and all in yain/ 
 was my answer. 
 
 '' ' Husti ! mar it mio,' slie cried, * if tlioii 
 speakest so we are lost — only take me to Sorrento, 
 and thon stialt see wliat the Madonna will do for 
 us. She must hear me. Take me, Paolo ! Oh 
 take me ! ' 
 
 " I could not refuse poor Maria, although I 
 thought it all fruitless — Sa'ntissima Madre di Bio 
 mi perdo7iiJ' 
 
 Paolo took off his cap and crossed himself ; but 
 he did not see Mr. Elliot's smile, and he con- 
 tinued — 
 
 " Accordingly we started for Sorrento the next 
 morning. A neighbour had promised to look 
 after the child, so we were not ujieasy at leaying 
 her for the time. 
 
 '' As we went up to the church my wife was 
 full of hope, but I was gloomy and dejected. We 
 heard Mass, and then I said to Maria, ' I am going 
 into the town, but I will come back for thee.' 
 
 *' I had determined to tr}^ to get a small loan 
 from some of those to whom I was in the habit of 
 selling fish, but they all talked of the bad times, 
 and bestowed only their pity upon me. 
 
 '' I went back for my wife, and we returned to 
 the boat ; then I exclaimed, * Fine things thy 
 Madonna has done for us ! I have been to eyery
 
 218 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 one wliom I know in the town, and I have not got 
 a carlino/ 
 
 " Maria answered me gently that she was sure 
 the Madonna would not fail us if I would only 
 have trust and patience. I heard it all in silence. 
 When we reached the shore I did not follow her 
 out of the boat. She turned and asked, ' Paolo, 
 art thou not coming ? The little one will miss 
 her father — il babbo.^ 
 
 "^ Why should I go ?' I retorted. * To see the 
 child die ? I'd rather trust to the waves than to 
 thy Madonna. I'll put out to sea.' 
 
 " ^ If she is to die, then must I see her die all 
 alone ? Art thou going to desert me, Paolo ? ' 
 
 " Poor Maria ! These words made me feel how 
 cruel I had been to her ; and jumping out of the 
 boat, I joined her, saying, ^ Come then, we will 
 watch her together.' 
 
 " When we got near to the house, we saw our 
 good neighbour leaning over la bambina, and 
 clasping her hands. I grasped my wife's arm, 
 and exclaimed, * e morta ! ' 
 
 "With a cry, Maria darted forward, calling, 
 * Maddalena, Maddalena, dka di grazia non e 
 morta mia bambina!^ 
 
 ^^^ Mortal No. See what the Madonna has 
 given her ! ' And Maddalena held up two gold 
 pieces.
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 219 
 
 " Maria gave me one look of joy and triumph ; 
 then she knelt down by her child and covered her 
 with kisses. As for me, no words could express 
 my remorse. I fell upon my knees and asked 
 forgiveness of Iddio e Sua Santissirnxi Madre. 
 
 " After a little time, and when we had all be- 
 come a little calm again, Anina told us that a 
 beautiful lady with golden hair came to her and 
 asked her what was the matter with her ? She 
 answered that she had long been ill, and was 
 dying like her little brother, because her parents 
 were too poor to get what was necessary for her ; 
 and they had gone to Sorrento to pray to the 
 Madonna that she might get well again. The 
 lady kissed her, and, putting the two gold pieces 
 into her hand, said, ' Tell il hahho e la madre 
 that the Madonna sent these to them.' And then 
 she went away. ' I felt so happy,' added the little 
 one, ' because I knew then that it was the 
 Madonna herself who had been with me ! ' 
 
 " You will not be surprised to hear, ecceUenza, 
 that we all wept for joy over the precious child 
 whom the Madonna had visited and saved to us ! " 
 
 Mr. Elliot laughed, and said, " That is an ex- 
 ceedingly well made up story, my good man ; but 
 you don't expect me to believe " 
 
 " Stop," interrupted Mr. Earnscliffe, in a tone 
 of indignation ; '4t is the action of a coward to
 
 220 . FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 laugh at a man who neither in words nor action 
 has the power to answer you ! ^' 
 
 " EarnsclifFe, you insult me ! " 
 
 " If I do, I am ready to answer for it. All 
 that, however, is not for the present time ; now, 
 the least you can do is to allow me to explain 
 away, as well as I can, your ill-timed merriment. 
 Shall I do so?'' 
 
 Mr. Elliot quailed before his haughty gaze, and 
 muttered, " As you like ; the fellow is not worth 
 so many words between gentlemen." 
 
 "The * fellow,' as you call him, is, perhaps, the 
 superior of the two gentlemen ; " his lips did not 
 say " of one of them, certainly," but his eyes 
 looked it ; and without giving Mr. Elliot time to 
 make any rejoinder, he turned to Paolo, and 
 said — 
 
 " This gentleman wished to test the truth of 
 what you have related by appearing to ridicule 
 it. But I have explained to him how undoubtedly 
 true it is, and he begs that you will finish the 
 story." 
 
 The conversation between the two gentlemen 
 had been carried on in English ; but Paolo had 
 watched their faces, and had rightly interpreted 
 their different expressions. So he answered, 
 " Come piace a m.ia eccellenza,''' looking pointedly 
 at Mr. Earnscliffe, and laying a strong emphasis
 
 FLORA ADATR. 221 
 
 on tlie singular pronoun. He then went on to 
 relate xlnina's story. 
 
 " The child quickly recovered with the good 
 things we were able to obtain for her. The first 
 time that she followed me down to the boat, as 
 she used to do when her poor brother and I were 
 going out to fish, I felt beside myself with hap- 
 piness ; and you may be sure, ilbAStrissimo, that a 
 morning or evening never passes without my 
 returning thanks to the Santisshna Madonna, who 
 has been so good to us, and that after the wicked 
 things which I had said of her. 
 
 " A 3^ear went by, and the eve of the day in 
 which our bamhina had that blessed vision, Maria 
 said to me, ' Paolo, thou must take us to Sorrento 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 "*With all my heart,' I answered; for had I 
 not learned to have as much trust in our blessed 
 Patroness as my wife ? The winter had been hard 
 again, and we were very poor ; but the child was 
 well, and how could we complain ? God knows 
 what is best for us I So the next morning we set 
 out for Sorrento with our little favoured one ; and 
 who shall be able to say how happy we were, as 
 we thought of our trouble there on the same day 
 a year before ! 
 
 ''After our return, on the evening of that same 
 day, about the Ave Maria, my wife and I were
 
 222 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 sitting outside our door, and tlie cliild had 
 wandered away among the rocks, when suddenly 
 we heard her voice, and, looking up, we saw her 
 in the arms of sua eccellenza. He gave her to my 
 wife, and said that as he walked along, he heard 
 a sound of crying, and saw at a little distance a 
 child seated on a rock, and holding one foot in 
 her hand. He asked her what ailed her, and she 
 answered by taking away her hand from her foot ; 
 and he saw that it was cut, and bleeding fast. 
 She had slipped, and fallen on a sharp piece of 
 rock ! God reward sua eccellenza ! He bound up 
 her wounded foot, and carried her, while she 
 pointed out the way, to my cottage. Sua eccel- 
 lenza then turned to me, and asked if I knew 
 any one from whom he could hire a boat, and said 
 that he also wanted a boatman to manage and 
 take care of it for him. I replied that he could 
 not do a greater act of charity than to take me, 
 and that he could have my boat, too, only it was 
 rather old and weather-beaten for U7i gran signore 
 like him. He said that the boat being old did not 
 signify, as he would probably buy one if he 
 remained at Capri ; and that he would take me on 
 trial. And he has been graciously pleased to keep 
 me in his service ever since. santissima Madre 
 di Dio I how much do we owe thee ! When 
 our precious hamhina was dying from want,
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 223 
 
 you came from teaven and gave her the gold 
 which saved her life, and on the anniversary of 
 that happy day you sent us a good angel, sua 
 eccellenza I " 
 
 Paolo ceased speaking ; but, with all the im- 
 petuosity of an Italian, he seized one of Mr. 
 Earnscliife's hands and pressed it to his lips. Mr. 
 Earnscliffe flushed. He felt that Mr. Elliot was 
 laughing at this scene ; and one of his weak points 
 was a horror of ridicule even from those whom he 
 despised. Yet he would not hurt Paolo by show- 
 ing that his demonstrative gratitude annoyed 
 him ; so he said gently, " Grazie^ amico^ ritor- 
 neremo adesso !^^ 
 
 Mr. Elliot exclaimed in a bantering tone, 
 " Why, you are the eighth wonder of the world, 
 Earnscliffe ; and what a fool I was to be angry 
 with you just now, when you were so ready to 
 strangle me for laughing at that wretched fisher- 
 man's absurd story about the Madonna. You must 
 confess, however, that you are about the last per- 
 son whom one could have expected to act so. I 
 myself have heard you hold up to scorn the wor- 
 ship of idols before dignitaries of the Eomish 
 Church, — before men whose position, one might 
 have thought, would have prevented you from 
 attempting to ridicule their creed in their pre- 
 sence. Yet you were ready to fight with me for
 
 224 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 venturing to laugh at the same thing in this 
 fisherman ! '' 
 
 An expression of unutterable contempt was 
 visible in Mr. EarnsclifFe's face as he replied — 
 
 " Can you not understand that one should laugh 
 at anything so false and absurd as this species of 
 idolatry in those who ought to know better, and 
 yet respect it, yes, religiously, in a man to whom 
 has been denied the means of knowing what is and 
 what is not true ? If you cannot, I pity you ; but 
 it is vain to answer you. All I can say is that I 
 would rather have died than have acted as you 
 have done to-day." 
 
 " Upon my word, EarnscliiFe, if ever any man 
 had a right to quarrel with another, I have that 
 right now." 
 
 " Then use it by all means, if you like, although 
 I cannot see what you would gain by it." 
 
 " I believe you are right there, and you are so 
 strange a mortal that one may as well let you 
 alone. I declare it would not astonish me to hear 
 you say that you. considered that fellow there to 
 be a more respectable personage than Monseigneur 
 
 N , brother to an English Earl, and covered 
 
 with honours and distinctions !" 
 
 " Of course I do, — one of them is respectable, 
 because he is true ; the other is not, because he is a 
 hypocrite."
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 225 
 
 Here appeared Mr. Earnscliffe's ill-formed in- 
 tolerance. He could not understand that men of 
 education and great intelligence could sincerely 
 believe what appeared to him to be folly, and 
 therefore it was hypocrisy. In the world around 
 him he saw so much falseness and self-interested- 
 ness, that he became a harsh judge of his fellows. 
 Had he exercised towards them only a small 
 portion of the indulgence which he extended to 
 the untaught and to the poor, he would have seen 
 many virtues which in his sweeping severity he 
 overlooked. 
 
 When they reached the shore they saw a party 
 from Sorrento disembarking, and Mr. Elliot recog- 
 nised some intimate friends of his. They begged 
 him to join them, but he pleaded his engagement 
 to dine with his friend Earnscliffe. 
 
 *' Even so," they answered; "could you not 
 stroll with us a little before you dine ?" 
 
 "Excuse me for a moment then;" and turning 
 to Mr. Earnscliffe he said, " I believe my absence 
 would be more agreeable to you than my company 
 until dinner time, and, perhaps, even then you 
 would rather dispense with it!" 
 
 " Nay," he rejoined, laughing, " I am not quite 
 so bad as that. I do not ask people to dine with 
 me and then wish to get rid of them. My invited 
 guest shall always find a welcome at my table if 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 he chooses to accept it. Do we say adieu then, or 
 cm revoir?** 
 
 " Au revoir, — se place a sua eccellenza,^^ and with 
 a gay glance at Paolo he turned and followed his 
 friends. 
 
 The dinner had been ordered for two, but Mr. 
 Earnscliffe now determined to add another guest 
 in the person of the resident doctor, with whom 
 he had a slight acquaintance. 
 
 A little before the time appointed Mr. Elliot 
 returned from his walk in high spirits, and was 
 introduced to Doctor Molini, who spoke English; 
 so they conversed generally in that language. 
 
 As they sipped their coffee and had lighted 
 their cigars after dinner, Mr. Earnscliffe alluded 
 to the story which they had heard in the 
 morning, and said that Dr. Molini was the 
 gentleman of whom Paolo had spoken as having 
 seen the child in her illness; upon which Mr. 
 Elliot exclaimed, "Then, Dr. Molini, perhaps, 
 you can tell us the truth as to how they got that 
 money, instead of the story that Paolo related 
 about a beautiful golden-haired lady, dressed in 
 white, appearing to the child and giving it to 
 her?" 
 
 " Signore, I can only confirm what he said; it is 
 all perfectly true.'' 
 
 " You surely cannot mean to tell me that the
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 227 
 
 Madonna brought down the gold pieces from 
 heaven I " 
 
 *' De facts are, as I said before, all true, but not 
 de inference which dese poor people draw, dat it 
 was de Madonna who appeared to Anina. I hap- 
 pened to walk dat way; I saw a beautiful lady in 
 white and wid golden hair speak to de child, kiss 
 her, den go away. I was curious, — I did follow her 
 until I saw her run to a ^ignore and lean upon his 
 shoulder, as he sat on a rock drawing. I knew 
 dey were English, and raising de hat, I said dat 
 I hoped il signore et la signora were pleased wid 
 our poor island. 11 signore said, ' Yes, very 
 much.' Den la signora asked if I could tell her 
 anything about a lovely little child she had just 
 seen. I said I was de doctor of Capri and knew 
 de child, but dat I feared she woidd die from 
 weakness, her parents being very poor, and de 
 bad time had made it hard for dem to live. La 
 signora said she was glad to learn it, and as I was 
 a doctor, perhaps, I would look at de child some- 
 times and see her cared for, and she put money 
 into my hand. It was not wonderful for de child 
 to call her de Madonna, she was so beautiful ; her 
 hat and cloak were on a rock by de signore^ and 
 her hair sparkled like bright gold in de sun. I 
 suj^pose she was his bride, — I tink so. He told 
 me dey must return to Xaples, and wished me
 
 228 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 buon giorno, and la signora said, * Please not to 
 forget de pretty child, and I shall be grateful to 
 you.' I answered, putting my hand on my heart, 
 dat it was a happiness to me .to serve so gracious 
 a lady. II signore looked impatient, and as if 
 he did not want me to stay, so I left dem, but I 
 have never forgotten her or de charge she left to 
 my care." 
 
 Mr. Elliot laughed at this specimen of foreign 
 forwardness and English reserve as he answered, 
 *' Well, we shall not quarrel with you for having 
 been a little curious, as it has procured us the 
 pleasure of learning the truth about the story, 
 which is really a most interesting and remarkable 
 one. But " — turning to Mr. Earnscliffe — '* I must 
 leave you now, for, as you know, my time is run- 
 ning close." 
 
 " Stay a moment, I will get my hat and walk 
 down to the shore with you; perhaps Dr. Molini 
 will accompany us? " 
 
 " I should like it very much but I have a call 
 to make, so I must wish jow. felice notte now." 
 
 The good little doctor took his departure after 
 much bowing, and Mr. Earnscliffe and his friend 
 set out on their walk. After some desultory chat 
 the former asked, " Are there many English at 
 Sorrento now?" 
 
 " Yes," replied the other, " the hotels are said
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 229 
 
 to be very full; — by the way, there were two 
 acquaintances of yours staying at my hotel in 
 Naples, which I only left the day before yester- 
 day, — Mr. Caulfield and Mr. Ljjie." 
 
 " Mr. Lyne ! Is it possible that he is in 
 Naples ? Are you quite sure of it ?" 
 
 " Yery possible indeed, my dear friend. I saw 
 him there two days ago." 
 
 " You amaze me : but is he not going back to 
 Rome ? Is he not going to be married ?" 
 
 *' Married ! I should say not ; and he certainly 
 is not returning to Rome, since he starts in a few 
 days for Sicily.'' 
 
 They had reached the shore, and Mr. Elliot 
 added — 
 
 '*Do you wish to know if there is any proba- 
 bility of his being married ; he seems to interest 
 you so much ?" 
 
 " Thank you, no ; he does not interest me in 
 the least. I was merely astonished to hear of his 
 being in Naples, for in Rome he was said to be 
 on the eve of marriage with an EngKsh lady tlfere." 
 
 ^' Addio then. Come and see me at Sorrento 
 some day, — it will be a change for you." 
 
 " You are very kind, but I do not want change ; 
 I like my island solitude. Good-bye." And 
 Mr. Earnscliffe turned immediately away as the 
 boatman pushed off.
 
 % 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The next morning found Mr. Earnscliffe still 
 wondering how it was that Mr. Lyne came to be 
 in Naples, and what had become of Flora Adair. 
 Was it possible that she had refused Mr. Lyne ? 
 He felt a little startled at finding how much these 
 thoughts occupied his mind ; but, as he had often 
 done before, he tried to persuade himself that he 
 was quite indifferent to her -proceediiigs personalis, 
 and that it was merely for the sake of the possible 
 good of human nature in woman that he wished 
 to kiaow if she had been true and high-minded 
 enough to reject this offer. What delicious self- 
 deception ! Had Mr. Earnscliffe said to himself, 
 " If Mary Elton, instead of Flora Adair, were in 
 question, should I be so interested in the possible 
 good of human nature in woman, and care so 
 very much to discover how she had acted?" 
 But he asked himself no such question. It would 
 have been an unsatisfactory way of putting the 
 case ; whereas, by placing it under the head of a
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 231 
 
 laudable desire to acquire knowledge of liuman 
 nature, it was quite another matter, and in that 
 light he felt himself free to dwell upon it, and 
 even actively to endeavour to unravel the mys- 
 tery. Yet he could not succeed in finding a clear 
 starting point for his investigations. 
 
 He wandered about without any settled object, 
 or sat upon a rock with a book in his hand ; but its 
 pages remained unturned, and not even Anina, who 
 well knew his favourite rocky perch, and seldom 
 failed to join him there, could win from him now 
 anything more than an absent smile ; and having 
 exhausted all her pretty little wiles to attract his 
 attention, she at last went and stood beside him 
 and asked, " Is il caro signore ill ?" 
 
 The child's question roused him, and, drawing 
 her to him, he said, ^' No, carina, I am not ill, I 
 was only thinking." 
 
 " Thinking, signorej'^ repeated Anina slowly, as 
 if that word gave her the idea of a very mystic 
 operation indeed. 
 
 " Yes, thinking, little lady ; and would she 
 like to know about what ? " 
 
 " Di grazie, signore." 
 
 " Well, then, I was thinking of going to 
 Napoli." 
 
 " A Napoli ? but il mio caro signore will return ; 
 lie is not going away ?'*
 
 232 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 " No, carissima, I am not going away ; I will 
 take il babbo with me, and we shall be back again 
 to-night if possible. Will your eccellenzina give 
 me leave to go ? " 
 
 " Yes," she answered, laughing merrily at the 
 new title which he gave her ; '' il signore may go, 
 as he says he will be home to-night, and" — like 
 a true child, in Italy or elsewhere — " perhaps he 
 will bring Anina something pretty from Napoli." 
 
 **It is not impossible that he might do so. 
 What would her eccellenzina be pleased to wish 
 for?" 
 
 " There are beautiful Madeline at Napoli, sig- 
 noi^ey' she said timidly, '' and the one I have is 
 bruttissimay — unworthy of the Madonna who has 
 done so much for me." 
 
 Mr. Earnscliffe pretended to be very intent on 
 the examination of a flower which was growing 
 at a little distance from him. He did not know 
 how to answer the child. He felt that it was 
 too much, not only to tolerate superstition, but 
 actually to encourage it by giving Anina an 
 image : and yet he did not like to disappoint her. 
 He raised his eyes, and they met her soft liquid 
 ones, so earnestly and pleadingly fixed on his face, 
 that he could not bear to pain her, and he said, 
 " You shall have your Madonna, carissima." 
 
 She threw her arms round his neck, declaring
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 233 
 
 that never was anybody so good as lie was, and 
 " was he not also very fond of the Madonna ?" 
 
 This was going from bad to worse, and he 
 thought that the only thing to be done was to put 
 an end to the conversation, so, without answering 
 her question, he said, '^ Come, carina, we must go 
 and tell il hahho to get ready. '^ 
 
 "But is not il ^ignore very fond of the Ma- 
 donna?" she repeated with childish persistence. 
 . . . How constantly he was tempted to tell her that 
 all this was false, and try to teach her something 
 nearer to truth, but he was always stopped by the 
 thought that he himself could not explain clearly 
 to her what truth was, and that when he left 
 Capri he would only have rendered her unhappy, 
 and different from all her own people ; thus her 
 faith in the Madonna and the Saints remained un- 
 tarnished. Surely his good angel must have 
 been whispering in his ear when he refrained 
 from saying a disparaging word upon a subject 
 which naturally irritated him, and which was so 
 often brought before him by Anina in her lively 
 affection for the Madonna. After a few moments* 
 hesitation he replied, " We must ever love all 
 that is good and beautiful, just as one loves you, 
 carina, as long as you are such a dear, good little 
 child. . . ." 
 
 "But il signore will go away some day, and
 
 234 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 then lie will forget Anina," slie said, looking np 
 gravely at him. 
 
 " Ah, carina, you will be more likely to forget 
 than I shall. You will have other and dearer 
 ones to love you, while I ," he stopped sud- 
 denly, and muttered in English, " What a fool I 
 am making of myself!" Letting go Anina's 
 hand, he walked on quickly, saying, " Here is il 
 babboJ^ She stood still for a moment looking at 
 him with a puzzled air, then away she ran to tell 
 her mother that il signore had promised to bring 
 her a beautiful Madonna from Napoli. 
 
 Mr. Earnscliffe told Paolo to have the boat ready 
 in about half an hour, as he wished to go to 
 Naples, and as the wind was so fair he preferred 
 to sail rather than to take the steamer. 
 
 In this visit to Naples he had no fixed plan of 
 action ; he had not even determined whether he 
 would call on any of his acquaintances there, yet 
 he had a vague notion that in some way or other 
 he would see Mr. Lyne, although at the same 
 time he had not the slightest idea of how he was 
 to gain any information from him. He could not 
 ask him a single question about what was upper- 
 most within him, yet he could not rest without 
 making an effort in that direction. Suddenly it 
 occurred to him that the Eltons might know 
 something about it. He recalled the day at the
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 235 
 
 Catacombs, thouglit of Mary Elton's eagerness to 
 tell him that Flora was going to be married to 
 Mr. Lyne ; perhaps she might now be equally 
 ready to tell him why the marriage had not taken 
 place. It was possible that she might not know, 
 but it was a chance, and so he would try to find 
 out their address and call upon them. 
 
 As soon as he arrived in Naples he went to the 
 Hotel de la Grande Bretagne, and asked if Mr. 
 Caulfield and Mr. Lyne were staying there. 
 
 ** Yes," answered the waiter, "but they are 
 out. Will the signore leave a card ?" 
 
 '^ It is unnecessary," replied Mr. Earnsclifie, " as 
 I shall probably meet them ; but perhaps you can 
 give me some information about an English 
 family of the name of Elton, who have been in 
 Naples for the last two or three weeks ?" 
 
 The waiter repeated the name with tolerable 
 correctness, and after thinking for a few moments 
 he said, una signora e due signorine had stopped 
 there for a few days, and had afterwards taken a 
 villa in the neighbourhood, — did the signore think 
 that these were his friends ? 
 
 Mr. Earnscliffe remembered having heard that 
 Charles Elton was obliged to return to his regi- 
 ment when his mother and sisters were going 
 to Naples, therefore it most probably was Mrs. 
 Elton and the two young ladies of whom the
 
 236 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 waiter spoke ; so lie asked to see tke visitors' book, 
 and found that his supposition was correct. The 
 address of their present residence was written 
 after their names ; and, having gained all the in- 
 fonnation he required, he rewarded the waiter's 
 services, and desired him to call a carriage, in 
 which he then drove to the villa. 
 
 Having reached the gate, Mr. Earnscliffe 
 alighted, saying that he would walk up ; and 
 discharging the man, he entered. 
 
 The villa was situated about half way up one of 
 the hills which rise behind Naples, and which 
 command so lovely a view. Our friend stood still 
 for a moment gazing upon it ; as he did so he 
 thought he heard a sound of voices, and looked 
 round in the direction whence the sound seemed 
 to come. He saw nothing, however, but a thick 
 hedge ; but on approaching it he discovered that 
 it bordered a pretty secluded walk, which it 
 shaded eifectually from the sun. It looked very 
 inviting, and he followed it, until he came to a 
 spot where the hedge formed a sort of boAV, and 
 there, sitting on a stone bench, he saw Mary 
 Elton. There was a table before her, and she 
 leaned upon it with crossed arms and her head 
 bent upon them. By her side knelt Helena, who 
 had thrown one arm round her sister's waist, and
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 237 
 
 with the other hand she tried to draw away the 
 crossed arms which hid her face. 
 
 Did Mary hear Mr. Earnscliffe's step, or did she 
 feel that he was looking at her ? However that 
 may be, she raised her head suddenly and saw 
 him standing before her. Starting to her feet, 
 the blood rushed to her face, crimsoning it all 
 over ; but it receded as quickly, and left her 
 as pale almost as marble as she exclaimed, 
 *' Mr. Earnscliffe ! " and then stood looking at 
 him in silent amazement. 
 
 He smiled, and putting out his hand to her he 
 said, " I came to call upon Mrs. Elton, but as I 
 entered the gate I thought I heard voices in this 
 direction, and that the sound of my own name 
 caught my ear, so I took this walk instead of 
 going direct to the house. I hope I have not 
 intruded.'* 
 
 " Surely you need not fear to be looked upon 
 as an intruder here," answered Mary, with a 
 slightly faltering voice ; " mamma will be de- 
 lighted to see you." 
 
 " Of course she will," added Helena, shaking 
 hands with him ; *' but where have you come 
 from, Mr. Earnscliffe? I declare you appeared 
 before us in so ghost-like a manner that Mary and 
 I have not vet recovered from the shock."
 
 238 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 "I see that I have startled Miss Elton very 
 much," he replied, looking fixedly at Mary, who 
 was still very pale ; " yet I should have thought 
 that she was less afraid of ghostly apparitions 
 than you. But on this occasion you have shown 
 more courage." 
 
 " Nevertheless," answered Mary, quietly, " I 
 am less afraid of such things than Helena, and at 
 all events, as I need scarcely say, I did not look 
 upon your sudden appearance as supernatural ; but 
 I have been sufiering from a nervous headache all 
 day, and anything unexpected would have startled 
 me for the moment." 
 
 " Then 1 regret having given you a start," he 
 said, still looking inquiringly at her, as if he did 
 not think that the effect was quite justified by the 
 cause assigned. 
 
 " Pray do not say a word more about it, now 
 that it is over. I dare say the start may do me 
 good — as an electric shock. Let us go to the 
 house." 
 
 '* But all this time, Mr. Earnscliffe," interposed 
 Helena, " you have not answered my question as 
 to where you came from. To me it seemed as if 
 you had dropped from the clouds." 
 
 "I did not drop from the clouds, but a friendly 
 wind wafted me across the sea, and a chariot 
 bore me through the air to the gate of your villa."
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 239 
 
 " Why you must be a demi-god, to have winds 
 and chariots in attendance to bear you where you 
 will. Are you a magician, Mr. Earnscliffe ?'' 
 
 " Ts^either, Miss Helena ; but surely this is no 
 more wonderful than dropping from the clouds 
 as you suggested, and, as in politeness bound, I 
 answered you in your own language. '^ 
 
 " What a provoking man you are ! You always 
 manage to make it appear that you are right 
 whether you are or not. But now please to 
 answer me rationally." 
 
 " Well, then, I came from Capri, where I have 
 been staying since I left E-ome, intending to spend 
 an afternoon in Naples. I heard that you were 
 residing in the neighbourhood, and asked at the 
 Hotel de la Grande Bretagne if they knew your 
 address, and as you may judge by seeing me here, 
 my question was answered in the affirmative." 
 
 Mary turned aside her head in order to hide the 
 flush of pleasure which she could not keep down 
 at hearing this proof of his anxiety to see them, 
 and Helena said, " How wonderfully condescend- 
 ing it was of you to take the trouble to seek us 
 out!" 
 
 " Nay, I could not well spend a day in Naples 
 and not call upon you, for I had not time to do so 
 in Rome after your ball." 
 
 " There is more of your provokingness. You
 
 240 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 will never allow one to imagine that you pay a 
 compliment." 
 
 "Surely the Misses Elton must be surfeited 
 with compliments, and therefore could not care 
 for, or expect any, from a half-hermit like 
 myself." 
 
 ** Oh ! a compliment is always acceptable when 
 one can flatter one's self that it is true, and you^ I 
 suppose, would not deign to say anything which 
 was not strictly so." 
 
 " Certainly not." He turned to Mary and 
 said somewhat abruptly, " I hear that Mr. Lyne 
 is here. Was it then a groundless on dit that he 
 was going to marry Miss Adair ?" 
 
 Poor Mary ! What a blow this was to all her 
 rising hopes, founded on the fact of his having 
 shown anxiety to find them out. This question 
 revealed to her the true motive of his visit. The 
 revulsion of feeling was too great to allow her to 
 speak at once, and Helena said, " Oh no, but Flora 
 would not " 
 
 " Helena ! " interrupted Mary, sharply ; " you 
 are treading on my dress," and she laid her hand 
 heavily on her sister's arm. Helena looked as- 
 tonished, but remained silent, and Mr. Earnscliffe 
 said — 
 
 *' You were saying. Miss Helena, that Miss 
 Adair * would not ' Pray finish the sentence."
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 241 
 
 "Helena ouglit to have said," returned Mary, 
 without giving her sister time to speak, " that 
 Flora could not have afforded to refuse such an 
 offer as Mr. Lyne's ; so perhaps she is engaged to 
 him." 
 
 '' That is not very probahle, Miss Elton, as 
 they have gone in contrary directions," answered 
 Mr. Earnscliffe, drily ; whilst he said to himself, 
 "There is some motive here for trpng to make 
 me believe in this marriage, and it is evident I 
 am not to be allowed to hear the truth about it, or 
 why was the sister hindered from speaking ? But 
 I mil know what the mystery is." His face as- 
 sumed so stern and determined an expression that 
 Helena exclaimed, " ^Vhy, Mr. Earnscliffe, you 
 look as if you were struggling with some ima- 
 ginary enemy, whom you are resolved to conquer !" 
 
 " It must, indeed, have been an imaginary 
 one," he answered, smiKng, but the smile was 
 not a pleasant one, "as in reality I am walking 
 with two young ladies, neither of whom could be 
 supposed to be my enemy, or the enemy of any- 
 body, I suppose ; but you are right in thinking 
 that were there any such struggle, I should be 
 resolved to conquer. I am not so easily turned 
 aside from any purpose, whatsoever it may be " 
 — and his eyes rested for an instant on Mary. 
 
 She felt uneasy under the scrutiny ; but fortu- 
 
 VOL. 1. R
 
 242 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 nately for her they had reached the steps, and 
 running up, she threw open both sides of the 
 glass-door, saying, in imitation of Helen's gay, 
 mocking manner — 
 
 ''Welcome to Bel Yedere, mighty con- 
 queror ! '' 
 
 "That is a bad edition of me, Mary," said 
 Helena, "and does not suit you at all, — does it, 
 Mr. Earnscliffe?" 
 
 " "We are unaccustomed to it in Miss Elton,*' 
 he replied ; " while in you it apj)ears as if it could 
 not be otherwise." 
 
 " You thiak so, of course. In your estimation 
 I know that I am a mere butterfly, and incapable 
 of any deeper feeling than the amusement of the 
 moment." 
 
 " Such you say is my opinion ; I cannot be so 
 rude as to contradict you, however. I certainly 
 never said or implied anything of the kind. But 
 we are keeping Miss Elton waiting." 
 
 They had remained standing at the foot of the 
 steps during this little skirmish of words ; then 
 they followed Mary into the deliciously cool stone- 
 paved hall, and from it into the drawing-room. 
 There, too, it was equally cool, for the floor was 
 of marble ; the furniture was of a pale amber, so 
 that the light which pierced through the closely- 
 shut persiennes was tinged with a soft golden
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 243 
 
 liue ; bouquets of roses gave a delicate perfume to 
 the air ; and through, the open windows there 
 came every now and then a slight breeze, laden 
 with the scent of orange flowers. 
 
 Even Mr. Earnscliffe felt the charm of that 
 room creeping over him. How strongly at that 
 moment did he feel the refining power of woman's 
 presence I — And involuntarily he sighed. 
 
 Mrs. Elton came down quickly. She seemed 
 delighted to see him, and begged that he would 
 partake of their four-o'clock refreshments, which 
 were about to be served, and drive with them 
 afterwards on the Riviera, and hear the band in 
 the Villa Reale. 
 
 " Thank you. I shall be very happy to do so," 
 he replied, thinking that he might chance to see 
 Mr. L}Tie there. 
 
 Shortly afterwards came cofiee, cakes, fruit, 
 creams, and light wines ; and as soon as they had 
 partaken of these, the ladies went to get ready 
 for their drive.
 
 CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 We left Mr. Earnscliffe alone in the drawing- 
 room waiting for the return of the ladies, and 
 during their absence that unfinished sentence of 
 Helena's — ''Flora would not — " occupied his 
 thoughts. "Did she mean to say that Flora 
 Adair would not accept Mr. Lyne ? '* His heart 
 beat strangely fast as the conviction that it was 
 60 began to dawn upon him, and again he felt 
 startled at his own feelings. But he would not stop 
 to examine them now : he must first discover the 
 whole truth. And once again he thought, " What 
 can Mary Elton's motive be in not letting her 
 sister speak?" He remembered her extraordinary 
 agitation upon seeing him, and wondered what 
 could have caused it. It was not possible to 
 suppose that Mary wanted him as a desirable 
 match for herself, as with her beauty and ample 
 fortune he knew that a suitable marriage could 
 be no difficulty for her. Why, then, should she 
 waste her energies in trying to catch him ? . . . .
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 245 
 
 Evidently it could not be that ; yet lie could 
 think of no other reason fur her extraordinary 
 conduct. He was not a vain man : so it never 
 occurred to him that the cause of all this was 
 love for himself ; besides, he hardly believed that 
 women ever acted from any but interested mo- 
 tives, — thus he missed the solution of the riddle. 
 
 His musings were interrupted by the entry 
 into the room of the subject of them. Mary 
 came in and threw herself into an armchair, and 
 as she lay back in it she looked so weary that 
 Mr. Eamscliffe said — 
 
 " You look tired, Miss Elton." 
 
 " Tired ? Yes. Tell me — you who are said to 
 be a philosopher — have you found life to be so 
 pleasant a thing that you have never been tired 
 of it .P '* She did not give him time to answer, 
 but went on hurriedly, " Is it not, on the con- 
 traiy", made up of struggles which wear one out ; 
 — of vain efibrts to win some longed-for object ? 
 And how great is the weariness which follows 
 these struggles, when one sees that object slipping 
 from one's grasp, and about to fall into the hands 
 of one who has, perhaps, never fought for it ! " 
 
 He looked at her in amazement as he ex- 
 claimed — 
 
 " You speak almost with the bitterness of 
 experience. Miss Elton ! "
 
 246 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 " I speak of life in general. Is it not what T 
 have said ? " 
 
 " Yes, perhaps it is so, — at least, until we have 
 learned that there is nothing in it worth struggling 
 for ! " 
 
 " But I do not think it true that there is nothing 
 in life worth struggling for; nor in reality do 
 you. Ay, there are things worth struggling for, 
 and at this very moment you feel that there are ! " 
 
 •" Miss Elton ! " 
 
 " I know that I astonish you greatly. You 
 cannot understand that I should speak thus, — I, 
 who am generally so calm and quiet. But there 
 .are times when one forgets conventionality, and 
 everything else ; — times when life becomes a bur- 
 den, and one envies the Pagans, who saw no crime 
 in laying it down voluntarily. We are given 
 too much or too little light and faith — enough to 
 prevent us from choosing between life and death, 
 as they did, but not enough to prevent us from 
 longing that we, too, had the power so to choose. 
 . . . Ah ! if one did not believe in eternal 
 happiness or misery ! " 
 
 At this moment, Mrs. Elton and Helena came 
 in, and there would have been an awkward pause, 
 had not Mary continued, with perfect coolness — 
 
 " Yes, as I was saying, happiness and misery — 
 or rather, prosperity and misery — come into such
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 247 
 
 close contact in Italy ; — the palace and tlie h.0Yel 
 Hean one against the other ; the lady in costly 
 yelyets and the beggar-woman in rags walk side 
 by side. Indeed, it is in southern lands alone that 
 you see them thus face to face." 
 
 " That is quite true," obseryed Mrs. Elton. 
 " In England the proper distinction of classes is 
 admirably well marked." 
 
 " The carriage, ma'am," announced Thomas, 
 opening the door. 
 
 " "What a strange girl that is ! " thought Mr. 
 Eamscliffe, as he looked at Mary, who was seated 
 opposite to him in the carriage. ^' She was speak- 
 ing with all the earnestness of excited feeling when 
 her mother entered the room, and at once she 
 changed her tone and manner so completely, that 
 one could scarcely belieye it to be the same person 
 who, a moment before, was talking bitterly and 
 eagerly, with flashing eyes and hands twitching 
 neryously. . . ." 
 
 ^Tien they reached the Riyiera they found it 
 already crowded with gay equipages. Xo sooner, 
 however, had they taken their place among the 
 other carriages than Helena exclaimed, " How I 
 should like to get out and walk in the Villa Reale ; 
 then I could see the programme of the music, and 
 one enjoys listening to a band so much more when 
 one knows what it is playing."
 
 248 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 " And why do you not gratify your desire? I 
 need scarcely say that I should be most happy tt) 
 escort you/* said Mr. Earnscliffe. 
 
 *' Thank you ! Thomas, open the door." 
 
 "I will go with you," said Mary. 
 
 "But," interposed Mrs. Elton, "you surely will 
 not leave me quite alone ; you may as well stay 
 with me now, Mary, and when Helena comes back 
 you can take a turn, if Mr. Earnscliffe should not 
 be tired of handing young ladies about." 
 
 " On the contrary. Miss Elton may count upon 
 my being ready to accompany her." 
 
 Mary felt that she could not persist, so she 
 reseated herself, saying, " Thank you, but I 
 dare say that by the time Helena returns I may 
 not feel inclined to trespass upon your readiness 
 to oblige. You know that it is a woman's privi- 
 lege to change her mind as often as she likes, and 
 we have so few privileges that it would be unwise 
 not to avail ourselves of them." 
 
 He merely smiled as he handed Helena out of 
 the carriage, and offering her his arm, he led her 
 into the Yilla in order to see the programme, 
 which was posted up close to where the band was 
 plapng. Mary soon lost sight of them amidst 
 the crowd. Before they had come out she had 
 given Helena a lecture upon her thoughtless way 
 of speaking, and cited as an example of this what
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 249 
 
 she was about to sa}" on that very morning about 
 Mr. Lyne and Flora Adair, declaring tbat even if 
 she positively knew — wbicb she could not — that 
 Flora had refused Mr, Lyne, it was not right of 
 her to speak of it. 
 
 " You are mistaken, Mary," answered Helena, 
 " in saying that I could not know it. I do know 
 it, for Harry's answers were so confused and con- 
 tradictory when I asked him about his friend, 
 that it was just as plain to me that he had been 
 refused as if Harry had admitted it in so many 
 words. Poor Harry! he thinks that it would 
 be betraying his friend to tell even me ; but with 
 all his determination he has ' let the cat out of the 
 bag ' — he would have done much better to have 
 told me in confidence ; I should then be bound in 
 honour not to divulge it." 
 
 *' It matters not — you ought not to speak of it. 
 'NAHiat would Mr. Lyne think if he should hear it 
 said that Flora Adair had refused him, and that 
 the Misses Elton had said so ? So please, Lena, 
 to be more cautious in future." 
 
 " I will not speak of it, Mary, because it would, 
 I see, annoy you ; but why not have said candidh', 
 *Do not tell Mr, Earnscliff'e,'' for you know that 
 it is not my saying generally that Mr. Lyne has 
 been rejected which displeases you." 
 
 "What possible advantage could it be to me,.
 
 250 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 Helena, that Mr. Earnscliffe should not know this ? 
 Do you suppose that it would make him like me 
 any better ? Absurd ! But we must not get the 
 character of being mauvaises langues. You said 
 you would not speak of it again, and therefore I 
 am sure you will not." So saying she left the 
 room. 
 
 Even to Helena she could not bring herself to 
 acknowledge to what meanness she could descend 
 in order to keep Mr. Earnscliffe away from Flora 
 Adair, and it was after this conversation that she 
 went into the drawing-room looking so weary. 
 
 As she saw Mr. Earnscliffe and Helena leave 
 the carriage together she thought, " What Lena 
 said of Mr. Caulfield — that his very determination 
 not to speak betrayed the secret — will be her own 
 case now. She will mean to keep her word, yet 
 Mr. Earnscliffe will know it, for he is determined 
 to know as much as possible." 
 
 She was right: Mr. Earnscliffe was determined 
 to find out the truth, yet he felt awkward about 
 asking Helena; so by way of introduction he led 
 the conversation back to Rome, and their ball, 
 and chance favoured him. Helena inadvertently 
 disclosed all that he wished to know. He exerted 
 all his power to be agreeable in order to amuse 
 her, and drew such laughable caricatures of the 
 •different people there that Helena forgot all
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 201 
 
 restraint, and yielding to tier natural delight in 
 ridicule, she added many an absurd feature to 
 Mr. Earnscliffe's pictures, until, carried away by 
 the subject, she exclaimed, " But the hero of the 
 night was Mr. Lyne. His air of confidence and 
 triumph as he danced that last quadrille before 
 the cotillon with Flora was delicious; then after- 
 wards the poor rejected creature looked so crest- 
 fallen as he sneaked away that I could not help 
 laughing at him. I met him near the door, and 
 was so tempted to cut ofi" his retreat and make 
 him dance with me for the fun of teazing him ; 
 but I took pity upon him and let him escape." 
 
 "Then he did propose for Flo , for Miss 
 
 Adair, and she refused him?" said Mr. Earnsclifie, 
 in a low thrilling tone. 
 
 " I said nothing about Mr. LjTie's proposing to 
 Flora Adair," retorted Helena eagerly, and blush- 
 ing deeply as she felt how imprudent she had 
 been — that she had told the very thing which she 
 had been desired not to tell. 
 
 *' It is quite needless to make any explanations 
 about it. Miss Elton. I am aware that you did 
 not say that Mr. Lyne had been refused by Miss 
 Adair," he answered, smiKng. 
 
 Helena grew still more flushed as she cried out ' 
 
 hotly, " You are unkind, ungenerous, man " 
 
 she was going to say manceuvring, but she stopped
 
 252 FLOBA ADAIR. 
 
 suddenly, feeling that getting angry about it was 
 only betraying herself still further. 
 
 "How many more evil qualities have I dis- 
 played, Miss Elton ? " he replied, with a slight 
 laugh. " But here are two friends of yours." 
 
 She looked up and saw Mr. Lyne and Mr. 
 Caulfield standing before her, the latter gazing at 
 her with somewhat of a displeased air. A lover 
 is not often ^particularly well pleased to see his 
 beloved walking alone with another, and that a 
 handsome, man ! Helena understood it all at a 
 glance ; it quite restored her gaiety, and for the 
 time being made her forget her vexation with 
 herself and Mr. Earnscliffe. As she shook hands 
 with the new-comers she thought to herself, " So 
 you are jealous. Master Harry, are you ? — then I 
 shall have grand fun in teazing you." She had 
 drawn her arm from Mr. Earnscliffe' s, and stood 
 with downcast eyes before Mr. Caulfield. Mr. 
 Earnscliffe proposed that they should return to 
 the carriage, but Helen: objected, saying, " Surely 
 it is pleasanter to walk about a little longer; and 
 now that these gentlemen have joined us, one of 
 them I dare say will allow me to walk with him, 
 so that you, Mr. Earnscliffe, will be freed from 
 the wearisome task of making me talk^ She 
 emphasised the latter words, and again an 
 expression of annoyance passed over her features-
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 253 
 
 " It was not a wearisome task I assure you, 
 Miss Elton, — very far from it ; your conversation 
 was most interesting to me." 
 
 " True, I suppose you did find it interesting 
 for once." She turned away impatiently, and 
 said in a low tone to Mr. Caulfield, " Come." 
 
 He required no second summons to join her, 
 and they walked on together, Mr. Lyne and 
 Mr. Earnscliffe following. 
 
 From what Helena had said Mr. Earnscliffe 
 felt certain that Flora had refused Mr. Lyne, yet 
 he wanted to have assurance made doubly sure; 
 he longed to hear Mr. Lyne himself confirm it, 
 for he found it very difiicult to believe that a 
 woman had acted so disinterestedly, and at the 
 same time he wished ardently to be compelled 
 to believe that Flora Adair had done so. But 
 the difiiculty was to make Mr. Lyne speak — how 
 indirectly soever it might be — on the subject. 
 . . . Again chance favoured him. 
 
 An Italian lady with her two daughters passed 
 them and bowed to Mr. Lyne. Turning to his 
 companion, he said, " Did you observe the plainer 
 of those two girls? She has just returned from a 
 convent for her month of probation before she 
 enters as a nun." 
 
 " Lideed I poor girl I so she is to be a victim to 
 this horrible custom in your Catholic countries of
 
 254 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 sending plain or portionless girls into a convent ! 
 Yet, after all, I don't know that it is a great deal 
 worse than our own system of selling women in 
 marriage, save inasmuch as that we use no force. 
 But then — alas that it should be so ! — it is not 
 necessary for us to use force, — our women are only 
 too ready to be sold if the bidding be but high 
 enough, too ready to become the property of any 
 man who can give them wealth or position, with 
 or without love on their sides. To me, this ap- 
 pears to be the lowest of all degradation, and the 
 sanction which the world's rules gives to it can 
 make no real diflPerence. It is merely legitimatized 
 degradation, yet I half believe that all women 
 are capable of submitting to it." 
 
 *' Surely you are mistaken," answered Mr. 
 Lyne earnestly ; " there are many women far 
 above anything of that kind. You must not 
 forget that, on principle, many persons disapprove 
 of ardent love as an ill-regulated feeling ; there- 
 fore women often marry without what is called 
 love, but they would not for worlds accept one 
 whom they did not respect and look up to ; and 
 these surely are not to be condemned. There 
 are others again whom no possible advantage 
 would induce to marry without that intense love 
 of which they dream." 
 
 " This is all very well in theory, but does not
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 255 
 
 experience teach us the contrary ? Could we 
 name one woman out of all those whom we know 
 who would really act so ? Lives there the girl 
 who, without an independence of her own, ever 
 refused a rich man merely because she did not 
 love him intensely? You know you could not 
 point out one." 
 
 " Pardon me, I could." 
 
 " Really ? truly ? " — exclaimed Mr. Earnscliffe, 
 laying his hand upon Mr. Lyne's ann. 
 
 "As really, as truly, as that I am walking 
 with you." 
 
 *' Thank you, Lyne, you don't know how much 
 good you have done me ; you have restored my 
 belief in the truth and beauty of woman's nature, 
 for even one true woman is sufficient to redeem 
 the sex from general contempt. . . . Yet God 
 knows I had reason to distrust them." 
 
 " Still you ought not to distrust all because 
 some are unworthy." 
 
 " I feel that you are right, and again I thank 
 you for ha\dng given back to me one of the old 
 feelings of my youth." 
 
 To Mr. Lyne's calm, passionless temperament 
 this lively gratitude seemed uncalled for, and he 
 made no answer. After a few moments' silence 
 Mr. Earnscliffe said, " We must return to the 
 carriage. Mrs. Elton will think I have eloped
 
 258 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 with lier daugliter.'' Quickening his pace, lie 
 joined Mr. Caulfield and Helena, saying, *' Miss 
 Elton, I regret to break in upon a conversation 
 which seems to engross you so much, but I really 
 think we ought to return to Mrs. Elton." 
 
 " Very well," answered Helena in an impatient 
 tone. 
 
 Mr. Earnscliffe fell back to his place by Mr. 
 Lyne, but before they got within sight of the 
 carriage Helena and her cavalier stopped ap- 
 parently to examine a flower, and when the others 
 came up she said, ^* Mr Lyne, I believe you are 
 a good botanist, so come and tell me the name of 
 this flower ; and I also want to hear about your 
 proposed tour in Sicily." 
 
 It was easy to see that the object of all this 
 was to change the order of the procession, ac- 
 cordingly Mr. Earnsclifle walked on with Mr. 
 Caulfield, while Helena and Mr. Lyne were 
 occupied with the flower. 
 
 When they reached the carriage neither Mrs. 
 Elton nor Mary seemed pleased at the addition to 
 their party in the persons of Mr. Caulfield and 
 Mr. Lyne. The two gentlemen, however, appeared 
 not to observe it, and went up and shook hands 
 with them. Mr. Earnsclifle handed Helena into 
 the carriage, then said to Mary, "Now, Miss 
 Elton, shall we have our walk ? "
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 257 
 
 " Thank you, not now ; I do not feel inclined 
 to walk ; but if you will return to dinner with U3 
 we can have a stroll in the evening/' 
 
 "You are very kind," he replied, "and I 
 shall be deKghted to do so, if you will permit me 
 to say adieu for the present. I must see my boat- 
 man and tell him at what hour to be ready for me." 
 
 " Could not Thomas do that ? " 
 
 " Xo. I must go myself, for I promised to buy 
 a present for my boatman's little daughter." 
 
 " Well then, au revoir ! We dine at half-past 
 six to-day, on account of some national fete to 
 which our cook wants to go, so you have not too 
 much time to spare." 
 
 " Nevertheless I shall be punctual — adieu." 
 
 Mrs. Elton turned to Mary and asked, " Is Mr. 
 Earnscliffe gone ?" 
 
 " For the present, yes ; but he will return to 
 dinner." 
 
 " Oh, that is all right," answered Mrs. Elton, 
 without takinor the trouble of lowerino' her voice 
 so as to prevent the other gentlemen from hearing 
 that Mr. Earnscliffe was going to dine with her ; 
 indeed she was rather glad to make Mr. Caulfield 
 feel that he was in the way ; had it not been for 
 him she would have asked Mr. Lyne to dine, but, 
 as it was, she could not ask him and leave his 
 friend unin^dted ; it would have been too much. 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 At six tlie band went away, and tlie Eltons im- 
 mediately afterwards. . . . When they reached 
 home Mrs. Elton told Thomas that Mr. Earnscliffe 
 was coming to dinner, and desired that as soon as 
 he arrived he should be shown into a dressing- 
 room. The ladies then disappeared. 
 
 Helena dreaded the dressing beyond measure, 
 for she was sure that Mary would at once ask her 
 about her walk, and what could she answer ? In 
 fear and trembling she entered her own and her 
 sister's room; but Mary asked no questions: the 
 mischief, she instinctively felt, had been done, 
 and it was useless to reproach Helena. She 
 dressed herself in silence ; but her varying colour, 
 and the trembling of her hands, showed how 
 excited she was. Helena looked on with dismay. 
 She found this silence worse than any scolding 
 could have been, yet she was afraid to break it. 
 To her great relief the bell rang for dinner, and 
 she hastened downstairs. Mary followed her in a 
 few moments, but went direct to the dining-room, 
 and there she found the rest of the party. 
 
 It is said that ^'drowning people will catch at 
 straws." Mary caught at the shred of a hope 
 that, perhaps, after all, Mr. Earnscliife was not 
 quite lost to her, since he had accepted her in- 
 vitation to dinner ; especially as he had, no doubt, 
 gained all the information he required ; and, more-
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 259 
 
 over, as lie generally disliked society so much, 
 there must be some motive for his staying. . . . 
 It was a straw, indeed ! 
 
 "What would she have said if she had known 
 that Mr. Earnscliffe only stayed from curiosity as 
 to what her motive could be in trying to conceal 
 from him the truth about Flora, as he thought it 
 possible that during the evening something might 
 occur to throw light upon it ? 
 
 After dinner the girls proposed going out, to 
 which their guest gladly assented. Mrs. Elton 
 said she would remain in the house, as she felt 
 a little tired. At the foot of the steps they met a 
 peasant girl with bouquets, and Helena stopped 
 to speak to her, as she had a shrewd suspicion 
 that the bouquet girl did not come unsent. Mr. 
 Earnscliffe and Mary went on and strolled into 
 the alley where they had met in the morning. 
 
 Mary looked very handsome. The blue opera 
 cloak which she had thrown round her shoulders 
 showed off to advantage her brilliantly fair skin 
 and auburn hair ; and she could not help thinking, 
 as she looked at herself in a glass on passing out, 
 *' How strange that he should prefer Flora Adair 
 to me ! . . . I am far more beautiful than she is. 
 "WTiat can I do to keep him from her ? " 
 
 With this question ringing in her ears she 
 went out as we have said. She broke the silence
 
 260 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 after they entered the alley by saying " Are you 
 going to remain at Capri ?" 
 
 '' I think not — I shall probably start in a day 
 or two." 
 
 " And where do you intend to go ? " 
 
 " I have not fixed upon any place as yet, but 
 southern Italy is becoming too hot." 
 
 " And Yenico, I suppose, will be cooler ! " she 
 answered, bitterly. 
 
 " I did not say that I was going to Venice ? " 
 
 '' Of course you did not — you did not wish to 
 acknowledge that you were going to meet the 
 Adair s I " 
 
 ** Really, Miss Elton, for the third time to-day 
 you astound me more than I can say ; but as you 
 /mve named the Adairs, will you tell me why you 
 took such trouble to make me believe that Mr. 
 Lyne was to be married to Miss Adair, — and, of 
 course, you knew as well as your sister that she 
 had refused him ? " 
 
 " Are you blind, that you do not see what has 
 urged me to this ? " — She had evidently lost all 
 self-control, as she stopped walking, and stood 
 opposite to him with her flashing eyes fixed on 
 his face. "What more she might have said or 
 done, had not the sound of an approaching step 
 caught her ear, it would be difficult to tell. She 
 added hurriedly, '' Go now to Flora Adair, and
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 261 
 
 win her love if you can ; but in the hour when 
 you feel most sure of her, or when you only wait 
 for religious rites to make her yours for ever, may 
 she be torn from you — more, may she play you 
 false — may her hand strike the blow which shall 
 crush your heart, even as mine has been crushed 
 to-day ! Inow go ! " She seized his hand, and 
 for an instant her fingers closed upon it like a 
 ^ace ; then she let it go with a start as if it had 
 burned her, and, turning away, she darted down 
 a side walk. 
 
 Mr. Earnsclifie stood like one transfixed, until 
 the step which had been heard in the distance 
 now sounded close to him. Looking round, he 
 saw Helena Elton, who exclaimed, in a frightened 
 tone, " Mr. Earnsclifie ! what does all this mean ? 
 Where is Mary ? " 
 
 "Go to her as quickly as you can," was his 
 answer, — " she left me in a state of fearful 
 agitation ; but believe me that, intentionally, I 
 would not have caused her a moment's pain." He 
 put out his hand absently : Helena understood 
 that he meant to take leave of her, and placing 
 hers in it, she said, " I do believe it, Mr. Earns- 
 clifie, and do not judge poor Mary harshly ; you 
 at least should be indulgent towards her." 
 
 "Fear not. Miss Elton ; as you say, /at least 
 can never use her harshly." He pressed Helena's
 
 262 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 hand and left her. She went to seek her sister, 
 while he walked slowly back to the house. 
 
 That day had been a day of revelations to him, 
 and pain and pleasure were so strangely mingled 
 in those revelations, that he preserved his calm 
 ness only with a strong effort. He entered the 
 drawing-room to say good-bye to Mrs. Elton, but 
 she was not there ; then he rang for the servant, 
 and said, " Will you be so good as to tell Mrs. 
 Elton that I came in to say good-night to her 
 as I am obliged to go at once ; but as she is not 
 downstairs I do not wish to disturb her." 
 
 " Please, sir, let me tell Mrs. Elton that you 
 are going." 
 
 " Thank you, no, I cannot wait." So saying, 
 he walked into the hall. Thomas opened the 
 door, and as it closed behind him, he felt that he 
 had crossed the Eltons' threshold for the last 
 time. 
 
 The carriage was at the gate, and he drove 
 direct to the shore.
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 The stars were crowding fast into the clear sky, 
 and the moon was shedding forth her pale rays, 
 when Mr. Earnsciiffe reached the boat. Such a 
 scene must be witnessed to be understood. To 
 those who haye seen the Bay of Naples on such a 
 night memory will hold up her mirror, and they 
 will see again the dim outline of the gracefully- 
 curving shore, Yesuvia's dark and awe-inspiring 
 shadow, and the deep blue waters upon which the 
 moonbeams glance like silyery darts ; and to those 
 who haye not seen it imagination will paint a no 
 less yiyid picture — but to them is unknown the 
 balmy air, the charm, the beauty of an Italian 
 night, and nowhere, perhaps, as well as in Xaples 
 and Venice, is it so completely seen and felt in all 
 its unrivalled beauty. It is lovely, too, in its 
 inland scenes; how lovely those can truly say 
 who have kno'WTi what it is to stand upon a 
 balcony at ''the witching hour," and look down 
 upon a woody dell with myriads of busy fire-flies
 
 264 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 gleaming througli the dark foliage, every branch, 
 every twig covered with those brilliant and living 
 lamps, — 'tis nature's illumination, and in what 
 does she not excel ? 
 
 Italy ! thy beauty, thy poetry, thy loving 
 memories are surely more than adequate to coun- 
 terbalance the many great but material disadvan- 
 tages which one meets with in thee. . . . 
 
 But we have drifted away from the subject of 
 our chapter, and deserted Mr. Earnscliffe, to whom 
 we must now return. 
 
 He got into the boat — the sails were filling, for 
 with the fall of day the wind had veered round, 
 and promised them a quiet and favourable passage 
 — threw himself upon the cushions, and took off 
 his hat, as if he felt that he could more thoroughly 
 enjoy the lovely night when there was nothing 
 between him and the starry world above. Paolo 
 saw that he looked strangely pale, and asked the 
 same question which his little daughter had done 
 in the morning, *' Is sua eccellenza ill ?" 
 
 ^'Grazie, amico^ sto benissimo,^^ told a different 
 tale from the listless abstracted one with which 
 he replied to Anina. That smile, and a certain 
 softness in the tone of Mr. Earnscliffe's voice, 
 made Paolo feel that sua eccellenza came back a 
 happier man than when he set out for Naples. 
 And so he was, although pain and pleasure w^ere
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 265 
 
 closely mingled in his sensations ; but, at least, 
 tlie future was no longer quite a blank to him ; 
 there was something to hope for — something, as 
 Mary Elton had said to him, worth struggling 
 for. He did not consider himself in^love with 
 Flora Adair, but he felt that she did occupy his 
 thoughts almost exclusivel}^ that everything con- 
 nected with her interested him deeply, and he 
 could not help smiling as he remembered all the 
 inorenious arfiruments which he made use of to 
 account to himself for that interest. Then, too, 
 came the remembrance of the delight which he 
 felt when he heard that she had refused Mr. 
 Lyne, and he murmured to himself, " Yes, I will 
 
 go to Yenice, try to meet the Adairs, and if '* 
 
 Ah ! what visions rose after that if ? . . . They 
 were like mental lullabies, and under their soft 
 influence he fell asleep and dreamed. 
 
 He dreamed of winning Flora's love, of the 
 happy life which was to begin for him with her 
 at his side; .... but suddenty a change came 
 over the picture — Mary Elton seemed to stand 
 between him and Flora, with a countenance full 
 of passionate anger and yet of triumph, as she 
 cried out, '' I warned you !".... He made a 
 movement to clasp Flora, but she seemed to shrink 
 away from him and fall. This startled and awoke- 
 him, but so real was the impression which the
 
 266 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 dream left upon his mind that he exclaimed in 
 Italian, " Catch her, Paolo — she will be drowned! " 
 
 " What does sua eccellenza mean ? There is 
 nobody drowning." 
 
 " Thanlf God ! " he muttered, with a long-drawn 
 breath of relief as he reseated himself. Then he 
 said to Paolo, " You see I have been dreaming, 
 amicoy 
 
 "But not un sogno sinistro, eccellenza ? that 
 would be a bad omen indeed, at this hour of the 
 night, and by moonlight too," answered Paolo, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " It was probably the sleeping with the moon 
 shining full upon my face which caused me to 
 dream," he replied, without saying Avhether the 
 dream was & sinister one or not. Paolo did not 
 seem to be satisfied with this answer, and said 
 gravely, " Oh eccellenza, it is very milucky ! . . . 
 May you be preserved from all evil !^' 
 
 Mr. Earnsclifie smiled, but he would have pre- 
 ferred that Paolo had dwelt less upon his fears 
 about the dream ,; for although not generally 
 superstitious, he could not shake off the gloomy 
 impression which it left upon him. All his bright 
 visions had vanished, and in their place came 
 painful reminiscences of poor Mary Elton. He 
 would have given much to have been abl6 to 
 feel sure that she would forget him and be happy
 
 FLORA ADAIK. 267 
 
 again ; but something whispered to him that it 
 would not be so — that, whether in good or evil, 
 she was not one likely to change, and she had 
 given proof of how strong a woman's feelings can 
 be. Perhaps, also, there was mixed up in his 
 pity for her a latent, almost a superstitious dread 
 of her as he had seen her in his dream. Then he 
 thought of Anina — of how he was to tell her that 
 he intended to leave Capri inmiediately, and the 
 thought of the child's grief made him shrink from 
 facing it ; yet he felt that it would be cruel in 
 him to go away without telling her : no, that 
 could not be — and then it was that he felt how 
 fond he had become of the beautiful child. 
 
 Beauty in women had naturally a most power- 
 ful attraction for him, yet for years he had been 
 shut out from the enjoyment of it by his blighting 
 belief in their falseness. This, in his estimation, 
 overclouded all their loveliness. " Beauty in a 
 woman," he woidd say, "being so overclouded, is 
 less worthy of admiration in her than in a statue ; 
 in this, at least, there is no deception — we find 
 here all that we can expect, namely, regularity of 
 outline and one fixed expression." But in Anina 
 he saw li^T.ng beauty combined mth perfect art- 
 lessness, and it won his heart at once ; then, too, 
 her ardent afiection for himself and desire to be 
 with him had its own charm for the lonely rich
 
 268 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 man. She liad been quite a companion to him in 
 his wanderings about the island ; he had taught 
 her to read, and with a feeling of sadness he 
 recalled the pretty lighting-up of her expressive 
 face whenever he praised her ; and again, how 
 charmingly penitent she used to look when he 
 chid her for inattention. And he had to tell her 
 that there must be an end to all this, and doubted 
 that even the beautiful present which he was 
 going to give her would console her for his 
 departure. He felt that her grief would probably 
 not be of very long duration, but he feared that 
 it would be sharp and violent, and it pained him 
 to think that he was to be the cause of it. All 
 this brought him to the conclusion that the sooner 
 the leave-taking was over the better ; so he 
 resolved to go the next day. 
 
 It was very late when they touched Capri. As 
 Mr. Earnscliffe wished Paolo good-night, he de- 
 sired him to come to the hotel in the morning at 
 six, and to bring Anina with him. 
 
 But two hours remained before sunrise, yet 
 even for that short time Mr. Earnscliffe could not 
 rest ; his head was tossing about upon his pillow 
 until about four, when he got up — no unusual 
 hour in Italy during the fine season — and order- 
 ing his coffee at half-joast five, he went out and 
 bathed.
 
 TLORA ADAIR. 269 
 
 Soon after his return, and by the time he had 
 finished his light breakfast, Paolo and Anina had 
 arrived — he had learned from his master that 
 anti-Italian virtue, punctuality. 
 
 Mr. Earnscliffe told Paolo that he wanted to 
 speak Tvith him ; as the child left the room, he 
 said, " Paolo, I asked you to come to me this 
 morning in order to tell you that I mean to give 
 you my boat " 
 
 Paolo looked delighted and exclaimed, ''Sua 
 eccellenza e troppo huono.'" 
 
 But Mr. Earnscliffe went on without noticing 
 the interruption — " And if you will name anv 
 means by which you can be permanently advanced 
 in your trade, it shall be done ; but for this, per- 
 haps, you would like a little time for consideration 
 — if so you can speak to Dr. Molini, and he will 
 communicate with me. ... I am obliged to leave 
 Capri to-day." 
 
 "0 eccellenza^ quest o maladetto sogno — I knew 
 it was the sign of coming misfortune." 
 
 *' Xot so, amico ; the dream has nothing to do 
 with my going away, and it shall not be a misfor- 
 tune to you — you shall not lose by it." 
 
 "It is not that, eccellenza, which I meant by 
 misfortune. It was the Blessed Madonna herself 
 who sent you to us ; and now that you are going, 
 we shall feel as if she were takino^ somethino'
 
 270 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 precious from us ; besides, what could ever be the 
 same to me as being in your service ? You Lave 
 treated me — the poorest fisherman in Capri — 
 almost as your equal ; and that day when the 
 signore laughed at my story bound me to you for 
 ever. I felt that I could die for you, eccellenza. 
 DiOy how shall I tell la moglie e la bambina ? '' 
 
 Mr. Earnscliffe, with an Englishman's dislike 
 to any show of feeling, turned away his head to 
 hide any traces of emotion which might have 
 been seen on his countenance, for he was deeply 
 touched by Paolo's sorrow. After a few moments' 
 silence he said, *' Believe me, Paolo, I value your 
 affection more than I can say, and I would do 
 anything to make you happy." 
 
 " Then, signore, ^^ interrupted Paolo eagerly, 
 "let us go and live near you in Napoli?" — poor 
 Paolo never thought of anything beyond Naples — 
 "and I can be your boatman still." 
 
 " But, amico, I am not going to live in Naples ; 
 I am going to travel." Paolo's head drooped, 
 and Mr. Earnscliffe continued kindly, "But I 
 promise you that you shall see me again if I live. 
 And now, Paolo, go to Maria and consult with her 
 about what you w^ould wish me to do for you." 
 
 " Ah ! signore^ we could not consult about any- 
 thing to-day ; we can only think that the Madonna 
 is taking one of her best blessings away from us."
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 271 
 
 " Well, as I said before, you can speak to Dr. 
 Molini after I am gone, and he will write to me." 
 Paolo saw tliat Mr. Earnscliffe meant this to 
 terminate the interview, and he asked at what 
 hour sua eccellenza would want the boat ; but 
 Mr. Earnsclifie answered that he would not re- 
 quire it, as he was going by the steamer. 
 
 ** Then I shall never row sua eccellenza again," 
 exclaimed Paolo, giving way to violent demon- 
 strations of grief. . . . This was all extremely 
 painful to Mr. Earnsclifie, and so contrary to all 
 his natural, or, rather, national, notions of what 
 grief ought to be ; yet he could not be brusque to 
 Paolo, for he saw that, although it appeared most 
 unseemly to him, it was real and natural in the 
 excitable Italian, but he said gravely — 
 
 " Paolo, it is a man's part to be strong, and not 
 to give way to feeling as women do, and for my 
 sake you must subdue all this. Think how you 
 grieve me by making me thus feel that I give you 
 pain. Kow addio, I must go to the hamhinay 
 
 " But I shall see sua eccellenza again, surely ? 
 He will come to say addio to Maria P" 
 
 *' Yes, but I shall expect you both to be very 
 calm, — al rivedersi dunque!'^ 
 
 Mr. Earnscliffe gently turned away, and taking 
 the case which contained the statue for Anina, 
 he left the room. Paolo slowly followed him
 
 272 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 At tlie hall door tliey met the child, and taking 
 her by the hand Mr. EarnsclifFe drew her on 
 quickly so that she might not see her father's 
 emotion. 
 
 After a short walk along a pretty rocky path 
 they came to a kind of creek formed by the rocks, 
 so as to be completely shaded from the sun ; here 
 he sat down and opened the box, displaying to 
 Anina's longing eyes a little white temple ; the 
 roof was arched and supported by four columns, 
 round which ran scrolls of lilies painted on a blue 
 ground and bordered with gold ; inside, on a 
 pedestal, was a small, but, for its size, beautiful 
 figure of the Madonna, draped in a blue cloak 
 starred with gold. 
 
 Mr. Earnscliffe looked upon the Madonna as 
 being nothing more than a good woman to whom 
 superstition had given an undue and almost a 
 Divine celebrity ; but, in imagination, no one 
 could form a more poetical idea than he did of the 
 purity and beauty surrounding the mother of an 
 incarnate God ; therefore, he had chosen the best 
 representation of this idea that he could find. 
 
 Anina's delight was unbounded. She literally 
 danced round it, repeating, " Come e bella, beUis- 
 simaf' Then throwing her arms round Mr. 
 Earnsclifie, she half smothered him with her 
 gratitude.
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 273 
 
 "Listen to me, carina,^' lie said, gently "un- 
 folding her arms from his neck. His grave tone 
 made her look up wonderingly at him, and he 
 went on. " I want you to give me a reward for 
 having brought you the Madonna. Will my 
 little one give it to me ?'^ 
 
 "Oh, signore!^' and her little face was nestled 
 on his shoulder. 
 
 " Then you will give it to me, carina. But I 
 am going to ask a great deal. It is to promise 
 that you will not fret very much if I tell you 
 that something you love dearly is to be taken 
 from you." 
 
 " But what is it, signore, that you are going to 
 take from me ? Not the Madonna ?" 
 
 " Not the Madonna, certainly ; but you have 
 not given me the promise. Will you not be very 
 good, and not cry too much ?" 
 
 " Si, signoreJ^ 
 
 " Then, carissima, you must remember that 
 promise when I tell you that I am going away to 
 day." 
 
 Alas for promises ! Anina's answer was to 
 burst out crying as though her little heart would 
 break, and then through her sobs she murmured, 
 " J^o, no, non va via il caro signore ; he told me 
 so yesterday ? " 
 
 "Yes, carina^ but afterwards I heard some- 
 
 VOL. 1. T
 
 .274 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 thing whicli obliges me to go. This is not keep- 
 ing your promise, my child. I hoped that your 
 beautiful Madonna would console you, and I will 
 come back some day, Anina mia^ sia buona.*' 
 
 He put his arm round her waist and kissed her, 
 but she hid her face on his shoulder, and sobbed 
 80 violently that he saw it was vain to attempt to 
 quiet her now, and that all he could do was to 
 take her home and leave her ; time he knew 
 would calm this violence of childish grief. With 
 his disengaged hand he put the little temple into 
 the box, and said, " Come, my child, take your 
 Madonna, and let us go home." But Anina 
 made no movement to take it, and he said, "Then 
 you do not care for her. I may throw her into 
 the sea." 
 
 " Oh, give her to me, signore^^ she cried, 
 stretching out her hand for it. ''I will pray to 
 her every day for you, and perhaps she will send 
 you back to me." 
 
 He had not told her before, and now he could 
 not tell her, how worse than useless he thought 
 those prayers ; yet her affection for himself, 
 mingled as it was with her devotion for the 
 Madonna, touched him almost in spite of himself, 
 and giving her the box silently, he took her by 
 the hand and led her home. 
 
 It was the same path down which he had
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 275 
 
 carried her wlieii first lie saw her ; and her 
 parents, too, were sitting at the door as on that 
 evening ; but now sorrow, instead of joy, was to 
 be seen in their faces as they rose to receive him. 
 Maria threw herself at his feet, crying and 
 muttering a great deal, in which la Madonna and 
 dolore were the only words that could be distinctly 
 heard. 
 
 '* Maria," exclaimed Mr. Earnscliffe, " you 
 are surely not going to give la hamhina such 
 a bad example ! " and, turning to Anina, he 
 added, " Show your Madonna to la madrey my 
 child." 
 
 The trembling little hands began to imdo the 
 lid, and Mr. Earnscliffe said in a low tone, '' I 
 must wish you addio now, amici^ siate felici.^' 
 He pressed a hand of each ; then bent down and 
 gave Anina a hurried kiss, and said, '' Take her, 
 Paolo." He turned and walked away as fast as 
 he could. 
 
 Paolo held Anina, who struggled to get free 
 and run after Mr. Earnscliffe, whilst Maria knelt 
 down, and in an excited tone called on the 
 fSantissima Madre di Dio to guard and protect 
 him in life, and after death to lead him to her 
 Divine Son in the bright heavens above. 
 
 Mr. Earnscliffe heard it, and for the moment 
 their lively faith in the influence of a mother,
 
 276 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 even oyer a Divine Son, appeared to him to be 
 strangely beautiful. That scene often recurred to 
 bis memory, and be scoffed not at it, but bis beart 
 yearned towards tbe poor superstitious Capri 
 fisber-people. 
 
 Two bours later tbe steamer was bearing bim 
 swiftly away from tbeir island. . . .
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 To the Piazza San Marco, in all its beauty and 
 grandeur, — tlie richest jewel of the Adriatic's 
 bride, — we must now turn. It is about nine at 
 night ; and beneath the long lines of arcades the 
 gay shops and caffes are brilliantly lighted up. 
 Their illumination — for, indeed, it is like one — 
 contrasts well with the darkness of the great 
 Piazza upon which they give ; for, although from 
 the centre of every arch — and there are in all 
 nearl}^ a hundred — there juts out a gracefully- 
 curved branch, bearing a lighted lamp, they are 
 but as faint glimmers in that vast space, making 
 mysterious solemn shade of all around, especially, 
 as now, when there is no moon to be seen in the 
 deep blue and star-spangled vault above. The 
 dark mass of San Marco's basilica,, the eamioanile, 
 the adjoining Piazzetta, with the Ducal Palace, 
 the two columns of oriental marble, surmounted 
 by the bronze lion of St. Mark and the statue 
 of St. George, still guarding that port where, in
 
 278 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 days of old, so many proud galleys sailed in 
 triumph ; and opposite, across tlie Grand Canal's 
 dark watery road, rising as if from the water's 
 midst, the dim outlines of San Giorgio in 
 Maggiore and Santa Maria di Salute : — it is, in- 
 deed, a combination unrivalled in the world ! 
 
 In the centre of the Piazza an Austrian band 
 is playing ; and round the cajf'es are seated crowds 
 of people sipping coifee or eating ices. Among 
 them are Mrs. Adair, Flora, and Marie Arbi. 
 
 AYhen last we saw them they were in Florence 
 with the Blakes and Pentons ; but now they are 
 alone, and their friends far on their way towards 
 England. 
 
 During the time they spent there, Mr. Barkley 
 Vas much attracted by Marie, and was constantly 
 ^t her side ; that is, as constantly as he could be 
 without rendering his attentions marked. He 
 invariably tried to keep either with her or with 
 Flora, on the principle, it may be supposed, that 
 if one cannot be with the especial favourite, the 
 next best thing is to be with her intimate 
 friend ; at all events, it prevented obserA^ations 
 being made. Had there appeared to be anything 
 serious in his manner, Mrs. Adair would natur- 
 ally have considered herself obliged to interfere, 
 as Marie must be given up to the de St. Severans 
 free from any entanglement ; but Mr. Barkley
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 279 
 
 managed so well that it would liave been difficult 
 to say which he liked best, Flora or Marie, 
 although they were nearly three weeks in 
 Florence, and met almost every day. 
 
 But what were Mr. Barkley's real feelings ? 
 Was he only amusing himself, or was it some- 
 thing deeper ? Yes, it was something deeper ; he 
 loved Marie as he had never loved before or would 
 ever love again, even though he should not marry 
 her, which was very probable, as there would be 
 many difficulties in the way, and he was one who 
 was more likely to succumb to difficulties than to 
 bear up against and conquer them. 
 
 He was the only son of an Irish nobleman, who 
 — as unfortunately so many do in the sister 
 island — had lived beyond his income, got his 
 property deeply into debt, and trusted to his 
 son's makino^ a rich marriao^e in order to clear it. 
 Edmund Barkley himself, in a vague way, gave 
 in to this idea. He thought that fortune would 
 be a most desirable addition to the charms of the 
 future lady of his choice ; but, being fastidious to 
 a fault, he had hitherto found all the heiresses 
 of his acquaintance unattractive, and answered 
 the parental urgings to his marrying quickly 
 with, " Time enough, father ; the right heiress 
 has not appeared yet. And if she should not 
 appear at all, — well, I suppose, as a pis oMer, I
 
 280 FLORA ADAIR. ^ 
 
 must take one of those whom you have named ; 
 but to make up my mind to that will require a 
 good long run of freedom." So he kept his 
 liberty, and went from flower to flower until he 
 met Marie, and — never imagining that the little 
 unsophisticated African girl could really touch 
 his world -proved heart — he dashed into a brisk 
 general flirtation with her ; when, one day, to his 
 great dismay, a sad truth dawned upon him. He 
 caught himself dreaming day-dreams of Marie 
 presiding in his ancestral halls, and charming 
 everybody around her with her naive grace, and 
 her sweet, wild voice warbling her simple ballads, 
 which she sang with such feeling that all who 
 love music rather as the highest expression of 
 language than of harmonised and learned com- 
 binations— as speaking to the heart rather than 
 the judgment — would prefer her singing to that 
 of the finished pupil of a fashionable London 
 master. Marie's history, too, had taken a strong 
 hold of his imagination ; and even more, — 
 although, perhaps, unknown to himself, — there 
 was a feeling that this little creature, so unequal 
 to himself in intelligence and education, had 
 acted with a degree of strength and heroism of 
 which he was incapable ; so that, almost involun- 
 tarily, he looked up to her as something above 
 him, loving her at the same time with the pro-
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 281 
 
 tecting love of a man for gentleness and inno- 
 cence. 
 
 This discovery set him thinking : — '' Marie has 
 no position, and of course not much fortune ; she 
 is not even St. Severan's child, so he may not 
 give her anything. ... It will never do for me ; 
 I must think no more about her in this way. 
 Adieu, then, sweet Marie ; would that it could be 
 otherwise, but it cannot. So, once more adieu, 
 my bright little fairy ! " 
 
 After these musings he took up a novel which 
 lay on the table ; but Marie would not be dis- 
 missed from his thoughts in this summary manner. 
 He saw her face multiplied in the pages of the 
 book instead of its printed characters. He closed 
 it and thought he would try a little music. He 
 went into the saloon,, where there was a piano, 
 and began to play some of his favourite reveries ; 
 but insensibly he glided into the melodies which 
 Marie used to sing, and which he knew so well. 
 Then the sound of her soft voice began to ring 
 in his ear ; and he ceased to play that he might 
 better listen to those clear young tones which were 
 sounding,, not on his ear, but in his heart. » . . 
 " Devil take it ! " he exclaimed aloud, and starting 
 up from the piano ; " I have never allowed myself 
 to be really caught by thi^ little wilding ! Yet 
 it looks horribly like it. . . . I see I must keep 
 away from her ! '^
 
 282 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 He shut down the piano, and went back to liis 
 own room ; then he took up the novel again, 
 muttering, ''Novels must certainly be gone to 
 the bad when they can^t amuse a man for half-an- 
 hour ! I remember the time when I could sit for 
 hours over them." Mr. Barkley did not seem to 
 remember that he, perhaps, was changed rather 
 than the novels. 
 
 There came a knock at the door. He lazily 
 drawled out, " EntrateJ^ In came his sister with 
 her cloak on, and, seeing him lying in an arm- 
 chair in his dressing-gown, with a novel in his 
 hand, she exclaimed — 
 
 " What are you about, Edmund ? Are you not 
 coming ? " 
 
 "Where, may I ask?" 
 
 " You cannot have forgotten that the Adair and 
 Blake party have got permission to see San 
 Donate — Demidoff's Yilla — and have asked us to 
 go with them ? We are to call for one of the 
 girls at eleven. You know, the laying out of the 
 grounds is said to be very beautiful, and the 
 house itself gorgeous. There are collections of 
 paintings, statues, and I know not what, to say 
 nothing of the charms of living statues^ Master 
 Edmund— eh ? " 
 
 Here was a test for his newly-formed resolution 
 of avoiding Marie. What a pleasant vista his
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 283 
 
 sister's words liacl called up, of wandering in tlie 
 grounds of San Donato witli Marie — getting pur- 
 posely separated from the others, and only finding 
 them after a needlessly long search ; but it was 
 just what he ought to keep clear of ; and he felt 
 irritated with Mrs. Penton for thus putting the 
 temptation before him. However, he would be 
 strong — he would sternly resist it — and in 
 accordance with this determination he answered 
 gruffly — 
 
 " I can't go and expose myself to such a sun as 
 this. I have a headache." 
 
 Mrs. Penton turned round from the survey 
 which she had been making of herself in the 
 glass, and looked at him laughingly as she said — 
 
 " What's up now, Edmund ? Have the little 
 African's charms palled already ? " 
 
 " Damn it ! " he muttered, with uncontrollable 
 irritation. 
 
 " Damn what, Edmund ? " asked his sister, 
 laughing more than ever. " San Donato or me ? 
 or perhaps the little African ? " 
 
 " How tiresome you are, Maria ! I told you that 
 I could not go because I had a headache, and the 
 sun is so awfully strong to-day." 
 
 " Of which I believe as much as you do. You 
 were quite well an hour ago. The headache is 
 nothing but a sham. Perhaps you have got some
 
 284 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 new innamorata ; but come : tlie little African is 
 not so bad after all. She will do once in a way ; 
 and you know at first you certainly were a little 
 epris in tbat quarter." 
 
 " For pity's sake, Maria, go to San Donato, and 
 leave me in peace ! How teasing women can be ! 
 What a happy fellow I am not to have a wife ! '* 
 
 " It strikes me, my dear sir, that you are any- 
 thing but a happy fellow this morning. Now I 
 am going ; but tell me first, what has made you 
 so bearish ? " 
 
 " If I am bearish, I think the best thing you 
 can do is to get out of my way at once." 
 
 " I quite agree with you. You might tear me 
 to pieces if I remained much longer in your den ; 
 but I daresay, when this fit has passed over, you 
 wiU regret that you did not come with us. In- 
 deed, I should not be astonished if you were to 
 follow us, if only for the pleasure such a vain 
 creature would take in seeing the little African's 
 bright eyes look brighter still when you appear." 
 
 Mrs. Penton retreated after this sally, but 
 called out from the door — 
 
 "Good-bye^ dear! I hope some kind fairy 
 will soon transform you back to a man ! Shall 
 I send the little African to you ? and then you 
 and she could play ' Beauty and the Eeast ' over 
 
 ncrm'n P '
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 285 
 
 She closed tiie door as Mr. Barkley dashed his 
 book into the opposite corner of the room, and 
 began to walk up and down in a state of laugh- 
 able irritation, declaring that women were the 
 plagues of a man's life, and that he wished they 
 were all kept locked up and out of tke way, as 
 in the East. Having given utterance to this 
 charitable wish towards the fair sex, he threw off 
 his dressing-gown, dragged on a coat, and, seizing 
 his hat, he went out and walked to the Belle Arti, 
 quite forgetful of his asserted headache and dread 
 of the sun. Beato Angelico, at least, could not 
 fail to absord his attention. 
 
 Alas for il Beato ! His pictures could teach 
 no grand lessons to his admirer to-day. His 
 beautiful angels, lovingly leading the enfranchised 
 spirits of their earthly charges over flower-clad 
 meadows to the heavenly Jerusalem, only sug- 
 gested to Mr. Barkley how delightful it would be 
 to be wandering thus in the shady alleys of San 
 Donato with Marie ; and he felt more than half 
 inclined to curse his folly in ha^ang refused to 
 go. ... At last, tired even of Beato Angelico, 
 he left the Accademia ; and as he walked home, he 
 began to think seriously that he had behaved 
 like a fool. "After all," said he to himself, 
 *' St. Severan might give her a fortune, and then 
 I don't see why I should not marry her ! Why
 
 286 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 should not an African chief be as good as an 
 Irish one ? and that's all mj^ father is, I suppose. 
 In any case, the birth question would easily be 
 got over, if it were not for that damned money ; 
 and if it were not for my father, I would marry 
 her, fortune or no fortune. But that is all for the 
 future : there is no good in making one's self 
 miserable about it now. ' SuiBRcient for the day 
 is the evil thereof.' . . . If I thought that Maria 
 would not tease me unmercifully, I declare I 
 would do as she said — follow them to San Donato. 
 By-the-bye, though, the sun has got all clouded 
 over, and dread of its heat was my excuse for not 
 going; now that it has disappeared, I can go 
 without any sacrifice of dignity, and I am glad to 
 see that Maria does not think I really care for 
 little Marie ; if she did, she would try to keej) me 
 away from her, instead of laughing at me about 
 her. . . . And so here goes for a pleasant day." 
 He called a carriage, and drove to San Donato. 
 
 Thus ended Mr. Barkley's resolution to avoid 
 Marie, and thenceforth he struggled no more 
 against the stream, but let himself float gently 
 down, enjoying the present, and, as far as pos- 
 sible, shutting out all thought of the future. The 
 spoiled child of his family and of the world, he 
 was too much accustomed to self-indulgence to 
 refrain from pleasing himself because of the pos-
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 287 
 
 sible pain wliicli he miglit inflict on others, — in 
 fact, lie never thought about it. Intentionally, he 
 would not render any one unhappy, — ^how much 
 less Marie ; yet he was in a very fair way of so 
 doing by this thoughtless gratification of his own 
 wishes. . . . 
 
 At length arrived the last evening of their stay 
 in Florence. The Adairs and the Blakes spent it 
 at the Pontons'. Marie, as usual, sang a good 
 deal ; but she remained seated at the piano after 
 she had ceased singing, until Flora went over to 
 say that it was time to go away, when the latter 
 saw to her astonishment that Marie's eyes were 
 full of tears, and Mr. Barkley— ^he had been 
 standing by her all the time trifling with the 
 music — was looking down at her with a very 
 unmistakable expression of intense interest. He 
 tried to say something light about the pain of 
 leave-taking in general ; but as Flora raised her 
 eyes from the tearful Marie, and looked earnestly 
 at him, he coloured, and exclaimed in a low 
 tone — 
 
 " Forgive me, Misi Adair ! I know that I 
 ought to have kept away, and I tried — indeed, 
 I did ! — but it was too strong for me ! " 
 . " I do not know what all this means, Mr. 
 Barkley," answered Flora, gravely; "but it 
 appears to me difhcult to explain satisfactorily.
 
 288 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 Mignonne, dry up those tell-tale tears, we are 
 going now.'' 
 
 " Oh, Flore I " — and Marie leaned her head 
 against Flora as she pressed her handkerchief to 
 her eyes. 
 
 " For your own sake, Marie, try not to let it 
 be seen that this leave-taking affects you so 
 much," whispered Flora, and, turning to Mr. 
 Barkley, she spoke to him for a few moments on 
 some indifferent subject, so as to give Marie time 
 to recover herself; then, seeing that she had 
 dried up the tears and only looked pale and 
 dejected, she said, " Come now, Mignonne," and 
 they joined Ihe others who were wishing the 
 Pentons good-bye. 
 
 Mr. Barkley said he would walk home with 
 them, and took care to get Flora to himself. He 
 then told her that he had yielded to the tempta- 
 tion of being with Marie, persuading himself that 
 perhaps he might be able to marry her after all ; 
 and as a salve to his conscience, he had determined 
 not to utter one word of love to her. The last 
 evening, however, had been too much for him, 
 he forgot all but his love and his yearning desire 
 to know if it were returned. He now bitterly 
 blamed himself for not having had the strength 
 to go away at first, and, more than all, for his 
 conduct on that evening.
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 289 
 
 "It was particularly reprehensible in yon, 
 Mr. Barkley," answered Flora, '' to speak to Marie 
 as you liave done, knowing that she is not with 
 her own friends/' 
 
 " I know it, Miss Adair, and, until this evening, 
 I assure you that I scrupulously avoided" — and 
 this was literally true — " anything like love- 
 making." 
 
 " Even so, Mr. Barkley, your determination 
 not to speak of love to her was onl}^ a splitting of 
 hairs ; j^ou felt that you loved her, and were not 
 without hoj^e that she might resj^ond to that 
 feeling ; nevertheless, although you know that you 
 could — would is perhaps the more fitting word — 
 not ask her to marry you now, you continued to 
 seek her society. Was it honourable ? " 
 
 " I can only say again, I know but too well 
 how much I am to blame, but will you make no 
 excuse for the power of temptation ? . . . Believe 
 me, I would give worlds to marry her." 
 
 " You would give worlds to marry her," re- 
 plied Flora, with a bitter smile, " yet there is no 
 real impediment ; surel}^ there is a strange in- 
 consistency in this ? God knows how far 1 would 
 go in excusing any yielding to strong temptation, 
 but I cannot excuse any one for inflicting pain on 
 another when it onl}" requires a resolute act of 
 his will to avoid it." 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 " By lieavens, Miss Adair, it is true that I would 
 give worlds to marry Marie — I beg your pardon 
 — Miss Arbi ; and I would do so, fortune or 
 no fortune, were I my own master, but my father 
 would disinherit me if I married in opposition 
 to his wishes ; he has already told me so, and I 
 could not ask any one to marry me on nothing/' 
 
 " I don't believe that your father would dis- 
 inherit you, Mr. Earkley, j^ou, his only son, his 
 idol, and the future lord. But pray do not 
 imagine that I want you to marry Marie. I only 
 speak thus because it is laughable to hear a man 
 say that he cannot ask one whom he professes 
 to love, to marry him unless she has a certain 
 number of thousands, because, forsooth, his father 
 will disinherit him ! But as far as regards 
 Marie, I would greatly prefer that j^ou did not 
 marry her, unless it be that her affections are very 
 deeply engaged, and this I hope there is no great 
 fear of. You have not treated her well, Mr. 
 Barkley, and I do not think that you are suited 
 to each other. I doubt if your happiness would 
 be of very long duration." 
 
 - Oh, Miss Adair ! " 
 
 " Spare me a lover's rhapsody, please, and take 
 a Vv'ord of advice from me : try to forget [Marie, 
 as I trust and believe she will forget you ; — but 
 here we are at the hotel, so good-bye."
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 2P1 
 
 '' You are dreadfully liard upon me, Miss Adair, 
 but it is no use to talk of forgetting. I love 
 Marie, and shall ever love lier, truly ! " 
 
 . '' Then act like a man gifted with a free will," 
 answered Flora, as she entered the hotel. 
 
 Flora and Marie slept in the same room, so, 
 before going to bed, the former heard a tearful 
 confession of love and sorrow from poor gentle 
 little Marie. The wretched weakness of her 
 lover's conduct seemed to have no effect upon her, 
 although to Flora it appeared despicable, and 
 she thought to herself, *' Such an one would not 
 do for me ; he whom I shall love must be stronj? 
 and great, even in his faults. He must be one 
 of whom I could say 
 
 ' He was a man, take him for all in all, 
 We shall not look upon his like again.' 
 
 However, it must be my work now to comfort 
 poor Mignonne." 
 
 She endeavoured to rouse her by talking of her 
 dear papa. Monsieur de St. Severan ; of how 
 grieved he would be if she were to return to him 
 after so many years, looking pale and melancholy, 
 when he expected to see her in the bloom of 
 youth and happiness ; and urged her, for his sake 
 — and for all their sakes — to struggle against this, 
 her first experience of love's trials. 
 
 At length Marie said — speaking French, as
 
 292 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 she invariably did when very earnest, but we will 
 give the substance in the vernacular — " Yes, Flora, 
 I know it is very wrong to grieve so, to repine at 
 what I suppose God sees is good for me. I know 
 that I ought to be content to be unhappy if He 
 wills it, but it is very hard at first. Flora. . . " 
 
 " Hard ? Oh how hard, first or last ! But you 
 bear it like a saint, Mignonne ! I could not bear 
 it as you do ; it would be a hard struggle with me 
 to submit to the power which deprived me of the 
 person I loved best, even before I had known the 
 bliss of being his companion." 
 
 " Ah ! It is very nice to be happy," murmured 
 Marie through her tears, " but, if le don Dieu sees 
 that it is better for us not to be so, we ought to 
 be satisfied, ought we not ? " 
 
 " Ay, and it is comparatively easy for a little 
 angel like you to be so, but for me it would be a 
 fierce battle. ..." Were Flora's words pro- 
 phetic ? " However, that has nothing to do with 
 the present hour, the duty of which is for you 
 to go to bed, dearest." 
 
 Marie's tears broke out afresh, but she allowed 
 Flora to unfasten her gown and help to undress 
 her. When she was in bed Flora kissed her and 
 said good-night. Marie clasped her arms round 
 her, and drawing her face down to her own, mur- 
 mured, '* Flore, what should I do without you ? "
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 293 
 
 "Better, perliaps, than with me, Mignonne," 
 answered Flora, somewhat brusquely, in order to 
 hide the inclination which she herself felt to cry. 
 Marie's gentleness in her sorrow was so plaintive. 
 " I am not saint enough to know how to console 
 you with religion as another might do, I can only 
 feel for and with joii, darling, so good- night 
 again." 
 
 At last Marie sobbed herself to sleep like a 
 tired child, and next morning the hurry and 
 fuss of departure prevented her sad face and red 
 eyes from being observed. It was not a pleasant 
 morning to Flora ; she was losing her friend 
 Maria Blake, and she knew that she should miss 
 her sadly. On Marie she looked as one does on 
 a pretty, loving child, but she could not make a 
 companion of her as of Mina, — and how great 
 is the loss of one with whom we can talk 
 on the different subjects that most occupy our 
 thoughts, — one with whom we can really have 
 an interchange of ideas I . . . This Marie 
 certainly could not be to Flora, for she did not 
 think much on any subject, or read much except 
 of light literature. She had no lack of intelligence 
 and quickness, but she was by nature averse to 
 application ; she worked beautifully and was very 
 fond of it, — it did not hinder her from giving vent 
 to all her innocent gaiety of disposition in chatter-
 
 294 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 ing about all sorts of little notliings. Tliese were 
 the things which made Flora think that Marie 
 was not suited to Mr. Barkley ; she would be to 
 him a little attendant, loving, laughing sprite, 
 ready to work for him, to do anything for him, 
 in short, but to be a real companion to him; and 
 Flora feared that when the first charm of Marie's 
 beauty and caressing manner had become familiar 
 to him, he would tire of living without one who 
 could interest herself in, and, as it were, take 
 part in, his pursuits, and that by degrees he would 
 begin to leave her alone, and seek elsewhere that 
 interchange of ideas which he could not have 
 with her. 
 
 Thus, after they left Florence, it was rather a 
 gloomy time for both girls, but the various sights 
 of Eologna, Parma, Milan, and Padua — in each 
 of which towns they made a short stay on their 
 way to Venice — were good distractions, and 
 Marie's light, buoyant nature was not one to 
 which the absence of a loved one rendered ever}^- 
 thing sunless, so that sometimes she would be as 
 gay as possible, although at others large tears 
 might have been seen rolling slowly down her 
 cheeks, as on the lovely night when she sat in 
 the Piazza San Marco. 
 
 The band was playing a beautiful though 
 somewhat sad serenade, — all conduced to a soft
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 295 
 
 melanclioh^ wlilcli was deeply felt by Flora as 
 "vvell as ^larie ; but her own name — '^ Miss Adair ! " 
 — pronounced by a voice whose music she loved, 
 perhaps, too well, sent the blood flushing to her 
 cheeks, and made her eyes sparkle , as she 
 exclaimed, " Mr. Earnscliffe ! " 
 
 How inexpressibly sweet she thought his smile 
 was as he shook hands with her. Then he turned 
 to speak to Mrs. Adair and Marie. She felt too 
 astonished, yet delighted, to speak, but Mrs. 
 Adair said, " AVell, this is a surprise I We thought 
 you were in Xaples." 
 
 " So I was, but as I have not any ties to any 
 one, or to any place, my movements are often 
 sudden and changeable. I began to find it rather 
 hot, so I deteraiined not to spend the summer in 
 Italy, but I wished, before leaving it, to have 
 another lo<jk at Venice, — it is so beautiful. Is it 
 not, Miss Adair .^" 
 
 " Yes, this Piazza alone contains a world of 
 beauty and interest." 
 
 " Quite true, it has indeed been the scene of 
 stirring deeds. We have but to look upon that 
 gorgeous Ducal Palace to recall them, and with a 
 shudder we think of the fearful dungeons with 
 which it is connected by the fatal Bridge of Sighs, 
 and half expect to see the terrible state barge 
 ^flidino: swiftlv and noiselesslv to the dark
 
 296 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 Lagunes where some poor wretch is about to he 
 consigned to a watery grave. . . . Oh, Venice is 
 one vast romance ! '^ 
 
 He looked at Flora as if he expected that she 
 would continue the conversation ; but she did not 
 want to speak, she only wanted to be allowed 
 to sit there and silently enjoy the luxury of 
 listening to him. Finding that she did not 
 answer, he said, ''How strange it was that on the 
 very night of my arrival I should chance to see 
 you!" 
 
 These words recalled to her the night when she 
 had last seen him, and she replied with a smile, 
 " I wonder that you stopped to speak to us, as we 
 are all ladies. Do you remember the harsh con- 
 demnation which you pronounced upon women in 
 general at Mrs. Elton's ball? And I have not 
 seen you since ! ** 
 
 " So, Miss Adair, you have not then forgotten 
 my unfortunate speech to you ? " 
 
 " I could not forget it, it was so sweeping and 
 severe upon us." 
 
 " I fear I was very rude. Will you forgive 
 me?" 
 
 " Personall}^, I have nothing to forgive, but as 
 one of the sex, I must repeat, you were very 
 unjust to us." 
 
 1 believe so noTV^ sincerely ; at least I know that
 
 FLORA ADAIK. 207 
 
 tliere are exceptions to what I tlien said, as 
 yoiC^ — his voice was lowered so that there should 
 be no possibility of its reaching any other ears 
 than hers — " proved on that very night ; therefore, 
 5^ou, personally, have a great deal to forgive." 
 
 Flora blushed deeply as she looked up at him 
 in wonder. " "What can he have heard ? " she 
 asked herself. . . . Just then the band stopped 
 playing and went away, so that this sotto voce 
 conversation could not be continued. 
 
 The loiterers in the Piazza now began to dis- 
 perse. Mrs. Adair stood up as if she wished to 
 go home, but Flora said, " How I should like to 
 see the La^^unes at nio^htl " 
 
 "Then let us go now," said Mr. Earnscliffe; 
 " there could not be a better night for seeing 
 them than this dark and starry one, and my 
 gondola is at the steps of the Piazzetta. Shall it 
 be so, Mrs. Adair ? " 
 
 "The girls would like it," answered Mrs. 
 Adair, " so I suppose we must go." 
 
 . . . AVhat a happy closing to the evening did 
 Flora find in that row in the gondola ! How 
 vividly did Mr. Earnscliife's language call up 
 the past, — the far-famed Doges of other days ; 
 the hapless Marino Faliero, the father of the 
 Foscari ; great " blind old Dondolo." .... 
 Byron and Shakespeare lent their aid ; Shylock
 
 298 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 and Antonio seemed to walk again on the E-ialto ; 
 . . . bravos lurked behind dark buttresses for the 
 coming of their victims ; . . . lovers fled in the 
 close-curtained gondole from cruel guardians to 
 some freer shore. . . . Mr. Earnscliife did indeed 
 make Venice " one vast romance" to Flora, the 
 spell of which was hardly broken by his taking 
 leave of them on the steps of the Hotel Zucchese.
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 TThat a clelio4itful vet wakeful nif>-lit did Flora 
 
 O I, ~ 
 
 spend in thinking over tlie events of tke evening ! 
 . . . A^Tien Mr. Earnscliife's voice fell upon 
 lier ear she was musing sadly on the weariness 
 of life, and the emptiness of its ordinary plea- 
 sures. And if perchance one did get a glimpse 
 of something lilie real enjoyment, it came, she 
 thought, only to vanish. But the A^ibration 
 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 re-
 
 300 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 ligion so as to find in it a centre round wliicli all 
 lier thoughts and actions could revolve ; and with- 
 out 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 necessarih'- 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 yesterda}^ 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 Authorit}^ 
 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 prac- 
 tical piety of Marie.
 
 FLORA ADAIE. 301 
 
 ■ Most applicable to Flora are Lady Georgiana 
 Fullertoii's beautiful words in "Lady Bird." 
 . . . Speaking of characters in wbom a cra\ang 
 for excitement is a disease, she says — "There is but 
 one cure for it, call it what you will : self-educa- 
 tion, not for this world, but for the next. The 
 work of life understood ; perfection conceived and 
 resolutely aimed at ; the dream of human happi- 
 ness 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 haj^py 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 ! . . . 
 ~\\Tiat 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
 
 302 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 absence of liappliiess, tried her sorely. Byron 
 sa^^s strongly, but truly — 
 
 *' Quiet to quick bosoms is a hell ; " 
 
 and so, indeed, did Flora find it, altbougli 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 eagerl}^, 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 
 Avould 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 in- 
 clinations — Flora found an opportunity of naming 
 books upon different subjects which interested 
 him ; and because they were connected with him,
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 6V6 
 
 Marie would listen to what Flora said of them, 
 as^^ questions, and generally end by declaring that 
 she Yv'oidd read them. . . . The}^ 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 ffood 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 
 Fiench esprit wlage. ]N^evertheless, 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. Y"ou know how it pains me to say 
 those 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.''
 
 304 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 " Tlieii I must go to tell mamma. I hope she 
 is ready ! " 
 
 And awaj^ 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 re- 
 clined beneath the awning, she knew from the 
 first that it was Mr. Earnsclifi'e 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. Earnsclifie, 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
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 305 
 
 than that of any other city in Italy in the works 
 of Titian, Domenichino, Jacobo Tintoretto, and 
 the two Pahaias ; 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 sj^ent a most agreeable time there, and 
 only regretted that it was a farewell visit. 
 
 T\Tien they came out, Mr. Earnsclifie 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 
 joity not to spend as much of it as you can in 
 these delightful gondole'^ 
 
 The proposal was accepted. Flora wondered 
 what coidd 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, a 
 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 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 FLORA ADAIR, 
 
 time at Meran, and tlien 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 
 coupe of the public conveyance, — there is always 
 protection in numbers, you know." 
 
 " If it is only the want of an escort which pre- 
 vents 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 excep- 
 tion." 
 
 '' 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 atone- 
 ment, Miss Adair ? "
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 307 
 
 " You /uive made more tlian sufficient atone- 
 ment 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 Borne, 
 you would make an excellent Catholic." 
 
 ^' If suck were the only penances practised by 
 your saints, and the only objection to Rome, I 
 admit I should make an excellent Catholic." 
 
 " Well, perhaps jou 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,
 
 308 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 " 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, —
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 309 
 
 Jacobo, I mean, — will vou sino: sonietliino' for the 
 ladies?" Then he added, ''I am always calling 
 him Paolo ; it was the name of my favourite boat- 
 man 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 sao^e reasonincj 
 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 exjoect to 
 see it." 
 
 " Chi lo sa? Miss Adair, . . . and you would 
 admire Capri so much I . . . But I see that Jacobo 
 is waiting for us to be silent." 
 
 Jacobo sang of the past glories of Tenice, his 
 countenance chanfyinc? with every varvino^ feelin": 
 as he kept time to the melody with his oar 
 and the easy graceful motion of his body ; now 
 and then his companioii 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. 
 
 Header, have you ever known what it is to 
 recline in a gondola, shaded from the sun by its
 
 310 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 curtained roof, and tlie 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. Earnscliife'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 sweet- 
 ness 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 pro- 
 long the time— answered eagerly in the affirm- 
 ative, 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
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 311 
 
 them good-bye until tlie evening, and as his 
 gondola sped down the canal, the girls stood 
 watching it as they leaned over the balustrade, 
 till Mrs. Adair said — 
 
 " AVell, 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 inte- 
 resting 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 talk-
 
 312 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 ing to Mr. Earnscliffe about tlie poetry of sere- 
 nades, 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 hot-el people do not know you. Please to go 
 to the arbour." 
 
 " I ohey," 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 Yenice ; 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 head- 
 ache, and went to bed, and Mr. Earnscliffe 
 said — 
 
 " How beautiful the scene is from the terrace 
 on such a night as this, Miss Adair."
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 313 
 
 '' Yes ; it is most lovely," she replied, rising, 
 and going towards tlie walk spoken of. He 
 followed ker, and tkey leaned over tke balus- 
 trade as ke named to ker tke different buildings 
 by wkick tkey were surrounded, and wkick ske, 
 being less familiar witk Venice tkan ke was, 
 failed to recognise, skrouded as tkey now were in 
 tke dark kues of nigkt. 
 
 He ceased speaking, and for a few moments 
 tkey remained silent, until Flora said, " ^ow, Mr. 
 Earnscliffe, tell me about Cajpri and your favourite 
 boatman tkere." 
 
 Tkey walked up and down, as ke described to 
 ker Capri, its rocky keigkts, its views, and tke 
 celebrated Blue Grotto. Tken ke told ker Anina's 
 story. He passed ligktly over tke episode witk 
 Mr. Elliot in tke morning, but detailed fully tke 
 good doctor's kistory after dinner. He dwelt 
 upon tke picture of tke Engliskman sitting on 
 tke rocks sketcking, and tke young wife leaning 
 ker little kands on kis skoulders, and looking 
 down so fondly at kim, tkat even tke old man 
 envied kim. Mr. Earnscliffe stopped, and Flora 
 felt tkat he was now looking doTVTi on ker; she 
 did not dare to believe tkat it was ''fondly;" 
 nevertkeless, tkere crept over ker a delicious sen- 
 sation of kappiness. It was not a picture tkat a 
 girl could well contemplate unmoved, wken keld
 
 314 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 lip to her by tlie man wliom she loved, as slie 
 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, describ- 
 ing 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 dark- 
 ness 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
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 315 
 
 memcry of Mary Elton, as slie 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. Earnseliffie ? " asked Flora, 
 in a tone of surprise. 
 
 "Xo. 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 Kke to go to 
 bed early to-night. I vv^ill 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 uncon- 
 scionably I have kept you up." 
 
 "'So, 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."
 
 316 FLORA ADAIR. 
 
 " 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, " Yenice ! . . . 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 lova would be so superior
 
 FLORA ADAIR. 317 
 
 to me tliat lie could not care for me. . . . He is tlie 
 world, — life, — everytliing to me ; and what could I 
 be to liim? Nothing, of course. " . . . But the voice 
 whisjDered 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. 
 
 VIBTUi ASD CO., PBINTEBS, CITY EOAD, LOKDOX.