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. Earnscliffe, in order to endeavour to learn something of his appearance and his mode of life.

He lived in the Piazza di Trajana, in a handsome and thoroughly Italian apartment on the second floor--or, as it is more properly called, _secondo 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 show 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 forehead, but one marked with many a line,--too many for a man of six-and-thirty. Byron speaks of

"Those furrows which the burning share Of sorrow ploughs untimely there;"

and so, perhaps, was it with Mr. Earnscliffe. His large blue eyes had a strangely stern expression in them, "_pour les doux 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 was

"A light of other days."

His slightly aquiline nose, and his somewhat full lips closed firmly over an unbroken 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 would have been that 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 philosopher, "which is the form of the body and which gives its beauty to it."

We 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 congregate 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 column which still stands there, he lived in some degree in the Rome 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 modern Rome, 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 was. Then her sovereignty rested on material force alone,--she was the capital of the peoples whom she had conquered for her Cæsars 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 persuasion, 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 Nibbi's "_Roma Antica e Moderna_," "_Les Catacombes de Rome_," by Louis Perret, an open volume of Plato, Bulwer's "Zanoni" and "Godolphin." It was a small but somewhat miscellaneous collection, and formed 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, bitterly ask himself what he gained by all his study and thought? It only isolated him, he would say, 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 attainable shore.... Yet the shore was close to him, 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 whom 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 towards him, "thou art my best friend, my only master! But even thou dost not teach enough! Yet come, thou canst teach me more than any other!" And, with 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 kiss the rod under which he 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 himself 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 creature, or given any pleasure to others. To his servants he was a kind master, although habitually reserved and distant, but never to them was he proud and scornful, as he often was to his equals. For the rest, his character must develop itself. We shall not now be astonished at acts of apparent inconsistency caused by that perpetual warfare between the two natures, the real and the acquired. Thus flashes 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 something very wrong with Mr. Earnscliffe, for he could 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 hollowness of all things? 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 thrown into the world for the greater part to be tortured, and all left without any certain guide, the sport of their own wayward minds! And then, indeed, people talk about the consolations of religion! What 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 attacking 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 superstition. _À propos_, I wonder how Flora Adair believes 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 unravel her! She would be rather a new and interesting study,--she takes a different _rôle_ from young ladies in general. I don't know that it would be a bad plan to try to unearth her,--it would be something new to think 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 fatuus_, certainty! 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! Bulwer 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 the volume. 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 Via Babuino--where the Eltons lived.

Their apartment differed essentially from Mr. Earnscliffe's; his was Italian, theirs was English in everything,--an English servant opened the door and ushered visitors into a handsome drawing-room luxuriously furnished _à l'Anglaise_, 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 gracefully 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 ever be applied _justly_ to one who was so thoughtless and impulsive--something in regard to Mary, and she shrugged her shoulders impatiently as she watched the incessant motion of her sister's pen and her close attention to what she was doing.

We must not pass over in silence the appearance 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 height, and slighter than her sister; there was a careless grace, too, in her quick, restless movements, 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 complexions 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 indeed! Mary had a broad and rather high forehead, a straight, almost Grecian, nose and a well-cut but large mouth. Helena's forehead was low and very narrow, her nose was slightly _retroussé_, 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 up looking so intensely interested in that 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 thinking of going?"

"Surely I am, though!"

"And, in the name of all that is wonderful, for what? You would not tell me that such a madcap as you are can care to go poking about in those damp underground passages, listening to an old Cardinal's fabulous legends of this Roman nonsense? A little poetic association with the past is very telling for them, no doubt; but you are never going for all this, Helena?"

"No, not I! But, my precious matter-of-fact sister, can you not imagine any one going to the Catacombs for any other motive than that of seeing them and listening to tiresome old histories? 'Poking about in those damp underground passages,' as you most irreverently designate visiting the last home of the saints, the persecuted, the martyrs!"

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 underground 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."

"With your usual wisdom you have divined it, O 'most potent, grave, and reverend' lady!"

"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. Caulfield. You will not be allowed to marry him, therefore all these meetings will but make you unhappy!"

"Most admirably reasoned! Only you seem to ignore the existence of that tender passion called love, which 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; therefore, 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 expression 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?

Mary shrugged her shoulders impatiently, 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 you something which you would be glad to hear."

"Helena!" interrupted Mary, whilst an angry flush spread itself over her face.

"Nay, 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-gratification; for that I depend on your affection; 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 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 immovable 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 sudden this compound 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 for that apparently immovable sister, whom she had discovered to be something more than the well-regulated timepiece 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 her, perhaps, and give her hope. Mary, 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 changed _rôles_: the calm reserved Mary sobbed passionately, and Helena endeavoured to soothe 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!" and 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 affection, 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-heartedness, 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 calm people burst the bonds of the so-called principles which had 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 fully, 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."

"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 only be forbidden to see him, and I love him too dearly to let him risk the refusal which I know he would get. So, as I have already told you, it is too late to think of sparing me pain by preventing my meeting him; it would but take away from me all the happiness I can now have--that of seeing him occasionally. What I want you to do, Mary, is to help me in this, and still further, to try to incline mamma more favourably towards him, and you have great influence with her. If you will do this I will promise not to marry him for a year, at all events, without her consent; but if you drive me to desperation, if you deprive me of the delight of being with him sometimes, I cannot answer for myself."

Helena had grown serious enough, and her voice and manner borrowed some of her sister's determination, as she continued, "And as for mamma's rich favourite, Mr. Mainwaring, nothing on earth could induce me to marry him! It is all very well for calm, quiet people to marry from respect and esteem, as they call it, but were I to do it, I know I should run away before a year had gone by. Mary, you would not like to see me wretched, and I am sure that you would do more to save me from being so than any one else, therefore have I asked you to help me now, and you will?" Helena laid her head upon her sister's knee, and her 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 that in your bright sunny way you do love Mr. Caulfield. The cold, calculating code under which we have been schooled could never be yours. I, being of a less easily excited nature, accepted what I was told, and I was fast becoming what you described as the model young lady. I met Mr. Earnscliffe, and thought of him first as eligible, in obedience to what I knew were mamma's wishes; but suddenly I found that something, the existence of which I dreamed not of, had 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 conviction of their emptiness and falsehood, that there was no real principle in any of them; the reaction carried all before it, and left nothing but this wild reckless passion, goaded as it is by the mortification of loving unloved.... But he _shall_ love me, or, at least, he shall not be another's!"

Again she had become excited, and Helena seemed half frightened at her vehemence; but the 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 know? I am sure you are, only you are too dignified to say so."

"Too dignified! why, child, that word and I have parted company for ever. Was it dignified, think you, to betray such a secret as mine? When 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. Earnscliffe was gone, but his voice could be heard speaking to Flora Adair, and your eyes were fixed 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. When 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!' Since then I have watched you, noticed your eyes flashing when you heard of his attention to Flora during her illness, and now, this very day, how irritable you became when I spoke of her ideas of love. How I have 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 that 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; you 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 which I am obliged to fence in my heart, in order to enable me to keep up appearances; but, believe me, I am most grateful for all your affection, even when I may the least appear to value it."

Helena 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."

"Well, if you choose to be obtuse, Mary, and then a wee bit impatient, I suppose I had better speak as plainly as possible. Mr. Earnscliffe is going!"

"Mr. Earnscliffe!" Mary's indifference had vanished. "How do you know it? He hates parties of that kind; he likes going to such places alone, or merely with another man."

"All the same, he _is_ going to-day. Harry was by when some grand personage, meaning to compliment him, introduced him to the Cardinal, who asked him if he would like to join their party to the Catacombs to-day. Harry says that Mr. Earnscliffe did not look enchanted at the good Cardinal's condescension, yet he bowed acceptance, probably because he knew that it would be a breach of etiquette to refuse a prince of the Church. Now, is not that news worth hearing? What a reward for your goodness in consenting to go for my sake! But I have other news for you, and which you will like still better, as it may be of lasting advantage to you: Harry told me that that rich Mr. Lyne is going to marry Flora Adair!"

"Ah, Helena! is it true?" exclaimed Mary, eagerly.

"If I were to answer as I think myself, I would say, no. She evidently does not care for him, so 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, ungentlemanly, 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 course he could not be so without some reason. How does Mr. Caulfield know it?"

"From Mr. Lyne himself; he likes Harry very much, and talks to him quite confidentially, and Harry innocently told it to me as a piece of good fortune for our friend. He thinks Mr. Lyne 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 which 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, and thin drawn lips; her habitual expression was placid and determined, and it must be acknowledged that, for a lady of fifty-five, she was remarkably _bien conservée_, 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 comparatively 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 they had been married about fifteen years, her husband died, her grief was 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 falling a prey to fortune-hunters, she 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.

"Nor do I feel very well," replied 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 to 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 says 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, particularly to one so thoughtless as Helena. You are far steadier than either of them, and I can very well spare you to-day;--indeed, if you did not go, 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, looking 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 prepared 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 dressing-table, speaking to herself in an undertone--"Follow her sister's example; indeed, God forbid! I do wish that mamma 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 me to look upon every rich man as a possible husband. But she must never know my secret; it would drive 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 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 my own hands, although 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, 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 afterwards; she descended to the dining-room, where she found her mother and sister already 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!