: Flora Adair; or Love Works Wonders. Vol. 2 (of 2) by Donelan A M - Fiction

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FLORA ADAIR; OR, Love works Wonders.

LONDON: CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY. 1867.

FLORA ADAIR.

In proportion as he had been elated and happy with her, so did the next morning find him depressed and sad. He had given himself up completely to the enjoyment of that starlight walk. How pleasant he found it to watch the movements of Flora's little slight figure as she walked by his side, and every now and then to have some thought or feeling which he expressed responded to by a look from her soft eyes. But even as he thought over it all he said to himself, "Yes, it was very delightful; but will any good come of it? I knew such an evening long ago; then, too, I walked with one whom I loved and trusted, and she brought me only misery. Life and hope and faith have been blighted by her. Is it not worse than folly, then, to believe in a woman again?..."

For the last few days he had cast all doubt from him. He only thought of how Flora had acted towards Mr. Lyne; of how true she had been to him; so true that not even an unjust accusation could wring from her a word implying that he had proposed for her. But now came the reaction. It was not all at once that Mr. Earnscliffe could divest himself fully of that distrust of women which for years had been so rooted in his mind. Then Mary Elton's words and his own dream forced themselves painfully upon him, and sounded like a warning which said, "Stop, before it is too late." "But perhaps it is already too late," he thought. "Could I forget her even now? Have I ever forgotten her since the first day we met at Frascati? All that time at Capri was I not thinking of her, although persuading myself that I was not interested in her personally? How much less, then, could I forget her after these two happy evenings. Yet, if ever any one had a presentiment of misfortune in adopting some particular course of action, I have. It is not possible, of course, to do otherwise than accompany them across the Brenner, since I offered them my escort; but I need not go to Meran; we can meet at Botzen. If she is to be banished from my memory, it would be folly to put myself in the way of sweet associations; of seeing her constantly; of walking and riding with her; guiding her through all the lovely excursions about Meran. Then, indeed, I could never help yielding to the charm of having such a companion--a charm which I have never known before; for in those fatal days when I fancied myself in love, I was only caught by a beautiful casket. It was so beautiful that it dazzled me, and kept me from looking beyond. I took it for granted that the jewel contained in it must be priceless, until one day the casket flew open, and showed me that the supposed jewel was a false one. Now it is just the contrary; the casket boasts of no great beauty or outward ornament, but may not the jewel within be precious? Yes, I see it is the lighting up of that jewel which possesses so subtle a charm now, when no outward brilliancy could win a glance from me. Were I sure of its intrinsic value, it would be well worth the trial; yet all kinds of dark forebodings seem to warn me back. But how that jewel's sparkle would brighten my cold, lonely existence! Shall I, then, go to Meran, or not?"

Ah! Flora, you little know how important a moment this is for you! Why are you not in Venice, so that your presence might turn the scale in your own favour? Will the memory of yesternight's walk suffice for it? It appears that at least it is sufficient to prevent sentence from being pronounced against you. The judge is evidently not sure of himself; not sure that he would have strength to carry it out, and therefore he wisely defers putting it on record. He will wait and see what time will do. So you may congratulate yourself on a half triumph, at all events; and occupy yourself with the sights of Verona and the different beauties of the route to Meran.

In "fair Verona's" amphitheatre, unmatched save by the giant Coliseum of Rome, we left the Adairs standing, and when they had wandered up and down its tiers and given their meed of admiration, they drove to see the house of the Capulets and the--so-called--tomb of Romeo and Juliet. On their way Flora told Marie the lovers' sad history, and showed her how doubly interesting the site is to natives of Great Britain, because enshrined in their great poet's genius.

An afternoon they found sufficient to "do" the lions of Verona, so the next morning they started by train for Peschiera, and there took the steamer to Riva.

What a lovely sail it is across the Lago di Garda, with its boundary of castle-capp'd mountains and the little villages at their base, half buried in groves of lemon and orange tress! And, for lovers of classic memory, there are the ruins of the house where Catullus dictated his ballads. In the days of Virgil the lake was celebrated for looking like a little sea, foaming beneath the lash of the mountain winds, which seldom left it unruffled; and to-day it did not belie its reputation, as its blue waters tossed about in miniature fury, the white-crested waves rolling one over the other and dashing their spray afar. Riva itself is a charming little place; and then the drive to Trent--a drive which shows one of Tyrol's greatest charms, that of uniting something of the wildness and grandeur of Switzerland with the soft, fresh beauty of our home scenery.... Now we see an isolated lake, so shut in by snowy mountains that the only egress from its shores seems to be a winding, giddy mountain path, to which we almost fear to trust ourselves; but if we venture and ascend it for a time, we find that it leads down, on the other side, into a smiling valley, with emerald green fields stretching far away in gentle undulations, and watered by little rivulets flowing between flowery banks and shady trees. Or we come suddenly upon two rocky points spanned by a single plank, and at such a height that, looking at it from below, it appears as If it were suspended in the air; and beneath, a rushing torrent dashes over its rugged bed, gurgling and foaming at each attempted interruption to its headlong course. Let us climb down from this wild spot, and we come upon an almost English scene of comfort and neatness; there is a pretty cottage with its shelving wooden roof and carved cross in front; the sheep and cows are grazing at a distance, and the shepherd boy is lying in the grass pulling the wild flowers which grow around him. The character of Tyrol's inhabitants partakes too of all this; they have the open independent bearing of mountaineers, combined with rare simplicity and softness. There is not a spot in all Tyrol without its own beauty, and we should travel far indeed before we met so fine a race of people; not only in their general character, but also in their outward appearance.

The Adairs slept that night at Trent, and before leaving the next day they visited its churches, particularly the one where the great Council was held, and there they saw a painting of it which contains portraits of several of the prelates who assisted thereat. Towards evening they arrived at Botzen, just as the last rays of the sun were lighting up the Calvarienberg, as the mountain close to the entrance of the town is called, on account of the stations of the Cross which lead up to the Calvary on its summit. With one accord they all exclaimed, "How beautiful!" But in Tyrol this is an exclamation which is called forth at every turn, and words are indeed too weak to express the different degrees of its loveliness.

How glad Flora felt at the prospect of getting to Meran to-morrow! It would be the fourth day since they had left Venice, the day upon which Mr. Earnscliffe had promised to meet them; and she looked forward anxiously to that meeting. Once before she had parted from him in the utmost friendliness, and when next she saw him he scarcely spoke to her--would it be so now? These were her thoughts as they drove along the hill and castle-bordered route which leads from Botzen to Meran.

No familiar face greeted them at the Post Hotel. The day waned, and Flora stood leaning listlessly against one of the front windows, gazing down the road which they had traversed that morning, and sadly she thought: "So he is not coming--I suppose he will wait until the exact time when he thinks we shall want to cross the Brenner; but, at least, he might have written to say so. It is rude of him thus to break the appointment without a word of apology. How slowly the days will now pass, even here in beautiful Meran! Beauty and pleasure are only accessories; they cannot give a particle of the happiness which we may feel, even in toil and trouble, when endured for one whom we love. Moore was right when he said--

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