The Weird Of The Wentworths Volume Ii Part 12

"Oh, it's all my doing! poor Johnny, poor Johnny! I shall never see him again. Oh, that I was dead!" cried the poor girl, scarcely knowing what she was saying.

"Hush, dear, do not say so! why, Florence, I never dreamed you loved him--I am sure you let none of us guess it."

"Oh, I know it! it was my cruel, wicked heart.--I did love him, and I told him falsehood, and then it was too late. Oh, I shall never see him again!"

"Gently, love, I hardly understand you; tell me all, hide nothing. You need not fear me, I will not betray my trust."

In broken sentences, Lady Florence then told the whole to the Countess, and when she had finished broke into a fresh flood of tears.

"I am glad, love, you told me all, and while it was foolish at the first to trifle with such fragile things as hearts, it is all for the best. I am glad Johnny showed himself such a true man as he did; I could hardly have thought such a young creature could have decided so properly. And you, darling, did right too not to press him against his conscience.

Never mind, it is these partings that make such pleasant meetings! he will come back again, and you shall prove how faithful you are. Come, Florence, cheer up, and you shall find I will not let you forget Johnny.

I am sure you are both worthy of each other, you both did right."

With these and many other kind words the Countess cheered her young friend; and, as she had known herself what the pangs of love were, she could the better sympathize as only those who have felt like feelings _can_ do.

"You are better than I was, Floss, for I thought my lover was untrue, and you know yours is faithful! come we must see you smile, you wouldn't like Johnny to come back and find all your roses gone."

Lady Florence was a sensible girl, and convinced that the Countess was right strove to bear up against her feelings. By-and-by she was well enough to come down and go on as usual. She took a walk with Ellen in the afternoon, selecting the Holly Walk, as she knew that was the place where he had last walked. She and the Countess by chance sat down on the very seat where fifteen hours ago he had sat in so dejected a frame of mind. As they were talking, and of course speaking only of the absent one, Florence's quick eye detected the place where the little gift she had rejected was crushed into the velvet soil.

"Why, Ellen, what is this shining so bright?"

"I am sure I can't think; this is where Jeanie saw him sitting so long; you know she said he stamped something into the ground, and tore a letter to pieces--look Florence, love, there are some of the pieces blowing about."

"I wonder, oh, I wonder if it is the little packet I refused last night!

yes, Ellen, it must be; see, here is the paper it was wrapt in, with his seal on the wax, the lion rampant, and eastern crown!--quite prophetic--and your motto, '_Unus et idem_,' what does that mean, Ellen?

we will ask Wentworth."

The little brooch was soon rescued from its prison, and though somewhat the worse for its rough usage, Florence determined to have it put right again; which was done, and she ever afterwards wore it.

"Wentworth, what does '_unus et idem_' mean?"

"_Unus et idem_, what put that into your head, Floss?"

"Never mind, and don't give Scotch answers. I asked you what it meant, and you, by way of answer, ask me what put it into my head? I believe you have forgotten your Latin."

"No, no, not yet; it means 'one and the same,' Floss; and now give me a direct answer, and tell me why you want the motto of the Ravensworths translated--ah, your blush tells the tale! never mind, Floss, I couldn't wish you a better lover."

Days pa.s.sed away--slowly at first, then more rapidly--and in a week or ten days the Countess received a long letter from Johnny just before his embarkation; enclosed was a note to Florence, in which he again declared his undying love, and faith; it was written in high spirits, and more than anything tended to raise those of Florence; after all it was but a year or two, and then they would meet again. She began to look and feel bright once more; yet all her flippancy and flirtation were for ever gone, as the young peer John Ravensworth had been so jealous of found to his cost when he next met her. The day after the arrival of the letter, the newspapers announced that H. M. S. "Recluse" had sailed from Southampton for Calcutta, with a company of soldiers and several young officers. As all regrets were vain now, Lady Florence ceased to grieve over the unhappy circ.u.mstance that had driven them apart for so long, and amused herself by following in her mind the voyage of the gallant ship that bore him she loved so far away. She knew too he was thinking of her, and when at evening she watched the western star she often fancied how he was perhaps gazing on the selfsame planet, and it seemed as if an electric chain bound them together whilst severed so far. Often when at night the wind whistled shrill through the lofty towers,--when, too, the equinoctial gales roared amid the surrounding woods, strewing the ground with summer's leafy honours, or whirling the broken boughs across the park,--she would quail in heart, as she thought how one she loved was tost on the angry billow, whilst the fine vessel was like a c.o.c.klesh.e.l.l on the hissing surge, then she would lift her heartfelt prayer, as she lay on her wakeful couch--to Him in whose hand is the broad ocean, who in the wildest turmoil can say, Peace, be still! and commend her lover to his sleepless care. The Countess was agreeably surprised to see how well her friend kept her plighted faith, and she had no reason to fan the flame, which seemed to grow brighter and brighter every moment. She often used to walk with her, and lead her mind gently and unostensibly to better things than the light, and, if harmless, certainly useless frivolities in which she had so long shone the admired of all; indeed her own inclinations were little bent towards such amus.e.m.e.nts now. Before her parting with John she had been like a child, happy in some fair garden, chasing the b.u.t.terfly from flower to flower, careless of all save the present moment, forgetful of the past, heedless of the future, without aim or object save pleasure. Now it was as if some one had pointed out the shining light, as did Evangelist to the Pilgrim--now she cared not how soon she left idle follies; she had something to live for, something to aim at, something to think on as a spur to future progress. The past was as a reminder a n.o.ble prize was in view, and she pressed forward to obtain it. The change of mind produced a corresponding change even in her appearance. The coquettish smile, the careless toss of the head, the very walk, were either gone or mellowed down; without being crushed the exhilarant spirits were chastened, and no one could have told her to be the same being she had been only a few weeks ago. It was all a change for the better; the Earl loved her more as Il Penseroso, than he did as L'Allegro. The Countess loved her more, and she won the most favourable opinions from all her friends and relatives, who saw the change without being privy to the cause. To use a hackneyed similitude, she had been like the plant, which uncrushed is beautiful, yet void of perfume, but which gives out its most precious odours when bruised and crushed.

About a month after young Ravensworth had sailed the papers reported the safe arrival of the vessel off Funchal in the Madeiras. The ship which had spoken the "Recluse," also brought home letters,--a long and affectionate one to Lady Florence from himself, in which he gave an interesting account of his voyage, and all the wonders of the deep he had seen. Several very nice young fellows were on board, as well as many ladies going out to their husbands or friends; one exceedingly pretty, with whom he was a great favourite, he added by way of raillery, and he was quite afraid she would make him forget Florence. He said he was drest in sailor's costume, and helped the tars in their tasks aloft; they had dancing by moonlight every night--the air was clear and delightful, and they were nearing the Trades. Funchal was a little Paradise on the waters, such flowers and fruits, he wished he could send some of its wines to the Marquis. The stars were magnificent, and the southern constellations daily growing more splendid, and more brilliant than dwellers in the northern zone could imagine. He ended by tenderest love to his Florence and the Countess, and best remembrances to the Earl, saying he hoped to bring home the sword he had given him hacked like a saw in many a stiff encounter. Months pa.s.sed by, and then a second letter from St. Helena arrived; so far all had gone well, their sails were filled with the fresh trade winds again, after three weeks'

becalming in the tropics, under a fierce red sun, vertical, and casting such rays as melted the very tar on the ropes, and beneath which the waters seethed like pitch. They had only anch.o.r.ed off the island, not being allowed to land owing to its then being the prison of the ill.u.s.trious Buonaparte. He spoke with great delight about the cross of the south, a constellation surpa.s.sing all his powers of description; "and yet," he added, "when on the line I beheld the great bear's seven stars, magnified into fearful splendour, as if most glorious ere it left its old friends, I turned from the flaming southern cross to those stars sinking beneath the waters, and they alone were dear! the only, lonely lights that still bound us together, and I sorrowed when I could see no more the well-known, cherished cl.u.s.ter that shines on the north, and _my_ northern star."

This was the last letter Florence ever received from him; long ere she read its welcome news the hand that penned it was cold, the heart that dictated it forgotten to throb far beneath the blue waters, lowly laid among the coral reefs. The "Recluse" was to touch at the Cape, but it never cast anchor in sight of Table Mountain. In vain Florence scanned the papers, in vain she read the ship news; time pa.s.sed on, and no letter came. News arrived that some terrific gales had swept the ocean at the time the "Recluse" was expected to reach Cape Town, and it was surmised she had run past, and would perhaps steer for Madagascar. Two more anxious months pa.s.sed away, in which the Earl and family left the Towers for their town residence--still no news of the vessel; by-and-by the Earl himself, who had been the most sanguine, began to despond, and grow anxious. The papers were full of the missing vessel, in which some of the flower of the land had sailed. Lady Florence grew pale and paler still, as vessel after vessel arrived, and no news of the missing ship.

By this time it ought to have long since arrived in India, and doubts became almost certain conjectures that she was lost. Still it was possible that she might have put in at some out of the way harbour in a disabled condition, and hope still lingered in many a mourner's breast.

A war ship was sent out by the Admiralty and scoured the seas in search of her; every port was called at, but without avail. After a long age of suspense, and hope deferred which sickens the heart, the frigate returned without tidings, and the "Recluse" was struck from the Navy List. Lady Florence still hoped, so long is it before we bid hope depart! Ships had been lost ere this for years; he was such a fine swimmer he might have been picked up by a vessel, which had sailed to the other end of the world, or cast on a barren rock, and like Alexander Selkirk might come back after long years. About a year after the search a little vessel arrived at Liverpool with news, the only news ever gained of the "Recluse," and it was only cruel tidings that rekindles dying expectation to quench it again. This vessel had seen the "Recluse"

drifting--a mastless hulk, on its beam ends, in a fearful hurricane off the Cape, lat. 40 7', long. 35 13'; not a soul was on deck, and she had neither bowsprit nor rudder. The little vessel herself could render no a.s.sistance, though she scudded under bare poles so near as to read her name on the stern. Shortly after she heard a gun of distress, and the last thing she saw was the ill-fated vessel lying in the trough of a monstrous billow which she could never surmount. They fancied this sea had swamped her, as they neither saw nor heard more of her afterwards.

They declared her case was quite hopeless, and a worse hurricane they had never weathered.

Such was the news which banished the last ray of hope from every breast;--no, not from every breast, one still madly hoped on. But it was a hope that belied itself, for the despairing Florence showed her belief, though she owned it not, by wearing the garb of mourning. It was a hope which killed its victim. As the power of swimming holds up the shipwrecked mariner only a little longer on the wide waters, and makes the pang of sinking at last only more intense, as he strikes for the light far in front which he knows he has not the strength to reach, so Florence's only fed her despair. This despairing, unbelieving grief was like a blight at the core; the heart's woe slowly, but surely, worked its desolations on the fair, frail bearer. It was slowly received, but lasting; as the frost at night imperceptibly, but surely, freezes the waters that sleep beneath its chilling breath; or better still, the unseen, unnoticed, petrifying water hardens, chills, deadens, the living gra.s.s that grows green on its banks--so with Lady Florence, the grief at first discredited, then doubted, and little by little gradually imbibed into her heart, and believed--whilst she denied the pang that killed her, showed its outward ravages on the pale cheek, tinted with a hectic flush that told its tale, and in the eye unnaturally bright. Her friends saw the dire premonitions of her fate, and her brother took the best medical advice. But the heart's wounds are not to be cured, and when the seat of life is touched, when the root is blighted, woe to the branches!

When the doctor saw his patient he p.r.o.nounced it at once a lost case; that fast decline no mortal hand could arrest, its stay could only be gained by an immediate removal to a warmer climate. Madeira was first chosen, but as the Villa Reale at Naples had every comfort of an English house the doctor decided on her departure thither, stating that every hour spent in this damp, foggy country was a day lost. The Earl and Countess, deeply grieved not only at the untimely death of the young and promising soldier, who had perished,

"As on that night of stormy water When love, who sent, forgot to save The young, the beautiful, the brave, The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter--"

but also at the near prospect of another loss to add to their woe, delayed not in obeying their medical adviser, and at once started for Naples in their yacht, "The Star of the Sea." The voyage was specially recommended, so they sailed with the invalid about to end her short life amid the flowers and myrtle-groves of Ausonia's sunny clime and favoured sh.o.r.es!

CHAPTER X.

"And one, o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fanned; She faded midst Italian flowers, The last of that bright band!"--_Hemans._

Though we have not mentioned the grief of the Countess for her only brother's death, owing to the greater and more distracting woe of Lady Florence's engaging our attention, it must not be inferred from thence she did not deeply and long feel her irreparable loss. After her husband and children, there was no living being who had so entwined himself round the young mother's heart as her brother had ever done. She had had, it might be said, his entire moral education in her training from a child; he had grown a credit to his mistress, besides combining all, in his appearance and manners, that most captivates woman's heart. She was at once proud and delighted with her pupil:--proud to see her careful and painstaking bringing up had been so well developed, and exceeded her highest expectations; delighted to see how he reflected credit on her family; and, most of all, found an anxious well-wisher in her husband.

But alas for early promise! alas for youthful hopes! The pride of her eyes, the idol of her heart, had been rudely s.n.a.t.c.hed away. All her long watching,--just when the plant was beginning to reflect glory on its trainer,--had proved in vain. The child of so many prayers had early been called hence; his sun had gone down whilst it was yet day; in the very spring of its sunshine, at the very hour when his rays were most cherished, the eclipse had come on and the Countess felt a double pang in thus losing not only her brother, but as it were her son,--for so she almost regarded him. Her father, too, was an object of solicitude; he had lost the prop of his old age, his only surviving son; and so heavily had the loss fallen on him, it seemed as if he too would soon follow the light of his eyes to the tomb.

The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong; and Ellen was now learning, by sad experience, that to be great is not to be happy,--to be rich is not to be free from care. The Weird was fast fulfilling; one by one, in the bloom of their age, the flowers of the family were falling off. Lady Arranmore was gone; now Lady Florence was going;--who would be the next to follow? These were sad thoughts, which often cast a shadow on Ellen's fair face. She was still so young, but seemed as if she was to be stricken again and again, and when she looked on her lord, her children, and all over whom the Weird had its fatal power, she trembled! Her own sorrows were partly lessened by the task of comforting and sympathising with the griefs of others. She had her father in his sonless woe, and Florence in her declining health; and, like all tender minds, she forgot her own in alleviating another's misery. She had also her children to think of, and almost seemed unable to grasp all her duties, and do all that was required. Had she not had a higher Comforter, she could never have borne up against such a complication of disasters; but she had learned that lesson which is the last a Christian is perfected in,--to cast all her care on a greater than any earthly friend, and to feel sure all was for the best,--good would spring from evil;--yes, often the shadow goes before the blessing, the cloud before the refreshing shower, and the shower before the rainbow! The darkest hour is the hour before dawn; and faith must not tremble at the dimness of darkness, but look forward to the bright sun that follows.

The Earl had determined to ask his bereaved father-in-law, as well as Maude, to pa.s.s the winter with them at Naples; and early in October the whole party started on their travels, proceeding first to Southampton, and thence, by the Earl's schooner yacht, to Naples. This little vessel was commanded by Captain Wilson, who had retired on half-pay from an ungrateful service, and was glad to get such an excellent appointment from his friend. He was much concerned at the altered looks of his invalid charge, and took the most fatherly care of her during the voyage. They had a very pleasant pa.s.sage after the Bay of Biscay, which kept up its character, and gave them a stormy welcome. It was a sorrowful crew, and very unlike the usual voyages in the "Star of the Sea." Lady Florence and the Countess used often to sit on the p.o.o.p, beneath the white awning, and gaze with a sad delight on the dark blue billows, as they boomed and hissed past them, with their feathery foam-crests. Beneath that blue, lone sea slept the loved of all! it was on those surges, perhaps, he had striven long and well, but at last succ.u.mbed to his fate! Sometimes the wish would force itself on the mind of Florence that the same cruel waves would engulf their frail craft, and she would rest deep under the changing, surging waves; but Ellen used to tell her it was wrong,--to bear was to conquer her fate; when it was Heaven's will, her bark of life would reach its haven of rest; and from this she gradually went on, and spoke so sweetly, so gently, to her young friend, that, little by little, her mind was weaned away from selfish sorrow, and she half resolved to live for others,--not to give way to unavailing grief.

Nine days after they embarked from England, the "Star of the Sea"

anch.o.r.ed off the Molo Grande. After some trouble with pa.s.sports, the party disembarked at the Porto Grande, from whence they drove to the Villa Reale, so called from the gardens by which it was surrounded resembling those bearing the same name at Naples,--the great promenade in the evenings. About half an hour's drive on the Castellamare road brought them to their destination. The villa stood on the rising ground, sloping upwards towards Vesuvius, which formed its background to the right. Behind it vineyards, orange and lemon groves made the white castellated mansion stand forth gloriously; and Mr. Ravensworth and Maude, who had never seen Naples before, thought,--as every one thinks,--nothing could be more beautiful! The warm air, and mild sea breezes, for a time seemed as if they would restore the drooping Florence; but as the winter drew on,--unfortunately rather colder than usual,--her cough grew worse, and every eye saw the swift decline again hurrying its victim to the grave. Lady Florence alone thought she would recover; alone she knew not her danger,--part of the fatal complaint!

Still, it was rather with grief than otherwise she looked on her restoration. All that she had lived for had gone; life had nothing now to make her woo its stay; and often, almost dejectedly, she would say--

"I shall get well, after all, Ellen; I half wish I may not; and yet there is a lingering love of life, though its bloom is all gone."

"I hope, my darling, you may."

But Ellen knew her hopes were vain; yet she did not tell her fears to the invalid.

As the spring came on Florence grew worse. At first she made long excursions by sea and land,--to Ischia, Sorrento, Vesuvius, and many other places; or took long drives into the interior. Soon she grew unable to bear these fatigues, and used to drive along the sh.o.r.e, or walk to the volcano's side only. As she grew weaker, and her cough became more and more troublesome, and wearing on the system, even these short excursions were given up, and the invalid during sunny days used to be wheeled on a sofa to the balcony, where she used to gaze listlessly on the blue Mediterranean, or converse with her friend the Countess, who scarcely ever left her side. The most skilful medical care now availed nothing,--slowly, but surely, the victim sank! the hectic flush grew brighter, the eye more unearthly clear, the form more emaciated,--and then the patient was unable to leave her dying bed.

Naples is now considered a climate thoroughly unfit for consumptive patients; but in those days climatology was not so well understood as now; and the Doctor balancing the comforts of the Villa Reale with the miseries of hotels overlooked some more important items.

Lord Wentworth, when he saw his sister failing so fast, as a last resource communicated with the then celebrated Abernethy, who, on hearing the case, ordered her immediate removal to Rome, or else inland as far as she could bear the journey. Accordingly a carriage was fitted up as a couch, and the lady removed from the Villa Reale, travelling by easy stages to the ancient mistress of the world. The journey again seemed to feed the dying flame of life, and the Earl with joy beheld his sister able to be wheeled once more to the balcony of the palace which he rented. It was but once she was permitted to do this: never more did she quit her couch. The fatal sirocco blew for three days, and this seemed to dry up the last hope. On the evening of the last day she called her friends to her bedside, and told them she was dying. The scene was peculiarly sad. From their windows they saw the Capitol with its ruined towers in the last light of day,--and her sun was sinking too! The Earl sat with downcast looks near the foot of the dying girl's bed; Mr. Ravensworth and Maude sat on one side, and on the other knelt the Countess whispering words of comfort in her friend's ear. The expiring beauty sat up in her bed, and, pointing to the reflected beams on the ruins, said--

"My sun is, too, setting, Ellen; if there is one grief in parting, it is leaving you."

"You will rise again, as will that orb, brighter, and in a better land, Florence love! But, oh! it is hard to lose you, though we should not grudge the change from weeping into glory, and life into eternity. Are you happy, dear?"

"I never was happier; could all my life be promised over again, I would not wish to live! to die is far better. I do but go before, Ellen, and I shall see him!"

She then lay down again as if exhausted; her breathing became quicker, as though she almost panted for breath; a light of glory seemed to shine on her face, and her eye looked brighter still; her lips moved as though she were speaking, but no words were whispered.

"Did you speak, love?" asked the Countess.

"I am dying now,--I feel the chain that still holds me here slackening fast. Ellen, love, farewell!--Wentworth,--dear Maude, and--Mr.