"When hope is chidden
That fain of bliss would tell,
And love forbidden
In the breast to dwell,--
When, fettered by a viewless chain,
We turn and gaze and turn again,
Oh! death were mercy to the pain
Of those that bid farewell!"--_Heber._
"On India's long expected strand
Their sails were never furled."
_James Montgomery._
We turn with pleasure from these dark outlaws to pure affections in pure
bosoms. Johnny Ravensworth was growing up all that his father could
desire; he was full of the most exhilarant spirits, but had been
strictly moral in his private character, amid all the temptations of a
dissipated military school. He took away such a character for diligence,
good conduct, and steadiness, that the highest hopes were formed that he
would prove an ornament to the profession he had chosen. His talents,
though not brilliant, were of a high order,--his attainments were steady
and solid. To these he added the gifts of excellent good temper, and
thorough unselfishness, the main-spring of all real politeness; for
though it often happens a finished gentleman like the Earl of
Chesterfield may be exceedingly selfish, yet we never find an unselfish
man who has not the principles of true politeness, and is not a thorough
gentleman. It was, therefore, with feelings of pride and delight that
John Ravensworth, as we must now call him, after passing a severe
examination, yet gaining a high place, bade adieu to his masters, with
whom he was a great favourite, owing to his steady progress and
unimpeachable conduct whilst under their discipline; and to his fellow
students, who lost in him their captain in all manly amusements; for,
while Ravensworth would never join them in any ungentlemanly, or foolish
expedition, in riding, rowing, cricketing, and all the healthful and
useful accomplishments, he took the lead that his well-knit frame and
unimpaired physical strength entitled him to hold. Assuredly all who saw
him as he walked forward, amid the plaudits of his fellow companions,
and the waving of fair ladies' kerchiefs, to receive the gold medal for
good conduct, and contrasted his handsome face, glowing with health and
conscious pride, his manly form proportioned like a young Adonis, could
not but contrast health and vigour of mind and body, arising from
subjecting them to their proper discipline, with the sallow looks and
impaired constitutions of many of his collegiates, which told too
plainly the ravages of youthful intemperance on unperfected frames. But
who could look for a moment on the bright, healthful, young Ravensworth,
and the dull impoverished devotee of pleasure, and not see how
temperance has the promise of this life as well as the next? And what
young beauty would not rather gaze on him than on those poor debilitated
companions in learning? Thus, at the youthful age of eighteen, after
having won golden opinions from every one he was connected with, young
Ravensworth, with a light heart, bade farewell to the south, and started
by coach for the Highlands, in order to spend a couple of months with
his father before sailing for India, as the regiment to which he was
gazetted was on service at Delhi. The third, and last month of his leave
was promised to his sister at the Towers, and we must say that in the
young soldier's breast an inmate of those towers claimed a large part.
It was now more than two years since he had seen his sister or Lady
Florence, whose fair face and sunny tresses had made so deep an
impression on his youthful fancy.
The two months passed away swiftly but pleasantly among the hills, the
valleys, and dark rolling burns of the North. In rambles with Maude, or
riding excursions with his father over the romantic county of Perth, the
days were fleeting away, and he was able to have a week's slamming at
the grouse ere he bade adieu to his home. The pangs of parting with his
father and his sister, who was now growing into girlhood verging on her
fourteenth year, were alleviated by two thoughts,--the first that he had
high hopes of a future meeting ere long, when he came back with laurels
to be welcomed by his friends and relations as a hero; the second, that
his parting was only the prelude of his meeting with Ellen, and one,
still dearer, of whom he thought morn, noon, and even; and it was that
uncertainty if he should find her still the same Florence he had left
two years ago--if he dwelt in her heart as she did in his--that made his
pulses beat higher. That very uncertainty which like clouds on a sunny
day lend their beauty to the sky, for without the shades of doubt love
would often lose half its charms. It would be difficult to depict his
feelings as his post-chaise entered the gates, and drove up the park
towards the Towers. The past and the dim future so possessed his mind he
could not but lose sight of the present. The two years seemed but so
many hours; it was but yesterday he had scampered across that park, but
yet how had those years altered him, and all his ideas. He was then a
careless boy, he was now a young soldier just entering on the campaign
of life. Burning hopes of high renown, lawful ambition that pointed on
to glory, were his now. In one thing he was unchanged, in one matter his
heart was the same as then--in love to Lady Florence. It was then a
boyish flame--time and absence had deepened it into real attachment. He
had seen much beauty, he had been courted by fashion, but he had never
altered in sentiments to her! Now he was about to see her again--would
she be the same to him?--had time altered her sentiments? No letter, no
message had passed between them all that time; it would have been
presumption in him, it would have been unmaidenly in her, to have sent
such--that was nothing. He had hopes; she had often and often, when he
was a boy, declared Johnny only should be her husband--that she would
never forget him. Ah, how would it be? how would she receive him now?
would it be with the cold politeness of the world, as if they had never
loved, or with the warm affection of those who meet to love again?
Whilst these and many such thoughts occupied his mind, the post-chaise
whirled on, and ere he hardly woke from his reverie it stopped before
the arched doorway. He leaped out, and saw old Andrew, who gazed for a
moment as if he hardly recognized him, and then, with a beaming face,
shook hands, exclaiming--"God bless you, Master Johnny, ye are grown a
braw sodger noo, I wad scarce hae kent you."
Delighted at the warm reception even from the faithful old servant,
young Ravensworth hastened up stairs to the drawing-room, where he found
his sister the Countess, with her infant son in her arms, and her little
Edith Augusta, such was the child's name, prattling at her feet on the
soft Turkey carpet. Ellen's warm heart swelled with joy when she saw
Johnny, a fine soldierly young man, and as he clasped her in his arms,
her eyes filled with tears of joy, and a sort of bright sorrow as she
recollected how George had thus come home, and then parted never to come
back.
"My dear soldier brother," she said, "welcome to the Towers. Why,
Johnny, how tall and handsome you are grown, and so like poor dear
George! sit down and tell me all about yourself, and papa, and dear
Maude--and look, Johnny, at baby; I am so glad he was a boy,--how
Wentworth did rejoice; and my little Edie, isn't she a darling? Come,
love, and kiss your uncle."
The little girl toddled up, and with her outspread arms, saluted
him--his was that open face children like.
The beautiful Countess, whom time had moulded into a more lovely being
still, gazed with a mother's pride on her fine children, and a sister's
joy on her youthful brother. Certainly if there was a happy mind on the
face of the earth it was hers then--happy in her husband, who loved her
with the most faithful adoration, happy in her children, pledges of that
holy tie; happy in her brother--her family; and happiest of all in
herself--her own virtues; a mind in unity with God and her
fellow-creatures; a heart full of charity; a love faithful and true; one
in which her husband's heart could safely trust, above even the breath
of suspicion, as the poet beautifully says--
"And on that cheek, and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm, so eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow;
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!"
Such was Ellen; and if she looked with pride and joy on her brother, who
was growing all she could wish, it is not too much to say, he gazed on
her with a feeling bordering almost on adoration. She seemed a being
almost too good for earth, and exciting worship as her adequate homage!
So far his most sanguine hopes were realised,--at least he had a fond
sister there, and he had also the Earl, whom alone he had often seen,
and who was the most delighted at his conduct. Still, there was one he
had not seen, and it was long ere he summoned resolution to ask even his
sister after Lady Florence.
"Oh, Florence is out riding with Wentworth. If I had not had baby to
take care of I should have gone too, and you would have had a cold
welcome, Johnny! How glad I am I was at home!"
After speaking on many other things, at last the door opened, and a face
too dearly remembered appeared;--Lady Florence was eighteen,--still in
her teens,--that delightful affix to the numbers that afterwards move
less musically! Her face seemed exactly the same,--as did her figure,
shown off to perfection by her riding habit, save that the girlish
expression was softened into the more sober air of riper, though still
youthful years, and the light form more rounded, and developed into the
contour of woman's figure. She wore a black velvet hat with a white
feather coquettishly displayed, and in one of her little hands, covered
with white gauntlets, she balanced a riding-whip, whilst the other held
up her train. John was partly hidden by the white muslin curtains, and
the young lady did not observe him.
"Oh, Ellen,--you in yet? I thought you would have been out this fine
day!" and she was on the point of shutting the door, when the Countess
said--
"Why, Florence, love! where are your eyes? Do you not see my brother
John, who is just arrived?"
A faint blush for a moment crimsoned her face; then, apologizing for her
mistake, she walked gracefully forward, while young Ravensworth leapt up
and hurried to meet her.
"So you have arrived, Mr. Ravensworth;--I am glad to renew our old
acquaintance."
"Not more than I am, Lady Florence. Why you are not altered the least; I
should have known no difference!"
"You flatter me," answered the lady, giving her hand; "but I must say, I
doubt if I should have known _you_ again. Why, dear me, Ellen, when last
I saw him he was not so tall as I am, and now he is a head over me! I
must now look up to you, Mr. Ravensworth,--you are grown out of my
recollection almost!"
"I trust not out of your remembrance, Lady Florence?"
"Certainly not out of yours, if I am to judge by your shakes of hand.
You forget you are now so strong;--you nearly wrung my poor hand off!
Excuse me now; I must go and change my habit,--_Addio!_"
The light-hearted girl then sailed away, leaving her admirer in
half-hopefulness, half-fearfulness, and scarce knowing what to think.
The Earl's reception was as warm as he had anticipated; and he then left
in order to dress for dinner. Several guests besides himself were
numbered at the table, and, of course, Lady Florence fell to the care of
a young peer, and not to him; she sat a few paces from him on the same
side,--just too far for him to address, and not too far for him to
listen to. Her partner seemed to pay the most assiduous attentions,
which were certainly, as far as he could judge, far from unacceptable,
and he was not altogether sorry when the ladies left. When they rejoined
them in the drawing-room, he was quite monopolized by his sister, whilst
Lady Florence was disengaged; and when, at last, he got free, the same
young man walked up to her, just before him, and kept up incessant
flirtation. During the whole evening he but once addressed her, and only
received a laughing repartee. Time wore on; Lady Florence was one of the
earliest to retire, and by-and-by the visitors departed, and he too went
to his room anything but pleased:--it seemed quite certain she had
forgotten him. Next morning, at breakfast, he sat next her, and she
seemed so like herself again his spirits quite rose; but during the rest
of the day she hardly noticed him; and again he sought his couch
thoroughly discontented. During the days he was of course carried off to
the field by the Earl, who was a keen sportsman; and as a large shooting
party gradually gathered at the Towers, his chances for a _tete-a-tete_
with Lady Florence grew more and more hopeless. He saw her the star of
every drawing-room; she danced and laughed with him, and quite won
him,--often thrice in an evening; and then he saw her treating some one
else exactly the same; and at length came to the conclusion that she was
a heartless flirt! The days hurried by, and soon he would have to say
adieu! and sail for India. He tried to reason with himself, how he could
be so foolish as to think the reigning belle of town and country, and
daughter of an Earl, could deign to look on him, save as on any other
young man. But love will not listen to reason,--and he loved! Yet he
soon came to the sad conclusion, he would have to leave without even
speaking to her on the subject; he would soon hear of her alliance with
some noble family, and then he would throw his life away in the first
brush with the enemy! All his high hopes of coming home a conquering
hero, and receiving as his guerdon the hand of the lady of his choice
seemed to "moulder cold and low!" When she saw his death, she would
perhaps say, "Poor fellow!--he is gone at last!"--this all from one who
had said she would be his wife:--oh, the thought was maddening! Those
were her girlish vows,--unstable as the name traced on the sands,--so
her vows were washed away by the stream of years! Oh, woman, thy faith
is written on sand!
The most provoking part was, she would often walk with him, ride with
him, sit with him alone; she would listen to all his nonsense, and flirt
in her turn; and after these interviews he used to return vexed with
himself for frittering precious time in folly, and vexed with her for
returning it too well.
In this way three weeks passed away. During the next few days he fancied
he saw a change in Florence: she was less frivolous,--she seemed more
quiet; and he could not but connect it in his own mind with his
approaching departure, and said to himself, "She has a heart, after
all!" Three days only of his tether remained, when, one afternoon, he
found himself walking with Florence alone in the shrubberies; he nerved
himself up, and determined he would speak his whole mind, and began by
asking her "if she remembered what she had told him two years ago?"
"Indeed, Mr. Ravensworth, if I remembered all the foolish things I said,
I should have enough to do."
"Then, Lady Florence, those days are gone. I would I were Johnny
Ravensworth again,--could you be the same you were then to me."
"I scarcely understand you. I have always been amused at your
pleasantries; I have always liked your company,--but you did not, I
hope, imagine more."
"Oh, Lady Florence, do not say so! Have you, indeed, forgotten all you
once said,--how often you promised and vowed affection to me?"
"Mr. Ravensworth, I was then a girl, and you were then my playmate.
There was no harm, then, in our being so much together, or in all the
foolish things we said to each other. We are now nearly grown up; and I
hope your good taste will allow, we could not go on as we did
then,--why, the world would never let us hear the end of it."
"Would God, Lady Florence, I was the same heedless boy again! Oh! to
grow beyond our childish loves is surely the bitterest part of life! To
be brief,--you love me no more?"
"I am grieved to hurt your feelings, Mr. Ravensworth,--I really never
dreamed of this! You are a friend,--a near and dear friend,--and shall
ever remain so."
"Then, all my hopes sink,--all my fondest hopes are crushed! Oh! why did
you draw me on only to crush me? Why did you lead me,--why did you
encourage me,--only to blight my best affections? It cannot be you have
ceased to regard me! Oh, Lady Florence,--dear Lady Florence, have pity
on me!"
"I shall ever regard you as I have done, and still do, Mr. Ravensworth;
no one could feel more sorry than I do. If I have awakened hopes I never
dreamed of raising, it will read me a lesson to be more careful in
future. I sincerely regret I cannot reciprocate your feelings;--may you
meet some one who can, and who will make you happier than Florence de
Vere!"
The young girl broke away without listening for a reply, and hurried to
her room. When she was alone she threw herself on her bed and burst into
tears, exclaiming, "God forgive me!--how could I tell him such a
falsehood? I do,--I do love him! What made me so foolish, so mad, as to
refuse him?"
At dinner they met. You could hardly tell anything was wrong, to listen
to those two, speaking so merrily; but, could you have read their
hearts,--what a tale of wretchedness was there! Young Ravensworth felt
utterly cast down at heart: he had heard from the lips he best loved to
hear the words that spoke his doom! He had proved her he thought
faithful, false! His trust in womankind was gone; but he felt he must
veil his feelings. "I will show her," thought he, "I can laugh, and
sing, and, with false smiles on my face, throw a light on sorrow's dark
tide. I will not let the cold world know my misery; but, after once
finding the fickleness of the sex, I will not try it again."
Alas! Ravensworth did not know how often a proud beautiful girl rejects
the love she would accept from a vanity man knows not--the vanity and
pleasure of playing with hearts! Lady Florence felt grieved that she
should have dallied with deep feelings, all for the silly pleasure of
seeing her powers; but she felt faith in those powers, and thought her
smiles would tempt the moth, even after singeing its wings, once more to
woo the flame. Alas! Lady Florence knew not there are hearts which, once
refused, are too haughty to ask again. Time was short--two days
only--and early on the morning of the third John Ravensworth must start.
Florence, by all means in her power, strove to rekindle the flame her
refusal seemed to have quenched. Young Ravensworth was partly surprised,
partly angered at this, to his idea, heartless trifling. A word would
have set all right; had he asked again she would have become his
betrothed, but he asked not. Had she only whispered, "I do love you," he
would again have asked--she spoke not. And thus whilst she fancied he
was too proud to ask, and resolved to lower that pride by appearing
everything he wished, all to make him ask once more, he fancied it was
cruelty in her appearing so affectionate, all to induce him to ask
again, that she might once more have the pleasure of refusing, and he
resolved he would not give her the chance. Thus a mutual feeling of
restraint prevented each of them from saying the word or making the
concession on which their future joy or sorrow depended! Time, which
stays his course not for mortal man, wore on; the day--the last
day--hurried by! The excitement of packing, preparing, and looking at
the beautiful presents showered on him from all sides, partly distracted
Ravensworth from gnawing care; yet through all he felt that sinking,
aching void within which only one could fill. He had no present from her
he valued most, not even a flower! and a flower from her were worth the
wealth of Golconda from others. The evening--though he wooed its stay as
if it were his last below--passed away with the rapidity happy hours do
pass. He sat by her--talked to her; she played and sang to him, and he
was at once happy and wretched. One song--
"When we two parted
In silence and tears,"
the latest production of Lord Byron's muse then set to music, she sang
with such pathos the tear sprang to his eyes. But afterwards she
laughed, and his spirits sank again as she bade him good evening and
good bye.
"Good bye; I shall not see you again, Mr. Ravensworth; you will be gone
early, I suppose. When we meet again you will be a captain perhaps. I
hope you will have a nice voyage. Good bye, I sha'n't forget you."
Poor Ravensworth could only press her hand as she was leaving the room,
and offer a little packet, probably containing a costly keepsake, but
Lady Florence fathomed his meaning, and said, "Thank you, but I could
not accept it, it would not be right; I shall require no souvenir to
cause you to be remembered! but if you want one, there is a flower for
you." As she spoke she took a sprig of blue forget-me-not from the
wreath that bound her hair, and playfully gave it. She then hurried away
with a light step, but a heavy heart. Young Ravensworth stood mute, with
the rejected gift in one hand and the flower in the other, gazing
abstractedly on his retreating vision of beauty. He thought he heard her
sigh. He then slowly retraced his steps, bade farewell to the Countess,
and retired to his own room, heavy and discontented. He could not sleep,
so fevered grew his head, and thinking the cool night air might do him
good, he left the castle, crossed the span-bridge, and sought the Holly
Walk. The night was extremely beautiful, the moon walking on high in
brightness, the air warm and perfumed as it swept o'er the
flower-gardens, and gently whirled the sere leaves from the beech-trees
behind the hedge.
What a different scene had been enacted there a few years ago! Awful as
it was, to him it was brighter than now, and as he marked the leaves
fall, silently but surely, before the touch of the waning year, so, he
thought, fall my hopes one by one, till old age will leave me without a
leaf to bless the bare branches. He sat down on a bench, and there
taking the little rejected packet, he broke the seal, tore to fragments
a few lines of poetry he had written and wrapped the little brooch in,
and scattered the fragments amongst the dried holly-leaves at the root
of the hedge. We are, however, able to state they ran thus:--
When morning is beaming,
And dew-drops are gleaming,
My heart is still dreaming
Of Florence de Vere!
No eye owns such splendour,
No heart is so tender,
All--all I'd surrender
For Florence de Vere!
While this even of sorrow
Bodes darker to-morrow,
Some ray I still borrow
From Florence de Vere;
On my spirit repining
The pole-star is shining,
That knows not declining,--
'Tis Florence de Vere!
When parted our dwelling
By ocean proud-swelling,
Hope will still be foretelling,
My Florence de Vere!
A day of glad meeting,
A voice of kind greeting,
And echo repeating--
"Sweet Florence de Vere!"
Be my cynosure yonder;--
The further I wander
I'll love thee the fonder,
My Florence de Vere!
And vain's fate's endeavour
Our hearts to dissever,
They're mingled for ever,
Loved Florence de Vere!
"It is false! she is no pole-star, and my nonsense isn't worth burning,"
exclaimed the unhappy lover. "And thou, poor rejected souvenir, no eye
shall ever see thee!" dropping it on the ground, he stamped the brooch
into the greensward in his fury. He looked up,--you could scarce have
told that pale livid face to be the same bright visage that smiled as he
received his medal. He arose and retraced his footsteps towards the
Towers. Once or twice he fancied he heard a rustle among the branches at
the back of the hedge; as he neared the end of the walk the sound rose
so distinctly on his ear it made him start. He was brave as a lion, but
not untinctured with the superstition of the North. The idea at once
struck him it was the spirit of Musgrave haunting the walk where he had
been murdered. An involuntary thrill ran through him; he stood as if
rooted to the ground, and he felt his hair somewhat bristle on his head.
Had it been twenty robbers he had not known a particle of dread, but
anything supernatural was horrid! It was some moments ere he found his
voice, and he was almost ashamed of himself to hear how it quavered as
he asked, "Who goes there?" No answer came; the rustling came nearer,
and through the branches he saw a dim white figure approaching. His
heart sank within him, and in a voice tremulous and hollow he asked, "In
God's name who are you? avaunt! away! by all that is sacred go!" The
cold drops stood on his brow like icicles, and his whole frame shook.
"Hist, speak low--follow me," replied a female voice, and at the same
moment the form broke through the bushes. For an instant he thought it
was Lady Florence, but no, she was an inch taller at least, and it was
not the light beautifully-moulded figure of the lady of his love. "Are
you ill? are you glamoured, that you will nae speak nor move? You look
dumbfoundered as if a ghaist had speered on you. Quick, follow me, Mr.
John."
"By heaven! I did think it was a ghost! What, in the name of God, brings
you here in such a place, at such an hour? By my troth I did think it
was Sir Richard's spirit."
"Whisht, for the love of God dinna speak sae. Dinna ye ken the place is
no canny? Follow me. But you are a brave sodger."
Young Ravensworth felt his blood kindle, and felt angry at his folly in
imagining she was a ghost, and eager to disabuse her of the idea, said,
"No, Jenny, speak here--it is all trash--what is it?"
"Na, na, not here. Either come, or I maun tell her ye willna come ava."
"Her, who is her? I will come."
And he hastened to follow Jeanie Forbes, who, when the rest of the
family had left, was promoted to the rank of lady's-maid to Lady
Florence, as a reward for her uniform kindness to the Countess in her
imprisonment. Following his guide, he entered the castle by a back-door,
and ascended the back-stairs till he reached the door of Lady Florence's
room. "Tap thrice," said his guide, and disappeared in the darkness. For
a minute he stood irresolute whether he should tap or not. Love overcame
pride, and he gently struck the door thrice. A light step crossed the
room, the door was opened, and he stood face to face with his lady love.
"Come in; tread lightly," said the lady. "Oh! I am doing very wrong, Mr.
Ravensworth! but I could not let you leave this without seeing you once
more. It is very wrong--it may be, unmaidenly--I cannot help it! Sit
down--there," pointing to a sofa.
Hardly knowing what he did, he sank down on the sofa as he was bid.
Lady Florence still kept standing.
"Why have you brought me here, Lady Florence? For heaven's sake relieve
me of my doubts!"
The lady stood speechless.
It was a fine picture: the despairing look of the lover, with his eyes
cast on the ground, as if unable to lift them to the idol of his
affections; the half earthly, half heavenly look of the lady, as if
dying to breathe a word and kept back by an irresistible chain. She was
still, of course, dressed as he had last seen her, save that her hair
was let down, and in long tresses almost swept the ground as she bent
forward, and with eyes swelling with tears, and hands clasped together,
exclaimed, "Johnny, I _do_ love you!"
As though he heard not, or understood not, he was silent as death for
some seconds, and contending passions strove for mastery in his bosom.
The pride, that would rather suffer than bend, fought against the love
that would rather die than cause its object to suffer. For a few dread
moments they fiercely contended, and, alas for love! pride vanquished,
and he replied, "Lady Florence, you have trifled once with my tenderest
feelings; you shall not again. Once refused, I am too proud to implore
again the love denied me. Would we had not met! My peace is
gone,--perhaps yours also."
"Hear me, Johnny--hear me! I repent,--I bitterly repent of my folly. Why
this false pride? Your peace, you say, is gone. I can give it back. My
peace is gone. You can give it me again. Let me not ask in vain!"
"Alas! it is too late now, Florence!" said her lover, relenting. "I had
my resignation penned when I asked you. I had given up all my dreams of
glory for you! I have sent the letter stating I am ready for service. At
the least, it will be years ere we meet again; but if my Florence will
be true, she need not fear my infidelity."
"My God!" exclaimed the unhappy young lady, "I am punished indeed! But,
oh, Johnny! it is not too late! it is not! Wentworth has such interest;
he will get your discharge. You can sell your commission. What is glory?
An empty dream! The mere bray of the trumpet! Oh! stay, stay with your
Florence--your beloved, loving Florence! Do not leave me!" and the young
girl threw her arms round him, as if she would not let him go.
He felt the embarrassment of his situation; he felt a softness stealing
over his soul, he felt his decision all melting away; he saw how much
she was devoted to him. He then thought of martial glory; high fame; and
his honour; his duty; and then again of love and home delights! Half he
was inclined to throw over all, and spend his life in inglorious
indolence,--in retired, blissful, domestic happiness! but again feelings
the young soldier only knows--the sound of the trumpet,
----"whose breath
May lead to death,
But never to retreating,"
spoke in his ear, and again love failed, and glory won the battle.
"Nay, my gentle Florence, not even love must bring dishonour. I have
pledged myself a soldier of the King. I am no more my own. My
fellow-soldiers are bleeding, and suffering hunger, vigil, heat,
marching; and shall I in indulgent ease stay at home in beauty's arms?
No; had it been earlier, before that letter went, it might have been.
But regrets are vain. It is too late now! Honour, and glory, and duty
before even love! But weep not, my own darling, I will soon come home
crowned with laurels; and you shall welcome me home! And the thought of
the girl I left behind me will steel my sword, nerve my soul; and in
battle I will think both of you and my country, and fight for each more
valiantly! And, should I fall, I will die happy, knowing that Florence
will weep over her soldier lover!"
"No! no! you shall not, must not go! I should never see you again! They
would kill you! If you must go, let me go with you. I will share your
tent and your danger, and bind your wounds, and--and--"
The rest was lost in sobs.
The lover disengaged himself tenderly from the weeping girl's arms, and
again and again kissing her velvet brow, bidding her farewell, and
lingering, and again kissing her, at last left her, with, "God bless
you, my own darling! Adieu! adieu! I shall not see you again; let this
be our parting. Your tears might shake my purpose; and even Florence
would not wish that."
He then sought his own room, first asking Jeanie Forbes, who watched
outside, to wait a few minutes whilst he penned a note. He sat down and
hurriedly wrote the verses we have already made our readers acquainted
with, from his memory, and, folding them up, sent them to Lady Florence
by Jeanie, to whom he gave a valuable ring, as a memento.
Early next morning our hero arose, and, unable to eat more than an
apology of a breakfast with Lord Wentworth, who alone was up, prepared
to leave for ever. He never came back.
"Give my love to Ellen, and to your sister," he said, as he got into the
post-chaise, which was to tear him from all he prized. He felt a choking
sensation from grief as he said the words.
"I will. God bless you, my boy! win laurels and then lady-love!" said
the Earl, shaking hands.
Just as the carriage was starting Jeanie Forbes hurried up and pressed a
note into his hand. He could hardly read it, so dizzy grew his brain. On
the outside were the words "Look to my window."
The carriage started. As it crossed the bridge he looked towards the
window of the room in which all that was dear then was. He saw a white
figure, and a whiter arm that waved a kerchief. He kissed his hand; and
then an envious corner of the castle hid all from his view. Again the
window re-appeared as he drove smartly down the park road. He looked
back, his eye fixed on that lattice, and the white kerchief and the arm
that waved it! But the horses cruelly trotted on; it grew fainter and
further--further and fainter--dimmer still--until not even an eye of
fondest hero could detect it any more.
He sank back with a feeling of utter heartbroken and sickening grief--as
if deserted by all he loved. Had she asked him then, he had thrown
honour, glory, duty to the winds!
As he drove on, the first poignancy passed away, and he began to break
the seal of the note he had not yet read. As he opened it a long tress
of her golden hair fell out at his feet. He picked it up and pressed it
to his lips. The letter ran thus:--
"DEAREST JOHNNY,
"I am punished for my vanity; but let it pass. It is vain to lament
what is done. You did right. Had you stayed I would not have loved
you half as much as I now do, though it would have gratified my
wishes. Johnny, I shall ever think of you in my prayers--when
tossed on the restless billow--when on the battle-field--when on
the sultry march. When at even you see the star we have gazed on so
oft, you will think it is the morning star of my hopes! Farewell,
Johnny! And whether we meet again or not, our vows shall never be
broken. Farewell! If you come back you will find Florence faithful.
Nothing but death shall then part us. And, if you die a soldier's
death, you shall have it watered with Florence's tears.
"Go where glory waits thee,
But while fame elates thee,
Oh! still remember me!"
Bind my hair in your plume; and, when you fight, remember your
"FLORENCE DE VERE."
We shall no longer spin out this already long chapter, but merely add,
the vessel that bore John Ravensworth, and many other brave and fine
young officers, sailed for India, but
"On India's long expected strand,
Their sails were never furled."
Whether she ran on a sunken rock, or went "down at sea, when heaven was
all tranquillity," or was overtaken and shattered in a typhoon, or fell
a prey to the pirates off Madagascar, who even then were not quite
smothered, was long unknown.
John Ravensworth was an expert swimmer, and we can fancy how he struck
manfully out on the wide waters; and, perhaps, holding high that golden
lock, sank with her name on his lips to whom it belonged!
"There are to whom that ship was dear
For love and kindred's sake,
When these the voice of rumour hear
Their inmost breast shall quake,
Shall doubt and fear, and wish and grieve,
Believe and long to unbelieve,
But never cease to ache.
Still doomed in sad suspense to bear
The hope that keeps alive despair!"