"Yet more! thy billows and thy depths have more:
High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast;
They hear not now the booming waters roar,
The battle thunders will not break their rest.
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave,
Give back the true and brave!"--_Hemans._
Lady Florence was, as may be easily imagined, totally unable to appear
on the morning of Ravensworth's departure. She had watched him, as we
know, from her windows, waved her parting sign, and if her young
adorer's eyes had been strained to catch the last glimpse of her
kerchief, not the less had hers been to see the last vestige of his
carriage. In this she had the advantage, as her eye could trace it
receding long after he had lost her signal. She watched it till it grew
a mere speck on the white road, and at last disappeared altogether. When
all was gone the hapless girl gave way to her grief, and mourned her
folly in a paroxysm of weeping. Oh! if she could recall that hated day!
she had done all, she had banished him, her vanity had its due reward.
The absence of Lady Florence was a matter of no comment; she often took
her breakfast in her room, and neither the Earl nor Countess dreamed the
truth. The latter was unusually dispirited by the departure of her
brother, and altogether it was but a sombre house. After breakfast the
Earl took his gun, and strolled out after some partridges.
"We miss Mr. John, my Lord," said the keeper, "he was ay first and
foremost wi' his gun; he's a braw young man, and a pity it is he should
gae to throw awa his life in the Indies, folk are sure best at hame!"
"You forget, Halket, he likes it. Do you think every young man likes to
stay at home like yourself? I am sure if I were unmarried I would have
been off with Ravensworth too. What think you of shooting tigers and
elephants? better than this," said the Earl bringing down a brace of
partridges right and left.
"Na, na, my Lord, scarce better,--besides the het sun; I have cause to
know about it, having lost two sons in the Indies of Yellow Jack, as
they call the fever; fine lads they were, and most like Mr. John that's
gone."
"Tuts, that was in the West Indies, not where Mr. Ravensworth is gone;
it's a fine climate, perhaps a little hot, but to a steady young fellow
like him there is no fear."
"West or East Indies, it's all one; I say to the devil with foreign
lands, begging your Lordship's pardon for the word, and hoora for auld
Scotland, na place like hame."
"You had better mind your business, and let Mr. Ravensworth mind his
own, and talk less--see, your chattering has put up a whole covey out of
shot! do hold your tongue."
Halket saw he had better be still, and sought to remedy his error by
more sportsmanlike behaviour, whistled the dogs nearer in, and tried a
turnip field where he had marked the birds to.
Meantime the Countess getting uneasy at the continued absence of Lady
Florence, went up to her room and, after knocking twice without gaining
any reply, opened the door, and was much surprised to find her sister
lying dressed on the sofa, crying like a child.
"My darling, what is wrong? why did you not tell me you were unwell?
what is the matter?"
"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 passed 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 circumstance 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
cockleshell 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 amusements now. Before her parting with John she had been like a
child, happy in some fair garden, chasing the butterfly 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 noble 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 passed 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 anchored off the island, not
being allowed to land owing to its then being the prison of the
illustrious Buonaparte. He spoke with great delight about the cross of
the south, a constellation surpassing 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 cluster 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 passed 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 passed 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 deg. 7', long. 35 deg. 13'; not a soul was on deck, and she
had neither bowsprit nor rudder. The little vessel herself could render
no assistance, 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
grass 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 pronounced 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
shores!