"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 snatched 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 pass 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 passage 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 poop,
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
succumbed 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"
anchored off the Molo Grande. After some trouble with passports, 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 shore, 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.
Ra--vensworth--adieu! adieu!"
The last few words were rather guessed than heard. The Earl rose and
hastened to his wife's side; kneeling down, he took his sister's hand,
which he pressed to his lips,--it was growing cold. Just then the Doctor
entered. He did not speak, but took his patient's hand. The pulse still
throbbed, but so faintly it was scarce perceptible. For some time,
perhaps a quarter of an hour, they all watched in dead silence. The day
faded fast, and presently a small lamp was lighted by the Doctor. The
dying girl once more opened her eyes, which had been so long closed all
thought she had gone, but feared to express their opinion. Again her
lips moved. Ellen pressed close to her, but failed to catch the words.
The flickering flame of life hovered long;--they "thought her dying when
she slept, and sleeping when she died." So passively passed away her
soul, her form had long grown cold ere they knew she was gone. Not a
sigh, not a word, not a breath told the exact moment she ceased to
exist! It was on a night as calm as her spirit she died,--and thus
tranquilly ended a short, but latterly embittered life.
It is impossible to paint the grief of the surviving mourners; as they
stood round the bed where she lay so lifelike they could scarce believe
her dead. The "hectic streak" still tinged her face, and a smile so
placid that it seemed as if it lingered there to tell the mourners how
the disembodied soul was blessed.
"She is happy now," said the Countess; "we should not grieve over her as
if we had no hope; but we have a blessed certainty she is happy."
But though she said so, Ellen's heart was too full, and she gave way to
a passionate flood of tears, as she kissed the placid cheek of the dead.
We need say no more, save that the loved remains were laid in their
coffin bed, the waxlike arms closed crosswise over her breast, and a
white rose laid between them. The lid was then screwed down, and the
coffin sent to the Towers, where with becoming solemnity she was laid
beside her sister.
The Earl and Countess and their companions started for England, and
after the funeral of Lady Florence remained in perfect seclusion for
many months at the Towers. Grief often follows grief, and woe comes on
woe, as billows roll on billows, and smite the rocks. Scarcely had the
Earl and Countess recovered from the grief of Florence's death, when the
scarlet fever broke out at the Towers, and seized both of their
children. Augusta passed safely through it, but it assumed a more
malignant guise with little Viscount de Vere, and with fearful rapidity
crushed its victim, leaving the poor Countess almost heartbroken. She
looked on Augusta as her last hope left, and the culture of her opening
mind seemed almost the only object worth living for, excepting her
husband, who was utterly stricken by the death of his sister and their
only son, and needed indeed a loving wife like Ellen to soothe his
sorrow. Faithfully did she fulfil her vows to love him in sickness and
in health, for better and for worse!