CHAPTER IX.

——"whose breathMay 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.

"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 dearFor love and kindred's sake,When these the voice of rumour hearTheir 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 bearThe hope that keeps alive despair!"

"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 feelingscando.

"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, andmynorthern 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° 7', long. 35° 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 waterWhen love, who sent, forgot to saveThe 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!

"And one, o'er her the myrtle showersIts 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!

Speed.—"Sir, we are undone! these are the villainsThat all the travellers do fear so much."Two Gentlemen of Verona.

Mr. Lennox, about seven years after the events we narrated in the last chapter, was sitting in his drawing-room with several of his children, as well as his grandchildren, around him. Louisa, whom we recollect at the picnic, we should have before stated had succeeded in captivating our friend Mr. Scroop, of Scroop Hall, and rejoiced her lord's heart already with two little Scroops, who promised to prove chips off the old block. Both she, her husband, and the two boys were present, as were also two other married daughters, and the only son, a wild but amiable young fellow at Cambridge.

Although Mr. Lennox had lost his partner in life since we last saw him, the world evidently had run smoothly with him. Through the Earl's interest he had obtained a very lucrative appointment in the Register House, in the Sasines office, and though his hair was sprinkled with snow, otherwise he was the same comfortable looking, self-satisfied man; proud of himself, his house, his hospitality, his children and now grandchildren. He had managed to get off three of his six daughters, one had died a few years ago, and one was engaged to a young Baronet; the youngest, and best looking he destined for some still higher lover! Indeed, Caroline was worthy a better lot than awaited her. She was tall and elegant in figure; her dark hair almost black, brilliant eyes and high colour gave an air of more than dashing beauty to her face. To this she added the accomplishments of singing and requisite artistic talents, besides possessing winning manners, wit and talent in conversation. Mr. Lennox considered her the flower of his family, the golden cord to his seven-stringed lyre, of which one string was only as yet broken; he was never tired of showing off the painting and drawings of his daughter,—he was anxious to bring her out on every occasion, and took care that everybody heard and admired her singing, her conversation, and her personal charms. Of William his son he was also vain to a degree, and in his bringing up had totally neglected all proper discipline, or inculcating a style of economy in living at all commensurate with his means. The consequence was at seventeen young Lennox was a conglomeration of personal conceit—vanity of dress—and dogmatical pedantry. From his father he had inherited a pleasing exterior, had been crammed with learning from his infancy; and, from all he had heard of the way the young De Veres had behaved when they excited the wonder and envy of all the country round, he had imbibed the idea it was a grand thing to be fast, and so he had shaped his course, quite forgetting he wanted the means to be so, and already he was deep in the secrets of the Jews, and all the vices of juvenile depravity. When his follies were told to his father he would say, "William is adolescent yet—when he grows matured in years he will become wiser. The Earl of Wentworth was also fast when young, but he is now quite sobered down—every young man must sow his wild oats."

"Yo, ho! what a dull hole this is!" exclaimed William Lennox, yawning. "What on earth shall I do with myself? Ha! I know, I shall go and see Mrs. Siddons act."

"William, my son, I fear the stage has too great allurements for your mind! but still I can fancy you must find this dulness intolerable. At any rate you will be earlier to-night, won't you, my boy?"

"I'll see, governor—don't wait up for me; I've got a pass key," and the young man sauntered from the room, leaving the rest to amuse themselves without him.

"I am afraid William gets to no good at that theatre," said Scroop. "What a state he came home in last night! he'll ruin his constitution if he goes on so."

"He is but a boy—he will grow wiser in time—poor fellow, I do feel for him!" said his father.

"You should check it while he is young; look at John de Vere: it was just that way he began his course," said Scroop again.

"I hope you do not think my dear William will turn out so utterly degraded as that most unfortunate and evil principled young man! Poor William! it is only a little harmless extravagance I can blame him for yet."

"Little beginnings you know; watch the first sign of decay, stop the earliest symptoms of decline."

"Have you ever heard any tidings of that singular character?—he was the most dark-minded, mysterious man I ever met in all my travels," said Mr. Lennox, anxious to change the conversation.

"The Earl has I believe caused every inquiry to be made, but up till now without any result. The last, you know, that was ever heard of them was their sailing in a terrific snow-storm from Leith. I say them, for I need no longer hide the fact that the Count Czinsky was none other than Edward L'Estrange."

"You astonish me. Why did you never let this transpire before? does the Earl know it?"

"He does not; to tell the truth my promise not to let this out was an extorted one, and I consider myself no longer bound to keep it, especially as there is little doubt that both of them have long since paid the debt of nature, and no doubt secured a fearful reckoning with their Maker. Certainly that Weird in the family is a wonderful thing! At first I doubted it—but now we have the evidence of our own senses! Only the Earl left! Lady Arranmore burned at nineteen, Lady Florence dead of consumption at almost the same age, Frank de Vere killed in India at the head of his men gallantly cutting his way through the enemy, and the Captain, as far as we know, drowned years ago! The Earl is young yet, and if he does die so I shall think it the most marvellous curse."

"The untimely fates of that family," said Louisa, "have quite cast a gloom on the Old Towers: the Earl has not been there since the funeral of his son: he has become quite a foreigner. I think he always lives at Naples now."

"How I should like to do so," said Caroline; "that charming Naples—it is my day dream to see it some day. Do you not think, papa, we should make the tour some winter when you have your leave?"

"I should certainly like nothing better, Carry. We have travelled—let me see—through France, Germany, Prussia, the Rhine and Switzerland, Italy alone remains; we shall see, darling. Some day perhaps I may take my Caroline to show the Italian donnas what an English beauty is."

"Louisa, love," said Scroop, "our little boys should be off to bed—shouldn't they?"

"I will take them upstairs, and then we can have some music or play cards. I wish William would stay more at home! Come, dears, it's time to say good-night to grandpapa."

Scarcely had the young Hopefuls departed with their mother than the post came in, and a foreign letter arrived for Mr. Lennox. He broke the seal, and read it with an expression of great joy on his face.

"Whenever we converse about our friends we are sure to hear about them. Here's a letter from Lord Wentworth, in which he says, as he knows I generally take a tour during my winter's vacation, he hopes I will pay him a visit at Foggia, where he is now residing, a lovely place in Capitanata. He wishes us to come by Naples, as he trusts I will bring one or more of my family. I am sure this is most considerate and kind. As I require amusement after my toilsome labours as much as William does after his Cambridge term, I shall most decidedly accept for myself, William, who must see the world, and my little Carry; you will come, won't you, my darling?"

"Oh, I shall be so delighted—I did so wish to see Italy!"

"And then, my love, think under what auspicious circumstances we shall see it with the Earl, and that will give us an introduction to the best society there!"

"I fancy Foggia cannot boast of much society—the Earl is quite retired now I hear," said Scroop. "However, it is an interesting town—there is the Cathedral, with the famous image of the Virgin, the gates of Frederick's palace, and there Manfred won his victory. Then, on the way, you see Naples. By-the-by though, you pass the Val di Bovino—the haunt of all the brigands! you will have to take care of them!"

"Oh! we shall have no need to fear them. I and William armed cap-à-pie—and the postilions and all, will be enough to scare them."

"Don't be over sure, and take some sbirri with you, I advise you; there is Luigi Vardarelli, the great chief there, and his band is so powerful he will stop whole tribes of peasants, and rob them of their cattle and gold."

"Ha! he will find William and me different metal, if the rascal tries to stop us!"

In this way they all talked on till late. William Lennox was still absent, and the lady part of the family retired, whilst Mr. Lennox and Scroop sat up to let him in. They had a long watch, for it was only after three had struck the young worthy made his appearance in a horrid state of intoxication. Mr. Lennox was really much concerned, and annoyed at thisexposéof his favourite to his own son-in-law, however, he got his poor boy to bed as quietly as possible, and himself sought Morpheus's charms.

Young Lennox was well pleased when he next morning heard the plan, and declared he would give the Italian robbers cause to know he had not been under Angelo in vain, should they risk an encounter. In a few weeks another letter in answer to Mr. Lennox's acceptance was received, in which the Earl pressed him to come immediately; they were quite alone, excepting the Marquis, who was paying the Countess and himself a visit. In conclusion, he begged Mr. Lennox to call at the Towers and give an enclosed note to old Andrew, who would give him a jewel-case of the Countess's, who was anxious to have them for the spring at Rome; he begged him not to let Luigi, the terror of the Capitanata, get hold of the jewels, and also impressed on his friend the necessity of taking an escort of sbirri on the road from Naples to Foggia. Mr. Lennox was certainly somewhat alarmed at these notices, and almost determined to leave Caroline behind; but the young lady so coaxed her father to let her go, he at last consented, saying only, if she was run off with, and became Luigi's bride, it was not his fault. The romantic girl was quite ready to run any risk for the pleasure of seeing Naples and Italy, and William was quite wild in his anxiety to show off his fencing, and almost began to wish an encounter with this celebrated bandit.

Early in December, Mr. Lennox, his son, and youngest daughter started in a vessel from Leith bound for Naples, carrying with him the case of jewellery, which was somewhat larger than he imagined, and from old Andrew's special caution not to let his eye off it, seemed to be of immense value. He was rather sorry he had been chosen to carry them, and could not help wishing the Earl had selected any other person in the world but himself. Nothing unusual happened on their voyage. They had rough weather in the Channel, rougher in the Bay of Biscay, and roughest in the Mediterranean, which Mr. Lennox had assured his children would be like a millpond. None of them proved very good sailors, and they were all delighted when Vesuvius appeared and they came to rest in the Porto Grande. Two or three days at Naples quite re-invigorated them after their stormy passage, and they made all the excursions that travellers generally make; saw the galleries, the lions of the city, walked every evening along the Villa Reale, and were quite charmed with the foreign aspect of the place, the costumes of the peasants, and white houses along the whiter sands edging the dark blue Mediterranean. They were also disgusted with the lazzaroni beggars, passport officials, and the extreme dirtiness of the back streets, as well as broiled by the sun. The vettura corriere, or mail coach, started at midnight for Otranto, and as it passed Foggia, Mr. Lennox determined to take it so far. At midnight, accordingly, he and his party appeared at the coach office to secure places; unfortunately, though they got their places and were comfortably settled, some passengers for Taranto, Bari, and other places still further on the route, also arrived, and they were accommodated with seats, whilst Mr. Lennox, his son, and Caroline in the most surly manner were bid to alight and informed they could not be taken. Mr. Lennox stormed, swore, and threatened the English ambassador should be consulted, and a hundred other calamities occur for stopping him and turning him out in this unjustifiable way. It was all to no purpose,—their baggage was tossed out, and the mail drove off. After a good deal of fighting, Mr. Lennox managed to get his fares refunded, and a couple of hours later drove off in a hired vehicle with four horses and two postilions. At Marigliano our travellers stopped for breakfast, spending a couple of hours in seeing what was to be seen. They again started off with fresh horses to Cardinale, a small village at the foot of the mountains; here they took advantage of a miserable table d'hote, and gladly set off again up the steep hill-side. First a valley was crossed full of vineyards and nut trees, besides orchards filled with apples and other fruits, above them spread dense chestnut forests. Crossing a deep ravine, their carriage slowly climbed a tremendous ascent, from the top of which they commanded a grand view of the wide plains of Lavoro, till at last they rested half an hour at Monteforte, and thence began the descent to Avellino through a narrow valley, with the hills on either side thickly wooded with nut trees. Soon they saw the poplar rows which told them their first day's labours were over, and they gladly put up at a far more comfortable inn than they had yet seen since they left Naples. Young Lennox took a stroll through the town, and declared he saw more beauty than he had ever seen in one evening before all his life. Indeed they had an excellent example of the famous beauty of the women of Avellino in the daughter of their host, a most perfect Italian beauty, who might have sat for the Madonna della Seggiola. Early next morning they breakfasted with all the travellers by the vettura, which had also rested there the first night. During the meal a good deal was said about the celebrated banditti that then haunted the Val di Bovino.[C]The most wondrous stories of the power and prowess of Luigi Vardarelli were freely conversed on, and Mr. Lennox began quite to wish himself at home again. His son professed to discredit them, and declared his feats must be grossly exaggerated. After their morning meal, a smart drive up the hilly but romantic road brought them to Dentecane; thence they drove to the Grotto Minarda, situate in the middle of cornfields, where they lunched, and then passed on past Ariano, also celebrated for its female beauty, to Savignano, which they reached as the light began to decline, having loitered a good deal by the road. Here nothing but the name of Luigi filled every mouth, and the landlord, anxious to detain customers, assured them it was madness to think of passing through the Val di Bovino that night, as they would certainly be attacked. Having no wish to come to close quarters with the desperados, Mr. Lennox and his daughter readily obliged their host by staying, and William was fain, much against his will, to rest there too. It was a miserable post house—one which is now totally disused,—but the Italian landlord did everything to try and make the evening pleasant, and his daughter, a fine, handsome young girl of twenty, was quite in William's way, and he talked his best Italian to her, whilst his father and sister listened to their host's tales of horror about the two Vardarelli, till they almost trembled with fear. Shortly after their dinner a horseman rode up to the inn, and, dismounting, said he would stay there for the night. Our host left his friends, and was busy introducing his new arrival to the remains of the table d'hote served up as new. The traveller, however, appeared exceedingly moderate in his tastes, and hardly touched anything. Mr. Lennox and Caroline could not help occasionally turning their eyes on the new guest; he was short and very slight in form, but his face was perfect; a slightly arched, finely chiselled nose, dark, piercing eyes, and well-made mouth, gave quite a poetic cast to his features, which his long black hair and melancholy countenance fully kept up. He seemed agitated and flushed, as if he had either met with some disaster, or was travelling at an unwonted speed. Mr. Lennox, after he had seen his wants satisfied, with English bonhomie asked him if he would not join their table, and drink wine together? After a little hesitation the invitation was accepted, the young man's melancholy quickly passed away before the social glass, and he began laughing and talking like any of them. He seemed well-educated and connected, and by-and-by let out he was a Count Cesare, who lived near Foggia, knew the Wentworths well, and had just started from their villa at Foggia towards Naples. He said he had been chased by some of the notorious brigands nearly up to the inn yard, and that might account for his excited conduct when he first arrived. The ice being once broken, Mr. Lennox, like all Englishmen, told his new acquaintance his whole history in a couple of hours; how he was an intimate friend of Lord Wentworth; was then going to see him, and carrying valuable jewellery.

The Count praised his judgment in not proceeding further that night, advised him to place the jewellery in the trunk-box of his carriage, and not to carry it inside as he had been doing, and, above all, charged him not to trust the sbirri, who, he said, were usually confederate with the banditti, and even if not were worthless cowards. He said he could recommend two young men who were relatives of their host, who would accompany them next day through the valley into the Apulian plains as far as Pozzo d'Alberto; thence it was only ten miles to their destination. Mr. Lennox thanked his friend much, and willingly followed his advice. The two young men were introduced by their host, and looked well able to defend their charge, armed as they were with pistols and stilettos. Mr. Lennox also took pistols, and his son carried a sword, so they were well prepared at least, and the Count told them they would probably have no need of weapons, only prevention was better than cure. Mutually pleased, they separated for their different apartments, bestowing their praises on the accommodation, Mr. Lennox to dream of the Earl's reception of him and his children, William of the fair Giulia with whom he had lost his heart, Caroline of brigands, and the Count, as he called himself, not to dream, but to think what a gull he had got hold of in Mr. Lennox! Count Cesare was in fact only a member of the Vardarelli's band, who had thus gleaned all the information he wanted for Luigi, and left two of his men to act the part of guardians. The landlord and his daughter Giulia were old hands at their trade, and would probably share their guest's plunder.

Early next morning, after a most unpleasant night, owing to the musquitoes and other insects that prevented them from almost closing their eyes, our travellers arose, little dreaming what was in store for them. They were disappointed to find that their friend, the Count, had left for Naples at an early hour—so he bade the inn-keeper say—as they had anticipated his pleasant company at breakfast. Mr. Lennox then had to pay a most extortionate charge, notwithstanding his utmost efforts to reduce it. William after actually prevailing on his inamorata to bestow a parting salute, buckled on his sword, loosened it in the scabbard, and felt himself a hero. The two false guards mounted behind. Mr. Lennox handed his daughter into the carriage, and after his son, who talked loud of his hopes for a brush with the miscreants, got in himself also, the postilions whipped up and began the steep descent into the Val di Bovino, shortly after leaving Montaguto.

The early sun was bright and warm, the air clear, the scenery exquisite; every one felt in grand spirits as they trotted down the narrow defile through cornfields and hemp-fields, with the river Cervaro gushing by. Soon the mountains, so steep as to seem inaccessible, closed nearer in, dense woods on either side of acacia and other trees almost shut out the daylight. When they were perhaps more than half way through, a pistol-shot resounded through the woods! In an instant the postilions drew up their horses with a loud cry—"The bandits—the bandits—the Vardarelli—we are undone!"[D]

"Drive on, drive on, for the love of heaven," cried Mr. Lennox, pale with fear—but his voice was unheard.

Another pistol-shot resounded, and this close by; its aim was fatal to the foremost postilion, who fell a corpse off his terrified horse. The other man leapt down and fled into the woods like a hare. William leapt out too, and drawing his sword whirled it round his head, crying to their guards to fight, to do their duty, and defend his sister! Alas! the guards were not there—they too had disappeared! He now looked despairingly for aid; his father, poor old man, was white as a sheet, and trembling with fear held the pistol cocked in one hand, and supported Caroline, who was in a dead swoon, in the other. The postilions—one was dead, the other flown! What should he do to save his family from their as yet unseen foe? A thought struck him, he would drive on! Just as he was about to put his thought into execution, and drive on the horses, which stood as if petrified too—a confused sound of trampling of steeds—oaths of men, clashing of arms—rose on every side, and as if by magic the carriage was surrounded by at least forty brigands. One, a dark-looking man, but evidently not a native, was conspicuous from the coal-black steed he bestrode, and his commanding manner. This was Luigi Vardarelli. Near him rode another singularly resembling him: this was Adrian Vardarelli; he saw another there he least expected to see—their friend the Count, of last evening! Close to this man rode two others, their quondam guardians! The remaining robbers were all fierce, bloodthirsty looking men. All this was seen in a moment by the unfortunate youth. He saw they were betrayed—he saw his death was near—and with a high resolve we could scarcely have thought the young man capable of feeling, he determined to try and save his father and sister by self-devotion.

"Gentlemen," he cried in Italian, "you could not hurt my aged parent, nor helpless sister! I think too highly of you—you are too noble to do so! take all we have—take me—and have your vengeance on my head, but spare my father,—spare my sister! You too, sir," addressing the false Count, "who have shared our hospitality, turn not your hand against them."

Adrian Vardarelli seemed moved by the young man's speech, and said something in his favour to the chieftain; but alas! in his face there was not the shadow of mercy. He said something aside to the false Count, who advancing, leapt off his horse and gave a command in Italian to the two who had been their guards, who instantly cutting the traces, smote the liberated horses, which set off at full speed, leaving the carriage alone on the road. The bandit then walking up struck the unfortunate young Lennox a blow on his cheek with the side of his sword, and commanded him to draw. Smarting with the blow, which drew blood, and still more with the insult, William rushed on his cool, wary antagonist with blind fury. The conflict was short; all Angelo's tuition went for nothing against the robber, who was a master in the art of fencing. In less than three passes he disarmed his foe, and stepping forward ran his vengeful blade through and through William Lennox's heart! Then wiping the blade on his fallen victim's clothes, he walked to his captain for further orders.

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