"'Tis long since I beheld that eyeWhich gave me bliss or misery;And I have striven, but in vain,Never to think of it again;For though I fly from Albion,I still can only love but one."And I will cross the whitening foam,And I will seek a foreign home;Till I forget a false fair face,I ne'er shall find a resting-place;My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,But ever love, and love but one."—Byron.
"'Tis long since I beheld that eyeWhich gave me bliss or misery;And I have striven, but in vain,Never to think of it again;For though I fly from Albion,I still can only love but one.
"And I will cross the whitening foam,And I will seek a foreign home;Till I forget a false fair face,I ne'er shall find a resting-place;My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,But ever love, and love but one."—Byron.
On a dark night in December—stormy as that eve on which Leander swam for the last time across the broad Hellespont—a small lugger manfully breasting the billows ran ashore near Musselburgh. There was a high north-easter, driving sleet and snow before it, and raising a heavy surf, through which old Bill skilfully ran his craft ashore on the sandy, seaweedy, mussel-beds, whence the burgh takes its name.
"Have a care, you scurvy old devil," cried the Captain, as a huge sea broke over the side of the boat, and christened him with its salt spray—"Easy there—where is your seamanship gone? Egad, I'm drenched like a water rat."
"When you've sailed as far as me—you won't swear at a bit dusting like that—you are but a land-lubber after all!"
"Stow your venom, you old dogfish, and give us a dram. Ah! here comes another sea over these accursed sands! Ho! well done, Bill; she wore off like a gull: jump out, Ned, never mind wetting your boots. Easy, ho! down with the sail, here we go—ashore at last."
So saying he leaped into the water up to his knees after L'Estrange, and these two on one side, with old Bill and a German boy on the other, shoved up the smack high and dry.
"Well, let those like the sea who do—terra firma for me," cried the Captain, shaking the sea-water off his waterproof cloak. "'The white waves heaving high' be d—d! such a pitching and lurching as we've had—I am right glad to stand on something solid, arn't you, old fellow?"
"I am indeed—and glad to stretch my limbs—so miserably cooped up this last five hours! what an age it is since I last trod these sands! Oh! could I see how this will turn out!"
"Where do you steer for now, and where am I to moor myself? Leastways, not here, if I knows it! for it is rascally cold—we'd best run down after a boosing ken."
"You are for swilling, no doubt, Bill—you drunken old satyr—always up to filling your barrel-shaped body with liquor! but look you, Bill, we haven't come all this way to lush. I must be off to the Towers. Blow this climate, it's always sleeting and raining in this rotten hole! You and I, L'Estrange, will go and meet Archy, he will have the nags ready; and you, old sot, you may go and be d—d, or swig, or what you like, only be here by the time tide is full, and leave Hans (the boy) to watch over the boat. Give him some grog—for it is infernally cold! Come, Ned."
The Captain and L'Estrange walked off and left old Bill to find a pump, whilst the unfortunate foreigner was left to watch in the sleet and wind which blew most chillily over the Links.
"This is a regular wild goose chase," said the Captain, as he and his friend struck out for a small village called Fisherrow, a bleak hamlet between Musselburgh and Portobello, where Archy was to be in waiting with horses; "and I only do it as a last hope—you must make up your mind for a failure—and then remember you are never to speak of the wench again—that was the promise."
"It was—oh! how my heart seems to sink—in a few hours more I shall know my fate!"
"You will—and I am thankful for it. Your whining and teasing after that woman are enough to drive a saint mad! On my soul I wonder at you—I dare swear she has never thought of you once! Then there's her child, whatever are we to do with that, supposing our plan succeeds? To be sure it's easy giving it a heave into the sea! But yet it is an awful risk! Carrying off Ellen Ravensworth was one thing, but carrying off the Countess of Wentworth is another! Never mind—nothing like aiming high, as Lucifer once did."
"And got a grievous fall for his pains too," put in L'Estrange.
"As we perhaps, nay doubtless, shall!" said the Captain.
"Had we not better think again? it is not too late yet," said L'Estrange.
"It is too late; I haven't come all this way, nor been tossed on that rough sea for nothing! I tell you, however, I shall go and see only; if what we heard is true and she is alone, it is but a whistle and you come up, toss her over a nag, brain any flunkeys who interfere, and away over heath and moor to the boatie good! The sea is a road where it is hard to track a cunning fox like Bill."
"I almost repent I ever came—after all if she did nothing but cry and lament, I could do nothing. Remember what I said, I will try by words, and if she doesn't come round again, I will take her back scathless."
"A fool's errand that—you may do what you like after you have got her. I will be shot if I burn my fingers again for her, or any other woman under the sun! But here we are at last—I will whistle."
The Captain—for though he no longer had a right to the name, we still know him best by it—then blew a shrill whistle. It was answered, and presently Archy Forbes appeared.
"Glad to see ye baith looking sae weel—it's ay a saft night when we are about."
"It is, Archy my boy! it's easy to see Heaven doesn't smile on us—but devil's weather for me! Have you the nags?"
"Surely, surely—they are in yon byre—follow me."
"Who are at the Towers, Archy?" said L'Estrange.
"Dinna speer on me, sir! I have na been there this mony a day. Sin my father was dead and gane—Heaven rest him! the gear a' went wrang, and my mither and the bairns left. The laird wasna pleased, and folk say he kent mair than was right anent your honour's business, and thae——"
"Peace, fool, who wants to hear about your concerns? If you had found out who were at the Towers you might have been somewhat worth listening to. Where is this byre, or what d'you call it?"
"It's near by noo, yon dark house, wi' the reek frae the chimla."
"All right—there's your hire—and now decamp and find out old Bill, and tell him to put the cabin in order for fair freight."
By this time they had reached a wretched stable, or rather cow-house, from which two tolerable horses were produced. The Captain, selecting the best, was soon mounted, and together they trotted off for the Towers. During the long ride scarcely a word was spoken, except now and then a hoarse curse on the snow, which now began falling thick and fast, and balled in their horses hoofs, forcing them to dismount several times on their way. When within a quarter of a mile of the Towers they stopped at a summer-house or arbour, where L'Estrange was to await the result of the Captain's reconnaissance, and if summoned by the whistle ride up at once to the Towers. This bold and diabolic attempt had been undertaken, owing to a statement which had reached the Captain to the effect that the Countess and her infant baby, a fine little girl of nearly three months of age, were then staying in perfect seclusion at the Towers, and the Earl in London on business. Judging themselves able to overcome old Andrew, and any other footmen, they fancied they could get clear off with the lady and her child before any of the out-door servants took the alarm, and then their determination was to set sail for the north of Scotland, where L'Estrange madly dreamed he could excite the old love by his eloquence of woe. He vowed he would restore her safely to her home again should he fail, and then fly to America and bury himself from the world. The Captain took part in the plot, and promised his assistance if the little girl was also carried off—Bill was to take care and keep her out of sight, living or dead—and we are authorized in stating that though he verbally approved of L'Estrange's plan of returning the Countess, unless she chose to stay with him,—an idea that could only take its birth in a mind maddened by a strange delusion,—yet he inly determined, if he once got hold of both he would keep them out of sight until he could gain a heavy ransom from his brother; for his violent deeds seemed to have excluded all hopes of his ever succeeding to the title even if he got rid of the heirs.
Leaving L'Estrange at the arbour, the Captain wrapped himself up in a costly cloak of sable fur, and rode for the Towers, which he reached a little past ten in the evening. The brilliant lights first excited his fears that the rumour was a false one; however, he rang the bell and waited to see the result. Whilst he is waiting we will take a view of the dining-room and its inmates. About a dozen gentlemen are sitting over their wine after dinner. The Earl at the head of the table—next him the Marquis—all the rest are strangers but two, young Scroop and Mr. Lennox.
"I wonder what has become of the Captain?" said the Earl; "except these scandals, which I hope are worthless, we never hear a word of him, or his friend."
"Their names," said the Marquis, "are, I fear, famous for infamy; while John kept to a few harmless revels, and only now and then an affaird'honneur, I didn't care; but shooting fellows at every town, is too wild by half!"
At the same moment the door opened, and a tall figure, so muffled in fur as to be almost irrecognizable, entered. Old Andrew appeared giggling behind.
"Hallo! old fellows," said the figure, throwing off his cloak; "here I am again. By Jove! this snug room, and these merry fellows make me feel jolly. Andrew, you knave, get some hot punch, blest if I am not half frozen—I will thaw anon and welcome old friends, wait till I have got some life in me," approaching the fire.
Old Andrew, grinning with joy, hastened to get the punch as he knew the Captain liked it, whilst all his old allies gathered round him, and beset him with questions on all sides.
"Preserve me from my friends; why, you will be driving me into the fire, and one in a family is enough for it. Egad, I am thawing now: how are you, Wentworth, hearty, and you Arranmore, old boy? I was very sorry for poor dear Edith; how the devil did she go and manage to get burned? ah, I see you are still tender about it; never mind, time will cure you of the burn. And you, Scroop: ha! bless my soul, I am gladder to see you well than any; shake hands, old fellow, no malice. And you, Lennox; by Jove, this reminds me of old times. Where's Johnny Ravensworth?"
"He is at Sandhurst, preparing for the line. My father-in-law has succeeded to a nice little property in the Highlands, and Ellen—you havn't asked me about my wife."
"Egad, I quite forgot her. I'll warrant her flourishing from your face;—and your little boy—"
"No, no, little girl; it was rather a disappointment, but she is a darling child."
"Never mind, better luck next time; do you not think so, Wentworth? Come, let us sit down and hear about all my friends. Ha, Scott, I thought I knew you; and Trevors too,—keen after the hounds as ever, squire?"
"As ever, but this weather is bad for us, it's like snow, I fear."
"Like it; it is snowing like fury now. Egad it was balling in avalanches on my nag's hoofs."
"Oh, you rode then?" said the Earl.
"I didn't exactly walk, as my boots and spurs might have told you, but where I came from I won't say; the fox doesn't show where it earths, and I mustn't show my face by aught than lamplight."
"Then I fear your evil reports are true,—you have been making the Continent too hot for you."
"My evil reports,—if you mean by that my duels,—are certainly not few and far between; but it isn't my fault, if those rascally foreigners will quarrel so. Egad, they will find one Englishman a match for twenty of their cowardly selves. I'll whip them into order. But it is sheriff's officers that I fear here, and when I've had my grog, and seen the girls, I must put a dozen miles between us."
"I am sorry for that; but remember the Towers are safe, no sheriff's officer puts his head in here."
"I know that, but then I have a friend waiting—Czinsky." Scroop looked uneasy.
"Why didn't you bring him here?" said the Earl.
"He wouldn't come; he's waiting a dozen miles from this, and I must soon be off."
"Stay, we can send. Do rest a day or two," said the Earl.
"No use pressing, I can't. I don't mean to be rude, only God knows I can't stop. Ring the bell, Lennox, please; what is that stupid villain Andrew about?"
"Here, Captain, here; het, strang, and sweet, isna that your song? an' how are ye? weel to dae?" said the old servant, bringing in a large bowl of smoking punch.
"Egad, this is the stuff on a snowy night. It's always snowing here it seems. Do you remember the night I hooked it, after nailing Musgrave, poor devil—I hope he was decently interred. By Jove, I was very sorry I hit him where I did; he was a good fellow, and here's to his health, and yours, Scroop; and as you love me don't quarrel."
"If little quarrels make great friends, sharp cuts make blunt ones. Why you drive your rapier through and through a fellow, like a spit through a partridge, and then talk of being good friends again! however, I will drink your health, and the further we fly the tighter we'll tie! I've had enough of close friendship with you."
"Come, I believe you are angry after all. Never mind,chacun à son goût, nothing like being on good terms with the man that eats you. Ha! ha! ha!"
After emptying another bowl with the Marquis and one or two others who remained behind to hear the Captain's adventures, whilst the Earl, who didn't exactly like to ally himself again with such a scapegrace, and the remaining guests joined the ladies, the Captain rose, exclaiming with an oath he must be on his travels. He however went up stairs to see Lady Florence and the Countess; the first received him with sisterly warmth of welcome, whilst the reception he met with from the latter was cold, and politely frigid in the extreme. He asked to see the little girl, and was shown by the Countess and his sister to the next room, where in a handsome cot the infant slept. Lady Wentworth bent over it with a mother's love, whilst the Captain looked gloomily on the little features of her, who at any rate would cut him out of his prospects. To the question if he did not think her a lovely child he answered, "Every baby, he supposed, was thought lovely by its mother; however, she did seem much above the usual run of children." He then came back to the drawing-room, shook hands with those he knew, and departed as mysteriously as he came. Mr. Lennox and the Marquis saw him off, and each returned disgusted by his parting sally. As he shook hands with Lord Arranmore he observed:
"I say, Arranmore, that flare up you were to give after the Earl's wedding was one with a vengeance. Egad it made me laugh in my sorrow for poor Edith."
The Marquis, totally unprepared for such a heartless jest, drew himself up to his full height, saying:
"De Vere, I never knew you before; henceforth let all intercourse cease between us. Inhuman vampire, thus jesting on the death of your sister. I discard your friendship for ever."
"Nay, but—"
"I hear you not," said the Marquis, striding away.
"Well I'm d—d, that scurvy joke makes every one so infernally wrath! After all, Lennox, it wasn't a bad one, was it?"
"Mr. de Vere," said Mr. Lennox.
"Stay, give me my rank, you saucy fool, or by G—d I'll lay this whip about you."
"Captain de Vere then, if you like, a word in your ear; stay, I must speak low," he said, going up to him close. "It surprises me, sir, you dared to show your face. I have long suspected you, and lately found out your share in the abduction; you are here on no good to-night, and unless you will give me your word you will again leave these shores before twenty-four hours, I will tell the Earl my suspicions."
"Hark you, my pert coxcomb, if I did not think it beneath me to touch such a reptile as you, I would give you what would shut your mouth up; you may live to repent this, Mr. Lennox. As for your threats, I heed them no more than yourself, and you have my full leave to proclaim your suspicions, but egad you'll suffer, though I am safe in ten minutes. Who'll track me with the snow falling like this? Now you may go and be hanged, and hold your secrets if you are wise."
So saying he rode off in the blinding snow, leaving Mr. Lennox petrified. He did tell his suspicions to the Earl, however, and a watch was kept up all that night, as several others felt perplexed at this singular appearance, and sudden departure of such a bird of prey. When the Captain reached the arbour he found L'Estrange buried in such a reverie his heavy arm only awoke him from it.
"It is useless then. Oh! my God! I am truly most ill-starred."
"If you don't want to be manacled and prisoned you will be up and away; there are a dozen stout fellows at the Towers, and havn't I just stirred up a wasp's nest,—we shall feel their stings if you are not sharp. Confound the snow-storm, and yet it is a friend in need to-night."
Without another word the two remounted, and rode off for the beach, where they found the tide had already floated the craft.
"No fair freight to-night, Bill," said the Captain, "and now let us be aboard and away; it is well, Bill, you know the steerage of these seas; in such a storm of snow as this it is pretty dangerous."
"Never a fear; I can take her through as if the sun was blazing," said old Bill. "The auld country be cussed, and hoora for Italy!"
"Yes, hurra for Naples! No such nights as these, Bill. Come, Ned, what the devil are you dreaming of? Remember you have done with her. Hurra for sunny lands, fleet steeds, and bonny black eyes!"
L'Estrange silently took his place in the small lugger. Hans and old Bill spread the sail, the Captain took the rudder. After one or two sousers, they got under weigh, and steered for the schooner, which lay in the Leith roads, and was ready to carry them to Italy.
Despite the snow, Bill and the Captain sang sea songs, and drank grog, but vainly attempted to rouse their sombre companion. He was miserable; he was leaving Albion for the last time as far as he knew,—leaving his country—leaving his hopes, his fears, his everything. It was a severe wrench. Bad as he was, he was not like the Captain, without one redeeming quality; amid all the vice, guilt, and blackness of his heart, one star shone—the brighter in contrast to the darkness around it. The snow drifted heavily on him, he shook it not off, he felt it not; a sense of utter sickness and despair was at his heart: he knew all was his own doing—he sighed now only for herfriendship, only to see her—she could not be his wife now, and he was, by a life of guilt and vice, closing even that door of hope. How could a creature so pure, so beautiful, so refined, look on a wretch like him, so impure, so unholy, so lost to all sense of even shame! Every hour of his present life was adding another league to the distance that severed her from him in this life, as every bound his vessel made was adding another wave to the many that rolled between them. He wished the next billow would gulph their frail boat; alas! it rode them like a seagull, and seemed as if it mocked his misery and laughed at his woe. He was lost—not even the prospect of meeting her above. A gulph—a great gulph was fixed between them; she couldn't love him; he loved her still, though he felt he dared not look up to her, so vile had he become. He was roused from this dream by the clanging of the coupling chains, which showed they had reached the schooner. More dead than alive he was hoisted up, and soon sails were spread,
"And, shrouded as they go,In a hurricane of snow,"
"And, shrouded as they go,In a hurricane of snow,"
they soon made for the open main. When poor L'Estrange next woke, nothing but waters were around him, and old England, and all good, all delightful, all virtuous, left on the lee. He then tried to nerve himself up; he drank, he swore like the rest, and even joined in the song—
"Why so pale and wan, fond lover?"
"Why so pale and wan, fond lover?"
with its ending lines,—
"If of herself she will not loveNothing can make her."
"If of herself she will not loveNothing can make her."
"Ha! grown wise at last," said the Captain; "'let the devil take her,' and wine and laughter for us!"
L'Estrange's heart still beat true, and though he laughed, sang, and seemed after this the gayest of the gay, all was false. Often, when on his lone couch, on the lonely billow, his eyes would fill with bitter tears as he thought on what he was now, and what he had been; as he thought how sad a contrast his present loveless wicked life was to that of former years, he would cry with Byron—
"I look around, and cannot traceOne friendly smile, or welcome face;And even in crowds am still aloneBecause I cannot love but one."
"I look around, and cannot traceOne friendly smile, or welcome face;And even in crowds am still aloneBecause I cannot love but one."
"When hope is chiddenThat fain of bliss would tell,And love forbiddenIn the breast to dwell,—When, fettered by a viewless chain,We turn and gaze and turn again,Oh! death were mercy to the painOf those that bid farewell!"—Heber.
"When hope is chiddenThat fain of bliss would tell,And love forbiddenIn the breast to dwell,—When, fettered by a viewless chain,We turn and gaze and turn again,Oh! death were mercy to the painOf those that bid farewell!"—Heber.
"On India's long expected strandTheir sails were never furled."James Montgomery.
"On India's long expected strandTheir sails were never furled."James Montgomery.
We turn with pleasure from these dark outlaws to pure affections in pure bosoms. Johnny Ravensworth was growing up all that his father could desire; he was full of the most exhilarant spirits, but had been strictly moral in his private character, amid all the temptations of a dissipated military school. He took away such a character for diligence, good conduct, and steadiness, that the highest hopes were formed that he would prove an ornament to the profession he had chosen. His talents, though not brilliant, were of a high order,—his attainments were steady and solid. To these he added the gifts of excellent good temper, and thorough unselfishness, the main-spring of all real politeness; for though it often happens a finished gentleman like the Earl of Chesterfield may be exceedingly selfish, yet we never find an unselfish man who has not the principles of true politeness, and is not a thorough gentleman. It was, therefore, with feelings of pride and delight that John Ravensworth, as we must now call him, after passing a severe examination, yet gaining a high place, bade adieu to his masters, with whom he was a great favourite, owing to his steady progress and unimpeachable conduct whilst under their discipline; and to his fellow students, who lost in him their captain in all manly amusements; for, while Ravensworth would never join them in any ungentlemanly, or foolish expedition, in riding, rowing, cricketing, and all the healthful and useful accomplishments, he took the lead that his well-knit frame and unimpaired physical strength entitled him to hold. Assuredly all who saw him as he walked forward, amid the plaudits of his fellow companions, and the waving of fair ladies' kerchiefs, to receive the gold medal for good conduct, and contrasted his handsome face, glowing with health and conscious pride, his manly form proportioned like a young Adonis, could not but contrast health and vigour of mind and body, arising from subjecting them to their proper discipline, with the sallow looks and impaired constitutions of many of his collegiates, which told too plainly the ravages of youthful intemperance on unperfected frames. But who could look for a moment on the bright, healthful, young Ravensworth, and the dull impoverished devotee of pleasure, and not see how temperance has the promise of this life as well as the next? And what young beauty would not rather gaze on him than on those poor debilitated companions in learning? Thus, at the youthful age of eighteen, after having won golden opinions from every one he was connected with, young Ravensworth, with a light heart, bade farewell to the south, and started by coach for the Highlands, in order to spend a couple of months with his father before sailing for India, as the regiment to which he was gazetted was on service at Delhi. The third, and last month of his leave was promised to his sister at the Towers, and we must say that in the young soldier's breast an inmate of those towers claimed a large part. It was now more than two years since he had seen his sister or Lady Florence, whose fair face and sunny tresses had made so deep an impression on his youthful fancy.
The two months passed away swiftly but pleasantly among the hills, the valleys, and dark rolling burns of the North. In rambles with Maude, or riding excursions with his father over the romantic county of Perth, the days were fleeting away, and he was able to have a week's slamming at the grouse ere he bade adieu to his home. The pangs of parting with his father and his sister, who was now growing into girlhood verging on her fourteenth year, were alleviated by two thoughts,—the first that he had high hopes of a future meeting ere long, when he came back with laurels to be welcomed by his friends and relations as a hero; the second, that his parting was only the prelude of his meeting with Ellen, and one, still dearer, of whom he thought morn, noon, and even; and it was that uncertainty if he should find her still the same Florence he had left two years ago—if he dwelt in her heart as she did in his—that made his pulses beat higher. That very uncertainty which like clouds on a sunny day lend their beauty to the sky, for without the shades of doubt love would often lose half its charms. It would be difficult to depict his feelings as his post-chaise entered the gates, and drove up the park towards the Towers. The past and the dim future so possessed his mind he could not but lose sight of the present. The two years seemed but so many hours; it was but yesterday he had scampered across that park, but yet how had those years altered him, and all his ideas. He was then a careless boy, he was now a young soldier just entering on the campaign of life. Burning hopes of high renown, lawful ambition that pointed on to glory, were his now. In one thing he was unchanged, in one matter his heart was the same as then—in love to Lady Florence. It was then a boyish flame—time and absence had deepened it into real attachment. He had seen much beauty, he had been courted by fashion, but he had never altered in sentiments to her! Now he was about to see her again—would she be the same to him?—had time altered her sentiments? No letter, no message had passed between them all that time; it would have been presumption in him, it would have been unmaidenly in her, to have sent such—that was nothing. He had hopes; she had often and often, when he was a boy, declared Johnny only should be her husband—that she would never forget him. Ah, how would it be? how would she receive him now? would it be with the cold politeness of the world, as if they had never loved, or with the warm affection of those who meet to love again?
Whilst these and many such thoughts occupied his mind, the post-chaise whirled on, and ere he hardly woke from his reverie it stopped before the arched doorway. He leaped out, and saw old Andrew, who gazed for a moment as if he hardly recognized him, and then, with a beaming face, shook hands, exclaiming—"God bless you, Master Johnny, ye are grown a braw sodger noo, I wad scarce hae kent you."
Delighted at the warm reception even from the faithful old servant, young Ravensworth hastened up stairs to the drawing-room, where he found his sister the Countess, with her infant son in her arms, and her little Edith Augusta, such was the child's name, prattling at her feet on the soft Turkey carpet. Ellen's warm heart swelled with joy when she saw Johnny, a fine soldierly young man, and as he clasped her in his arms, her eyes filled with tears of joy, and a sort of bright sorrow as she recollected how George had thus come home, and then parted never to come back.
"My dear soldier brother," she said, "welcome to the Towers. Why, Johnny, how tall and handsome you are grown, and so like poor dear George! sit down and tell me all about yourself, and papa, and dear Maude—and look, Johnny, at baby; I am so glad he was a boy,—how Wentworth did rejoice; and my little Edie, isn't she a darling? Come, love, and kiss your uncle."
The little girl toddled up, and with her outspread arms, saluted him—his was that open face children like.
The beautiful Countess, whom time had moulded into a more lovely being still, gazed with a mother's pride on her fine children, and a sister's joy on her youthful brother. Certainly if there was a happy mind on the face of the earth it was hers then—happy in her husband, who loved her with the most faithful adoration, happy in her children, pledges of that holy tie; happy in her brother—her family; and happiest of all in herself—her own virtues; a mind in unity with God and her fellow-creatures; a heart full of charity; a love faithful and true; one in which her husband's heart could safely trust, above even the breath of suspicion, as the poet beautifully says—
"And on that cheek, and o'er that browSo soft, so calm, so eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow;But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent!"
"And on that cheek, and o'er that browSo soft, so calm, so eloquent,The smiles that win, the tints that glow;But tell of days in goodness spent,A mind at peace with all below,A heart whose love is innocent!"
Such was Ellen; and if she looked with pride and joy on her brother, who was growing all she could wish, it is not too much to say, he gazed on her with a feeling bordering almost on adoration. She seemed a being almost too good for earth, and exciting worship as her adequate homage! So far his most sanguine hopes were realised,—at least he had a fond sister there, and he had also the Earl, whom alone he had often seen, and who was the most delighted at his conduct. Still, there was one he had not seen, and it was long ere he summoned resolution to ask even his sister after Lady Florence.
"Oh, Florence is out riding with Wentworth. If I had not had baby to take care of I should have gone too, and you would have had a cold welcome, Johnny! How glad I am I was at home!"
After speaking on many other things, at last the door opened, and a face too dearly remembered appeared;—Lady Florence was eighteen,—still in her teens,—that delightful affix to the numbers that afterwards move less musically! Her face seemed exactly the same,—as did her figure, shown off to perfection by her riding habit, save that the girlish expression was softened into the more sober air of riper, though still youthful years, and the light form more rounded, and developed into the contour of woman's figure. She wore a black velvet hat with a white feather coquettishly displayed, and in one of her little hands, covered with white gauntlets, she balanced a riding-whip, whilst the other held up her train. John was partly hidden by the white muslin curtains, and the young lady did not observe him.
"Oh, Ellen,—you in yet? I thought you would have been out this fine day!" and she was on the point of shutting the door, when the Countess said—
"Why, Florence, love! where are your eyes? Do you not see my brother John, who is just arrived?"
A faint blush for a moment crimsoned her face; then, apologizing for her mistake, she walked gracefully forward, while young Ravensworth leapt up and hurried to meet her.
"So you have arrived, Mr. Ravensworth;—I am glad to renew our old acquaintance."
"Not more than I am, Lady Florence. Why you are not altered the least; I should have known no difference!"
"You flatter me," answered the lady, giving her hand; "but I must say, I doubt if I should have knownyouagain. Why, dear me, Ellen, when last I saw him he was not so tall as I am, and now he is a head over me! I must now look up to you, Mr. Ravensworth,—you are grown out of my recollection almost!"
"I trust not out of your remembrance, Lady Florence?"
"Certainly not out of yours, if I am to judge by your shakes of hand. You forget you are now so strong;—you nearly wrung my poor hand off! Excuse me now; I must go and change my habit,—Addio!"
The light-hearted girl then sailed away, leaving her admirer in half-hopefulness, half-fearfulness, and scarce knowing what to think.
The Earl's reception was as warm as he had anticipated; and he then left in order to dress for dinner. Several guests besides himself were numbered at the table, and, of course, Lady Florence fell to the care of a young peer, and not to him; she sat a few paces from him on the same side,—just too far for him to address, and not too far for him to listen to. Her partner seemed to pay the most assiduous attentions, which were certainly, as far as he could judge, far from unacceptable, and he was not altogether sorry when the ladies left. When they rejoined them in the drawing-room, he was quite monopolized by his sister, whilst Lady Florence was disengaged; and when, at last, he got free, the same young man walked up to her, just before him, and kept up incessant flirtation. During the whole evening he but once addressed her, and only received a laughing repartee. Time wore on; Lady Florence was one of the earliest to retire, and by-and-by the visitors departed, and he too went to his room anything but pleased:—it seemed quite certain she had forgotten him. Next morning, at breakfast, he sat next her, and she seemed so like herself again his spirits quite rose; but during the rest of the day she hardly noticed him; and again he sought his couch thoroughly discontented. During the days he was of course carried off to the field by the Earl, who was a keen sportsman; and as a large shooting party gradually gathered at the Towers, his chances for atête-à -têtewith Lady Florence grew more and more hopeless. He saw her the star of every drawing-room; she danced and laughed with him, and quite won him,—often thrice in an evening; and then he saw her treating some one else exactly the same; and at length came to the conclusion that she was a heartless flirt! The days hurried by, and soon he would have to say adieu! and sail for India. He tried to reason with himself, how he could be so foolish as to think the reigning belle of town and country, and daughter of an Earl, could deign to look on him, save as on any other young man. But love will not listen to reason,—and he loved! Yet he soon came to the sad conclusion, he would have to leave without even speaking to her on the subject; he would soon hear of her alliance with some noble family, and then he would throw his life away in the first brush with the enemy! All his high hopes of coming home a conquering hero, and receiving as his guerdon the hand of the lady of his choice seemed to "moulder cold and low!" When she saw his death, she would perhaps say, "Poor fellow!—he is gone at last!"—this all from one who had said she would be his wife:—oh, the thought was maddening! Those were her girlish vows,—unstable as the name traced on the sands,—so her vows were washed away by the stream of years! Oh, woman, thy faith is written on sand!
The most provoking part was, she would often walk with him, ride with him, sit with him alone; she would listen to all his nonsense, and flirt in her turn; and after these interviews he used to return vexed with himself for frittering precious time in folly, and vexed with her for returning it too well.
In this way three weeks passed away. During the next few days he fancied he saw a change in Florence: she was less frivolous,—she seemed more quiet; and he could not but connect it in his own mind with his approaching departure, and said to himself, "She has a heart, after all!" Three days only of his tether remained, when, one afternoon, he found himself walking with Florence alone in the shrubberies; he nerved himself up, and determined he would speak his whole mind, and began by asking her "if she remembered what she had told him two years ago?"
"Indeed, Mr. Ravensworth, if I remembered all the foolish things I said, I should have enough to do."
"Then, Lady Florence, those days are gone. I would I were Johnny Ravensworth again,—could you be the same you were then to me."
"I scarcely understand you. I have always been amused at your pleasantries; I have always liked your company,—but you did not, I hope, imagine more."
"Oh, Lady Florence, do not say so! Have you, indeed, forgotten all you once said,—how often you promised and vowed affection to me?"
"Mr. Ravensworth, I was then a girl, and you were then my playmate. There was no harm, then, in our being so much together, or in all the foolish things we said to each other. We are now nearly grown up; and I hope your good taste will allow, we could not go on as we did then,—why, the world would never let us hear the end of it."
"Would God, Lady Florence, I was the same heedless boy again! Oh! to grow beyond our childish loves is surely the bitterest part of life! To be brief,—you love me no more?"
"I am grieved to hurt your feelings, Mr. Ravensworth,—I really never dreamed of this! You are a friend,—a near and dear friend,—and shall ever remain so."
"Then, all my hopes sink,—all my fondest hopes are crushed! Oh! why did you draw me on only to crush me? Why did you lead me,—why did you encourage me,—only to blight my best affections? It cannot be you have ceased to regard me! Oh, Lady Florence,—dear Lady Florence, have pity on me!"
"I shall ever regard you as I have done, and still do, Mr. Ravensworth; no one could feel more sorry than I do. If I have awakened hopes I never dreamed of raising, it will read me a lesson to be more careful in future. I sincerely regret I cannot reciprocate your feelings;—may you meet some one who can, and who will make you happier than Florence de Vere!"
The young girl broke away without listening for a reply, and hurried to her room. When she was alone she threw herself on her bed and burst into tears, exclaiming, "God forgive me!—how could I tell him such a falsehood? I do,—I do love him! What made me so foolish, so mad, as to refuse him?"
At dinner they met. You could hardly tell anything was wrong, to listen to those two, speaking so merrily; but, could you have read their hearts,—what a tale of wretchedness was there! Young Ravensworth felt utterly cast down at heart: he had heard from the lips he best loved to hear the words that spoke his doom! He had proved her he thought faithful, false! His trust in womankind was gone; but he felt he must veil his feelings. "I will show her," thought he, "I can laugh, and sing, and, with false smiles on my face, throw a light on sorrow's dark tide. I will not let the cold world know my misery; but, after once finding the fickleness of the sex, I will not try it again."
Alas! Ravensworth did not know how often a proud beautiful girl rejects the love she would accept from a vanity man knows not—the vanity and pleasure of playing with hearts! Lady Florence felt grieved that she should have dallied with deep feelings, all for the silly pleasure of seeing her powers; but she felt faith in those powers, and thought her smiles would tempt the moth, even after singeing its wings, once more to woo the flame. Alas! Lady Florence knew not there are hearts which, once refused, are too haughty to ask again. Time was short—two days only—and early on the morning of the third John Ravensworth must start. Florence, by all means in her power, strove to rekindle the flame her refusal seemed to have quenched. Young Ravensworth was partly surprised, partly angered at this, to his idea, heartless trifling. A word would have set all right; had he asked again she would have become his betrothed, but he asked not. Had she only whispered, "I do love you," he would again have asked—she spoke not. And thus whilst she fancied he was too proud to ask, and resolved to lower that pride by appearing everything he wished, all to make him ask once more, he fancied it was cruelty in her appearing so affectionate, all to induce him to ask again, that she might once more have the pleasure of refusing, and he resolved he would not give her the chance. Thus a mutual feeling of restraint prevented each of them from saying the word or making the concession on which their future joy or sorrow depended! Time, which stays his course not for mortal man, wore on; the day—the last day—hurried by! The excitement of packing, preparing, and looking at the beautiful presents showered on him from all sides, partly distracted Ravensworth from gnawing care; yet through all he felt that sinking, aching void within which only one could fill. He had no present from her he valued most, not even a flower! and a flower from her were worth the wealth of Golconda from others. The evening—though he wooed its stay as if it were his last below—passed away with the rapidity happy hours do pass. He sat by her—talked to her; she played and sang to him, and he was at once happy and wretched. One song—
"When we two partedIn silence and tears,"
"When we two partedIn silence and tears,"
the latest production of Lord Byron's muse then set to music, she sang with such pathos the tear sprang to his eyes. But afterwards she laughed, and his spirits sank again as she bade him good evening and good bye.
"Good bye; I shall not see you again, Mr. Ravensworth; you will be gone early, I suppose. When we meet again you will be a captain perhaps. I hope you will have a nice voyage. Good bye, I sha'n't forget you."
Poor Ravensworth could only press her hand as she was leaving the room, and offer a little packet, probably containing a costly keepsake, but Lady Florence fathomed his meaning, and said, "Thank you, but I could not accept it, it would not be right; I shall require no souvenir to cause you to be remembered! but if you want one, there is a flower for you." As she spoke she took a sprig of blue forget-me-not from the wreath that bound her hair, and playfully gave it. She then hurried away with a light step, but a heavy heart. Young Ravensworth stood mute, with the rejected gift in one hand and the flower in the other, gazing abstractedly on his retreating vision of beauty. He thought he heard her sigh. He then slowly retraced his steps, bade farewell to the Countess, and retired to his own room, heavy and discontented. He could not sleep, so fevered grew his head, and thinking the cool night air might do him good, he left the castle, crossed the span-bridge, and sought the Holly Walk. The night was extremely beautiful, the moon walking on high in brightness, the air warm and perfumed as it swept o'er the flower-gardens, and gently whirled the sere leaves from the beech-trees behind the hedge.
What a different scene had been enacted there a few years ago! Awful as it was, to him it was brighter than now, and as he marked the leaves fall, silently but surely, before the touch of the waning year, so, he thought, fall my hopes one by one, till old age will leave me without a leaf to bless the bare branches. He sat down on a bench, and there taking the little rejected packet, he broke the seal, tore to fragments a few lines of poetry he had written and wrapped the little brooch in, and scattered the fragments amongst the dried holly-leaves at the root of the hedge. We are, however, able to state they ran thus:—
When morning is beaming,And dew-drops are gleaming,My heart is still dreamingOf Florence de Vere!No eye owns such splendour,No heart is so tender,All—all I'd surrenderFor Florence de Vere!While this even of sorrowBodes darker to-morrow,Some ray I still borrowFrom Florence de Vere;On my spirit repiningThe pole-star is shining,That knows not declining,—'Tis Florence de Vere!When parted our dwellingBy ocean proud-swelling,Hope will still be foretelling,My Florence de Vere!A day of glad meeting,A voice of kind greeting,And echo repeating—"Sweet Florence de Vere!"Be my cynosure yonder;—The further I wanderI'll love thee the fonder,My Florence de Vere!And vain's fate's endeavourOur hearts to dissever,They're mingled for ever,Loved Florence de Vere!
When morning is beaming,And dew-drops are gleaming,My heart is still dreamingOf Florence de Vere!No eye owns such splendour,No heart is so tender,All—all I'd surrenderFor Florence de Vere!
While this even of sorrowBodes darker to-morrow,Some ray I still borrowFrom Florence de Vere;On my spirit repiningThe pole-star is shining,That knows not declining,—'Tis Florence de Vere!
When parted our dwellingBy ocean proud-swelling,Hope will still be foretelling,My Florence de Vere!A day of glad meeting,A voice of kind greeting,And echo repeating—"Sweet Florence de Vere!"
Be my cynosure yonder;—The further I wanderI'll love thee the fonder,My Florence de Vere!And vain's fate's endeavourOur hearts to dissever,They're mingled for ever,Loved Florence de Vere!
"It is false! she is no pole-star, and my nonsense isn't worth burning," exclaimed the unhappy lover. "And thou, poor rejected souvenir, no eye shall ever see thee!" dropping it on the ground, he stamped the brooch into the greensward in his fury. He looked up,—you could scarce have told that pale livid face to be the same bright visage that smiled as he received his medal. He arose and retraced his footsteps towards the Towers. Once or twice he fancied he heard a rustle among the branches at the back of the hedge; as he neared the end of the walk the sound rose so distinctly on his ear it made him start. He was brave as a lion, but not untinctured with the superstition of the North. The idea at once struck him it was the spirit of Musgrave haunting the walk where he had been murdered. An involuntary thrill ran through him; he stood as if rooted to the ground, and he felt his hair somewhat bristle on his head. Had it been twenty robbers he had not known a particle of dread, but anything supernatural was horrid! It was some moments ere he found his voice, and he was almost ashamed of himself to hear how it quavered as he asked, "Who goes there?" No answer came; the rustling came nearer, and through the branches he saw a dim white figure approaching. His heart sank within him, and in a voice tremulous and hollow he asked, "In God's name who are you? avaunt! away! by all that is sacred go!" The cold drops stood on his brow like icicles, and his whole frame shook.
"Hist, speak low—follow me," replied a female voice, and at the same moment the form broke through the bushes. For an instant he thought it was Lady Florence, but no, she was an inch taller at least, and it was not the light beautifully-moulded figure of the lady of his love. "Are you ill? are you glamoured, that you will nae speak nor move? You look dumbfoundered as if a ghaist had speered on you. Quick, follow me, Mr. John."
"By heaven! I did think it was a ghost! What, in the name of God, brings you here in such a place, at such an hour? By my troth I did think it was Sir Richard's spirit."
"Whisht, for the love of God dinna speak sae. Dinna ye ken the place is no canny? Follow me. But you are a brave sodger."
Young Ravensworth felt his blood kindle, and felt angry at his folly in imagining she was a ghost, and eager to disabuse her of the idea, said, "No, Jenny, speak here—it is all trash—what is it?"
"Na, na, not here. Either come, or I maun tell her ye willna come ava."
"Her, who is her? I will come."
And he hastened to follow Jeanie Forbes, who, when the rest of the family had left, was promoted to the rank of lady's-maid to Lady Florence, as a reward for her uniform kindness to the Countess in her imprisonment. Following his guide, he entered the castle by a back-door, and ascended the back-stairs till he reached the door of Lady Florence's room. "Tap thrice," said his guide, and disappeared in the darkness. For a minute he stood irresolute whether he should tap or not. Love overcame pride, and he gently struck the door thrice. A light step crossed the room, the door was opened, and he stood face to face with his lady love.
"Come in; tread lightly," said the lady. "Oh! I am doing very wrong, Mr. Ravensworth! but I could not let you leave this without seeing you once more. It is very wrong—it may be, unmaidenly—I cannot help it! Sit down—there," pointing to a sofa.
Hardly knowing what he did, he sank down on the sofa as he was bid.
Lady Florence still kept standing.
"Why have you brought me here, Lady Florence? For heaven's sake relieve me of my doubts!"
The lady stood speechless.
It was a fine picture: the despairing look of the lover, with his eyes cast on the ground, as if unable to lift them to the idol of his affections; the half earthly, half heavenly look of the lady, as if dying to breathe a word and kept back by an irresistible chain. She was still, of course, dressed as he had last seen her, save that her hair was let down, and in long tresses almost swept the ground as she bent forward, and with eyes swelling with tears, and hands clasped together, exclaimed, "Johnny, Idolove you!"
As though he heard not, or understood not, he was silent as death for some seconds, and contending passions strove for mastery in his bosom. The pride, that would rather suffer than bend, fought against the love that would rather die than cause its object to suffer. For a few dread moments they fiercely contended, and, alas for love! pride vanquished, and he replied, "Lady Florence, you have trifled once with my tenderest feelings; you shall not again. Once refused, I am too proud to implore again the love denied me. Would we had not met! My peace is gone,—perhaps yours also."
"Hear me, Johnny—hear me! I repent,—I bitterly repent of my folly. Why this false pride? Your peace, you say, is gone. I can give it back. My peace is gone. You can give it me again. Let me not ask in vain!"
"Alas! it is too late now, Florence!" said her lover, relenting. "I had my resignation penned when I asked you. I had given up all my dreams of glory for you! I have sent the letter stating I am ready for service. At the least, it will be years ere we meet again; but if my Florence will be true, she need not fear my infidelity."
"My God!" exclaimed the unhappy young lady, "I am punished indeed! But, oh, Johnny! it is not too late! it is not! Wentworth has such interest; he will get your discharge. You can sell your commission. What is glory? An empty dream! The mere bray of the trumpet! Oh! stay, stay with your Florence—your beloved, loving Florence! Do not leave me!" and the young girl threw her arms round him, as if she would not let him go.
He felt the embarrassment of his situation; he felt a softness stealing over his soul, he felt his decision all melting away; he saw how much she was devoted to him. He then thought of martial glory; high fame; and his honour; his duty; and then again of love and home delights! Half he was inclined to throw over all, and spend his life in inglorious indolence,—in retired, blissful, domestic happiness! but again feelings the young soldier only knows—the sound of the trumpet,