CHAPTER X.
"And one, o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fanned; She faded midst Italian flowers, The last of that bright band!"--_Hemans._
Though we have not mentioned the grief of the Countess for her onlybrother's death, owing to the greater and more distracting woe of LadyFlorence's engaging our attention, it must not be inferred from thenceshe did not deeply and long feel her irreparable loss. After her husbandand children, there was no living being who had so entwined himselfround the young mother's heart as her brother had ever done. She hadhad, it might be said, his entire moral education in her training from achild; he had grown a credit to his mistress, besides combining all, inhis appearance and manners, that most captivates woman's heart. She wasat once proud and delighted with her pupil:--proud to see her carefuland painstaking bringing up had been so well developed, and exceeded herhighest expectations; delighted to see how he reflected credit on herfamily; and, most of all, found an anxious well-wisher in her husband.But alas for early promise! alas for youthful hopes! The pride of hereyes, the idol of her heart, had been rudely snatched away. All her longwatching,--just when the plant was beginning to reflect glory on itstrainer,--had proved in vain. The child of so many prayers had earlybeen called hence; his sun had gone down whilst it was yet day; in thevery spring of its sunshine, at the very hour when his rays were mostcherished, the eclipse had come on and the Countess felt a double pangin thus losing not only her brother, but as it were her son,--for so shealmost regarded him. Her father, too, was an object of solicitude; hehad lost the prop of his old age, his only surviving son; and so heavilyhad the loss fallen on him, it seemed as if he too would soon follow thelight of his eyes to the tomb.
The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong; and Ellenwas now learning, by sad experience, that to be great is not to behappy,--to be rich is not to be free from care. The Weird was fastfulfilling; one by one, in the bloom of their age, the flowers of thefamily were falling off. Lady Arranmore was gone; now Lady Florence wasgoing;--who would be the next to follow? These were sad thoughts, whichoften cast a shadow on Ellen's fair face. She was still so young, butseemed as if she was to be stricken again and again, and when she lookedon her lord, her children, and all over whom the Weird had its fatalpower, she trembled! Her own sorrows were partly lessened by the task ofcomforting and sympathising with the griefs of others. She had herfather in his sonless woe, and Florence in her declining health; and,like all tender minds, she forgot her own in alleviating another'smisery. She had also her children to think of, and almost seemed unableto grasp all her duties, and do all that was required. Had she not had ahigher Comforter, she could never have borne up against such acomplication of disasters; but she had learned that lesson which is thelast a Christian is perfected in,--to cast all her care on a greaterthan any earthly friend, and to feel sure all was for the best,--goodwould spring from evil;--yes, often the shadow goes before the blessing,the cloud before the refreshing shower, and the shower before therainbow! The darkest hour is the hour before dawn; and faith must nottremble at the dimness of darkness, but look forward to the bright sunthat follows.
The Earl had determined to ask his bereaved father-in-law, as well asMaude, to pass the winter with them at Naples; and early in October thewhole party started on their travels, proceeding first to Southampton,and thence, by the Earl's schooner yacht, to Naples. This little vesselwas commanded by Captain Wilson, who had retired on half-pay from anungrateful service, and was glad to get such an excellent appointmentfrom his friend. He was much concerned at the altered looks of hisinvalid charge, and took the most fatherly care of her during thevoyage. They had a very pleasant passage after the Bay of Biscay, whichkept up its character, and gave them a stormy welcome. It was asorrowful crew, and very unlike the usual voyages in the "Star of theSea." 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 bluebillows, as they boomed and hissed past them, with their featheryfoam-crests. Beneath that blue, lone sea slept the loved of all! it wason those surges, perhaps, he had striven long and well, but at lastsuccumbed to his fate! Sometimes the wish would force itself on the mindof Florence that the same cruel waves would engulf their frail craft,and she would rest deep under the changing, surging waves; but Ellenused to tell her it was wrong,--to bear was to conquer her fate; when itwas Heaven's will, her bark of life would reach its haven of rest; andfrom this she gradually went on, and spoke so sweetly, so gently, to heryoung friend, that, little by little, her mind was weaned away fromselfish sorrow, and she half resolved to live for others,--not to giveway 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, theparty disembarked at the Porto Grande, from whence they drove to theVilla Reale, so called from the gardens by which it was surroundedresembling those bearing the same name at Naples,--the great promenadein the evenings. About half an hour's drive on the Castellamare roadbrought them to their destination. The villa stood on the rising ground,sloping upwards towards Vesuvius, which formed its background to theright. Behind it vineyards, orange and lemon groves made the whitecastellated mansion stand forth gloriously; and Mr. Ravensworth andMaude, who had never seen Naples before, thought,--as every onethinks,--nothing could be more beautiful! The warm air, and mild seabreezes, for a time seemed as if they would restore the droopingFlorence; but as the winter drew on,--unfortunately rather colder thanusual,--her cough grew worse, and every eye saw the swift decline againhurrying its victim to the grave. Lady Florence alone thought she wouldrecover; alone she knew not her danger,--part of the fatal complaint!Still, it was rather with grief than otherwise she looked on herrestoration. All that she had lived for had gone; life had nothing nowto 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 yetthere 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 tothe invalid.
As the spring came on Florence grew worse. At first she made longexcursions by sea and land,--to Ischia, Sorrento, Vesuvius, and manyother places; or took long drives into the interior. Soon she grewunable to bear these fatigues, and used to drive along the shore, orwalk to the volcano's side only. As she grew weaker, and her coughbecame more and more troublesome, and wearing on the system, even theseshort excursions were given up, and the invalid during sunny days usedto be wheeled on a sofa to the balcony, where she used to gazelistlessly on the blue Mediterranean, or converse with her friend theCountess, who scarcely ever left her side. The most skilful medical carenow availed nothing,--slowly, but surely, the victim sank! the hecticflush grew brighter, the eye more unearthly clear, the form moreemaciated,--and then the patient was unable to leave her dying bed.
Naples is now considered a climate thoroughly unfit for consumptivepatients; but in those days climatology was not so well understood asnow; and the Doctor balancing the comforts of the Villa Reale with themiseries of hotels overlooked some more important items.
Lord Wentworth, when he saw his sister failing so fast, as a lastresource communicated with the then celebrated Abernethy, who, onhearing the case, ordered her immediate removal to Rome, or else inlandas far as she could bear the journey. Accordingly a carriage was fittedup as a couch, and the lady removed from the Villa Reale, travelling byeasy stages to the ancient mistress of the world. The journey againseemed to feed the dying flame of life, and the Earl with joy beheld hissister able to be wheeled once more to the balcony of the palace whichhe rented. It was but once she was permitted to do this: never more didshe quit her couch. The fatal sirocco blew for three days, and thisseemed to dry up the last hope. On the evening of the last day shecalled her friends to her bedside, and told them she was dying. Thescene was peculiarly sad. From their windo
ws they saw the Capitol withits ruined towers in the last light of day,--and her sun was sinkingtoo! The Earl sat with downcast looks near the foot of the dying girl'sbed; Mr. Ravensworth and Maude sat on one side, and on the other kneltthe Countess whispering words of comfort in her friend's ear. Theexpiring beauty sat up in her bed, and, pointing to the reflected beamson the ruins, said--
"My sun is, too, setting, Ellen; if there is one grief in parting, it isleaving 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 notgrudge the change from weeping into glory, and life into eternity. Areyou happy, dear?"
"I never was happier; could all my life be promised over again, I wouldnot wish to live! to die is far better. I do but go before, Ellen, and Ishall 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 shineon her face, and her eye looked brighter still; her lips moved as thoughshe 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 slackeningfast. Ellen, love, farewell!--Wentworth,--dear Maude, and--Mr.Ra--vensworth--adieu! adieu!"
The last few words were rather guessed than heard. The Earl rose andhastened 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 Doctorentered. He did not speak, but took his patient's hand. The pulse stillthrobbed, but so faintly it was scarce perceptible. For some time,perhaps a quarter of an hour, they all watched in dead silence. The dayfaded fast, and presently a small lamp was lighted by the Doctor. Thedying girl once more opened her eyes, which had been so long closed allthought she had gone, but feared to express their opinion. Again herlips moved. Ellen pressed close to her, but failed to catch the words.The flickering flame of life hovered long;--they "thought her dying whenshe slept, and sleeping when she died." So passively passed away hersoul, her form had long grown cold ere they knew she was gone. Not asigh, not a word, not a breath told the exact moment she ceased toexist! It was on a night as calm as her spirit she died,--and thustranquilly ended a short, but latterly embittered life.
It is impossible to paint the grief of the surviving mourners; as theystood round the bed where she lay so lifelike they could scarce believeher dead. The "hectic streak" still tinged her face, and a smile soplacid that it seemed as if it lingered there to tell the mourners howthe disembodied soul was blessed.
"She is happy now," said the Countess; "we should not grieve over her asif 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 toa 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 theircoffin bed, the waxlike arms closed crosswise over her breast, and awhite rose laid between them. The lid was then screwed down, and thecoffin sent to the Towers, where with becoming solemnity she was laidbeside her sister.
The Earl and Countess and their companions started for England, andafter the funeral of Lady Florence remained in perfect seclusion formany months at the Towers. Grief often follows grief, and woe comes onwoe, as billows roll on billows, and smite the rocks. Scarcely had theEarl and Countess recovered from the grief of Florence's death, when thescarlet fever broke out at the Towers, and seized both of theirchildren. Augusta passed safely through it, but it assumed a moremalignant guise with little Viscount de Vere, and with fearful rapiditycrushed its victim, leaving the poor Countess almost heartbroken. Shelooked on Augusta as her last hope left, and the culture of her openingmind seemed almost the only object worth living for, excepting herhusband, who was utterly stricken by the death of his sister and theironly son, and needed indeed a loving wife like Ellen to soothe hissorrow. Faithfully did she fulfil her vows to love him in sickness andin health, for better and for worse!
The Weird of the Wentworths: A Tale of George IV's Time, Vol. 2 Page 10