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 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!