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, I _do_ love you!"

As though he heard not, or understood not, he was silent as death for some seconds, and contending pa.s.sions 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 G.o.d!" 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 embarra.s.sment 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,

----"whose breath May 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, "G.o.d 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. G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s. 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 dear For love and kindred's sake, When these the voice of rumour hear Their 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 bear The hope that keeps alive despair!"

CHAPTER IX.

"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?"