The Weird Of The Wentworths Volume Ii Part 9

"Come, I believe you are angry after all. Never mind, _chacun a son got_, 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 sh.o.r.es before twenty-four hours, I will tell the Earl my suspicions."

"Hark you, my pert c.o.xcomb, 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 G.o.d! 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 her _friends.h.i.+p_, 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,"

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?"

with its ending lines,--

"If of herself she will not love Nothing 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 trace One friendly smile, or welcome face; And even in crowds am still alone Because I cannot love but one."

CHAPTER VIII.

"When hope is chidden That fain of bliss would tell, And love forbidden In the breast to dwell,-- When, fettered by a viewless chain, We turn and gaze and turn again, Oh! death were mercy to the pain Of those that bid farewell!"--_Heber._

"On India's long expected strand Their 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 pa.s.sing 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 amus.e.m.e.nts; 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 ent.i.tled him to hold. a.s.suredly 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 const.i.tutions 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 pa.s.sed 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 fas.h.i.+on, 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 pa.s.sed 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--"G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 brow So 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 wors.h.i.+p 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.