Volume Ii Part 11 (1/2)
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.