I turned to the men, who had placed upon the bier Lord Glenfells and his beautiful Blanche, and after paying the women for their attention, the mournful cortege set out.
We took the road along the beach to the fork, whence it diverged to the house; then following that, we soon arrived at home. The women came rushing to the door to see so strange a sight, and scarce believed their eyes when they beheld what I brought. They were carried up stairs into an empty room, next to mine, placed on a bed, covered with a white coverlid; and I left the room, locking the door and taking the key with me. I returned to my child.
I buried them at Baie. They have a lonely grave on that rock-bound coast, at the top of the cliff on which the ruined temple of fortune stands. The ocean’s waves wash the base of the rocks, and the flowers and trees are gathered thickly around it. No splendid monument marks the last repose of one of England’s brightest, handsomest sons;—no inscription tells of the fair, ill-fated songstress. Her death, like her life, was isolated. But her memory at least is still fondly cherished by one who knew and loved her well.
When last I visited their graves, I found them overgrown with flowers,—odorous and beautiful as had been the character of Blanche. There the rose, the acacia, japonica, myrtle, and cypress, form unfading bowers, unfailing mourners, over their graves. When the sea is calm, the quiet murmur of its waves seems to utter unknown regrets. In storms their swelling tumult sounds like a requiem. Vain would it be for me to describe the many sad hours I passed there, silently offering as an ovation the grief of a sincere heart. During my stay at Baie, not a day elapsed but found me a visiter there. There the sadness of the scene taught me to moderate my own regrets,—taught me to uplift my heart to God,—taught me to be humble, thankful, and resigned.
A month passed without my hearing anything farther from my husband or Count Calabrella. I was terribly anxious: I dreaded lest something of a frightful character had happened, and that they feared to tell me it. I sometimes walked half the night up and down my room, conjuring my brains to imagine the reasons of this mysterious silence; but I could bring my mind to no clear explanation. I could resolve on nothing; everything was dark to me. At length the dreaded, yet wished for explanation came. Another courier came with another letter, which I have still preserved. I submit it to you:—
“I have made my escape. I have left Naples and Italy for ever. Had I awaited my trial, I know I should have been utterly lost. I jeoparded my life in getting out of prison; but am safe now. I release you from all faith, all allegiance to me; forget me: heaven never intended us for each other. Return to the gay world: may you be happy. Kiss my child for me. I had a presentiment, when I stood over his cradle, that I should never see him more: his baby-features are imprinted on my soul; they will only be obliterated when I shall cease to breathe. Remember me in those prayers you so fervently offer to your God, and may that God watch over you.
“I go to seek a new fortune in some foreign land; as yet I know not where: everything in the future is dark and uncertain. Farewell! Farewell!
Serval.”
When I had read this strange epistle, and fully comprehended it, I remained petrified with amazement: the tone of it was so reckless, wild—almost incoherent—I scarcely believed it to be my husband’s. He gave me up; he told me to forget him; to return to the world I had quitted for him. He seemed to write without feeling any regret, any sadness at this eternal separation. His child alone elicited a sentiment of humanity; and this was all the reward I received for the forbearance I had manifested toward him,—the devotion I had practiced for more than two years to that unhappy man. I was thrown off—cast away!