In about a month Ellen was able to take her first walk; she chose the road along which a few months ago he had driven with her in the sleigh. Then the snow was white—now April's sunshine and showers began to make everything green and spring-like. Ah! the love born amid the snows of winter seemed to have flown with them! To her mind that time had been spring,—now all was winter.
Though Ellen was thus apparently restored in health, strength, and beauty, the lingering traces of the illness had not entirely vanished, and her physicians had recommended a tour on the Continent, selecting Switzerland as the best spot. Her father, too, thought the excitement of a tour abroad, the new scenes, foreign faces and customs, would do more than anything else to banish old griefs from her mind, and drown her sorrow; so he decided on following their advice, and began to prepare for their departure. As there were then no steamboats and railroads, Mr. Ravensworth decided on travelling by posting, and procured an excellent courier through Mr. Lennox. This courier was to meet them in London, and they determined on travelling thither by the coach that passed their door daily. On May day the London coach stopped before Seaview and picked up Mr. Ravensworth and his daughter. Ellen had only time to wave her hand to Johnny and Maude, who stood on the steps, before the four prancing horses dashed off, and whirled her away from her home, and separated her from her brother and sister for the first time in her life.
CHAPTER XI.[D]
"Still those white cliffs faintly glimmer,
Still I see my island home."—Anon.
"Above me are the Alps,
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
And throned eternity in icy halls
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
The avalanche—the thunderbolt of snow!"
Childe Harold.
Only those who have viewed the white cliffs of Albion sink beneath the circumambient waters, only those who have left Old England on the lee in their out-bound vessel, can fancy the unspeakable emotion, or depict the melancholy feelings with which we first bid our island adieu. We are islanders; all our ideas are severed like our land from other nations; we glory in our insulated position; we glory in our insulated manners; and there breathes not son nor daughter—or if they breathe they deserve not the name of Briton—who does not acutely feel the first severing from home. It is the feeling of the child weaned from the maternal breast—the lover parted from his love—the dying man trembling as he is launched on the sea of futurity; the firm land is gone—the known exchanged for the unknown, or at least dimly shadowed future; above angry skies—beneath unfathomed depths—around faithless waves—and behind the land of our love fast receding, perhaps never to be seen again, or seen when the fire of youth has smouldered low—the energy of youth has been exchanged for the caution of age—and dull reality has shown how vain the dreams of childhood! Looking on the receding shore we feel all our friends are there, and all going away—there all our hopes, our home, our affections. The vessel bears away our mortal frame; the immortal soul lingers behind, nothing can bear it away, nor the heart that is left behind, however far the foot may roam. How full are our feelings, as we ask with the poet,—
"Who shall fill our vacant places?
Who shall sing our songs to-night?"
Such were the feelings of Ellen Ravensworth as the packet which bore them left the quiet harbour of Newhaven, and in one minute plunged into the restless, rolling billows of our channel. Having had to wait for the tide, it was already growing dusk when they weighed anchor; the last embers of dying day tipped the crested waves with an uncertain glimmer, and the crescent moon hung in the only clear break of the sky over the west, from which quarter rather a brisk breeze hurried the yeasty waves past: it was, however, a mild, soft wind, and remarkably warm for the season; so Ellen prevailed on her father to allow her to remain on deck, and catch the last glimpse of her native island. Wrapt in a warm Scotch plaid, in a half-reclining attitude, she leant over the vessel's side, and watched her plough her way with full swelling sails towards France. Beside her stood her father, talking to the captain, a bluff, kindhearted sailor, who had voyaged over the round world, and was busily engaged in detailing some of his adventures, or, as sailors would say, spinning a long yarn. But Ellen heeded not their conversation; her heart was far away, as from time to time she lifted her blue eyes, moist with tears, on the lessening shores and giant chalk cliffs that loomed ghost-like and mysteriously through the gloaming.
Though Scotch, Ellen had imbibed all the national feelings for those white cliffs, associated from earliest times with this country's history;—the same cliffs that beheld the ancient Briton paddle his basket-work coracle,—the same cliffs that twice saw the haughty Roman conqueror Julius Cæsar,—that saw the Saxon with fair hair and blue eyes land on the envied isle,—that beheld the fiery Dane,—the proud Norman,—and, later still, the Spanish Armada sail by in false vainglory,—later still the victorious Wellington welcomed home, whilst drums played, "See the conquering hero comes." Though Scotch, Ellen felt towards them a kindred love, as she saw and now lost them again in the murky night, for the first time in her young life. England and Scotland were one now: all petty distinctions were lost—all party failings, all rancour forgotten; it was the same island, the same home; on its dimly-seen shores were centred all her affections; her hopes and fears were all there; her brother and sister; her relatives and friends; her house and home. He, too, was there; he who had so cruelly deserted her; he who had won her heart, and, when tired of it, thrown it away, as the child flings his broken toy. Despite all, she loved, she adored him yet, and to leave him gave the most venomed point to the shaft of affliction. With heart full to bursting—so full it seemed as if a tight band was drawn round it—and feelings those who have felt them know, but cannot describe, she watched the red harbour-light dip often, and at last sink beneath the bounding surges. And when all was gone, the last lingering link broken, tears all unbidden fast coursed our heroine's cheek, and she scarcely heard her father, who, fearing the effect of the cold night air on his daughter, was anxious to hurry her below.