What a different scene had been enacted there a few years ago! Awful as it was, to him it was brighter than now, and as he marked the leaves fall, silently but surely, before the touch of the waning year, so, he thought, fall my hopes one by one, till old age will leave me without a leaf to bless the bare branches. He sat down on a bench, and there taking the little rejected packet, he broke the seal, tore to fragments a few lines of poetry he had written and wrapped the little brooch in, and scattered the fragments amongst the dried holly-leaves at the root of the hedge. We are, however, able to state they ran thus:—
When morning is beaming,
And dew-drops are gleaming,
My heart is still dreaming
Of Florence de Vere!
No eye owns such splendour,
No heart is so tender,
All—all I'd surrender
For Florence de Vere!
While this even of sorrow
Bodes darker to-morrow,
Some ray I still borrow
From Florence de Vere;
On my spirit repining
The pole-star is shining,
That knows not declining,—
'Tis Florence de Vere!
When parted our dwelling
By ocean proud-swelling,
Hope will still be foretelling,
My Florence de Vere!
A day of glad meeting,
A voice of kind greeting,
And echo repeating—
"Sweet Florence de Vere!"
Be my cynosure yonder;—
The further I wander
I'll love thee the fonder,
My Florence de Vere!
And vain's fate's endeavour
Our hearts to dissever,
They're mingled for ever,
Loved Florence de Vere!
"It is false! she is no pole-star, and my nonsense isn't worth burning," exclaimed the unhappy lover. "And thou, poor rejected souvenir, no eye shall ever see thee!" dropping it on the ground, he stamped the brooch into the greensward in his fury. He looked up,—you could scarce have told that pale livid face to be the same bright visage that smiled as he received his medal. He arose and retraced his footsteps towards the Towers. Once or twice he fancied he heard a rustle among the branches at the back of the hedge; as he neared the end of the walk the sound rose so distinctly on his ear it made him start. He was brave as a lion, but not untinctured with the superstition of the North. The idea at once struck him it was the spirit of Musgrave haunting the walk where he had been murdered. An involuntary thrill ran through him; he stood as if rooted to the ground, and he felt his hair somewhat bristle on his head. Had it been twenty robbers he had not known a particle of dread, but anything supernatural was horrid! It was some moments ere he found his voice, and he was almost ashamed of himself to hear how it quavered as he asked, "Who goes there?" No answer came; the rustling came nearer, and through the branches he saw a dim white figure approaching. His heart sank within him, and in a voice tremulous and hollow he asked, "In God's name who are you? avaunt! away! by all that is sacred go!" The cold drops stood on his brow like icicles, and his whole frame shook.
"Hist, speak low—follow me," replied a female voice, and at the same moment the form broke through the bushes. For an instant he thought it was Lady Florence, but no, she was an inch taller at least, and it was not the light beautifully-moulded figure of the lady of his love. "Are you ill? are you glamoured, that you will nae speak nor move? You look dumbfoundered as if a ghaist had speered on you. Quick, follow me, Mr. John."
"By heaven! I did think it was a ghost! What, in the name of God, brings you here in such a place, at such an hour? By my troth I did think it was Sir Richard's spirit."
"Whisht, for the love of God dinna speak sae. Dinna ye ken the place is no canny? Follow me. But you are a brave sodger."
Young Ravensworth felt his blood kindle, and felt angry at his folly in imagining she was a ghost, and eager to disabuse her of the idea, said, "No, Jenny, speak here—it is all trash—what is it?"