"Why, Ellen, what is this shining so bright?"
"I am sure I can't think; this is where Jeanie saw him sitting so long; you know she said he stamped something into the ground, and tore a letter to pieces—look Florence, love, there are some of the pieces blowing about."
"I wonder, oh, I wonder if it is the little packet I refused last night! yes, Ellen, it must be; see, here is the paper it was wrapt in, with his seal on the wax, the lion rampant, and eastern crown!—quite prophetic—and your motto, 'Unus et idem,' what does that mean, Ellen? we will ask Wentworth."
The little brooch was soon rescued from its prison, and though somewhat the worse for its rough usage, Florence determined to have it put right again; which was done, and she ever afterwards wore it.
"Wentworth, what does 'unus et idem' mean?"
"Unus et idem, what put that into your head, Floss?"
"Never mind, and don't give Scotch answers. I asked you what it meant, and you, by way of answer, ask me what put it into my head? I believe you have forgotten your Latin."
"No, no, not yet; it means 'one and the same,' Floss; and now give me a direct answer, and tell me why you want the motto of the Ravensworths translated—ah, your blush tells the tale! never mind, Floss, I couldn't wish you a better lover."
Days passed away—slowly at first, then more rapidly—and in a week or ten days the Countess received a long letter from Johnny just before his embarkation; enclosed was a note to Florence, in which he again declared his undying love, and faith; it was written in high spirits, and more than anything tended to raise those of Florence; after all it was but a year or two, and then they would meet again. She began to look and feel bright once more; yet all her flippancy and flirtation were for ever gone, as the young peer John Ravensworth had been so jealous of found to his cost when he next met her. The day after the arrival of the letter, the newspapers announced that H. M. S. "Recluse" had sailed from Southampton for Calcutta, with a company of soldiers and several young officers. As all regrets were vain now, Lady Florence ceased to grieve over the unhappy circumstance that had driven them apart for so long, and amused herself by following in her mind the voyage of the gallant ship that bore him she loved so far away. She knew too he was thinking of her, and when at evening she watched the western star she often fancied how he was perhaps gazing on the selfsame planet, and it seemed as if an electric chain bound them together whilst severed so far. Often when at night the wind whistled shrill through the lofty towers,—when, too, the equinoctial gales roared amid the surrounding woods, strewing the ground with summer's leafy honours, or whirling the broken boughs across the park,—she would quail in heart, as she thought how one she loved was tost on the angry billow, whilst the fine vessel was like a cockleshell on the hissing surge, then she would lift her heartfelt prayer, as she lay on her wakeful couch—to Him in whose hand is the broad ocean, who in the wildest turmoil can say, Peace, be still! and commend her lover to his sleepless care. The Countess was agreeably surprised to see how well her friend kept her plighted faith, and she had no reason to fan the flame, which seemed to grow brighter and brighter every moment. She often used to walk with her, and lead her mind gently and unostensibly to better things than the light, and, if harmless, certainly useless frivolities in which she had so long shone the admired of all; indeed her own inclinations were little bent towards such amusements now. Before her parting with John she had been like a child, happy in some fair garden, chasing the butterfly from flower to flower, careless of all save the present moment, forgetful of the past, heedless of the future, without aim or object save pleasure. Now it was as if some one had pointed out the shining light, as did Evangelist to the Pilgrim—now she cared not how soon she left idle follies; she had something to live for, something to aim at, something to think on as a spur to future progress. The past was as a reminder a noble prize was in view, and she pressed forward to obtain it. The change of mind produced a corresponding change even in her appearance. The coquettish smile, the careless toss of the head, the very walk, were either gone or mellowed down; without being crushed the exhilarant spirits were chastened, and no one could have told her to be the same being she had been only a few weeks ago. It was all a change for the better; the Earl loved her more as Il Penseroso, than he did as L'Allegro. The Countess loved her more, and she won the most favourable opinions from all her friends and relatives, who saw the change without being privy to the cause. To use a hackneyed similitude, she had been like the plant, which uncrushed is beautiful, yet void of perfume, but which gives out its most precious odours when bruised and crushed.
About a month after young Ravensworth had sailed the papers reported the safe arrival of the vessel off Funchal in the Madeiras. The ship which had spoken the "Recluse," also brought home letters,—a long and affectionate one to Lady Florence from himself, in which he gave an interesting account of his voyage, and all the wonders of the deep he had seen. Several very nice young fellows were on board, as well as many ladies going out to their husbands or friends; one exceedingly pretty, with whom he was a great favourite, he added by way of raillery, and he was quite afraid she would make him forget Florence. He said he was drest in sailor's costume, and helped the tars in their tasks aloft; they had dancing by moonlight every night—the air was clear and delightful, and they were nearing the Trades. Funchal was a little Paradise on the waters, such flowers and fruits, he wished he could send some of its wines to the Marquis. The stars were magnificent, and the southern constellations daily growing more splendid, and more brilliant than dwellers in the northern zone could imagine. He ended by tenderest love to his Florence and the Countess, and best remembrances to the Earl, saying he hoped to bring home the sword he had given him hacked like a saw in many a stiff encounter. Months passed by, and then a second letter from St. Helena arrived; so far all had gone well, their sails were filled with the fresh trade winds again, after three weeks' becalming in the tropics, under a fierce red sun, vertical, and casting such rays as melted the very tar on the ropes, and beneath which the waters seethed like pitch. They had only anchored off the island, not being allowed to land owing to its then being the prison of the illustrious Buonaparte. He spoke with great delight about the cross of the south, a constellation surpassing all his powers of description; "and yet," he added, "when on the line I beheld the great bear's seven stars, magnified into fearful splendour, as if most glorious ere it left its old friends, I turned from the flaming southern cross to those stars sinking beneath the waters, and they alone were dear! the only, lonely lights that still bound us together, and I sorrowed when I could see no more the well-known, cherished cluster that shines on the north, and my northern star."