The Earl had determined to ask his bereaved father-in-law, as well as Maude, to pass the winter with them at Naples; and early in October the whole party started on their travels, proceeding first to Southampton, and thence, by the Earl's schooner yacht, to Naples. This little vessel was commanded by Captain Wilson, who had retired on half-pay from an ungrateful service, and was glad to get such an excellent appointment from his friend. He was much concerned at the altered looks of his invalid charge, and took the most fatherly care of her during the voyage. They had a very pleasant passage after the Bay of Biscay, which kept up its character, and gave them a stormy welcome. It was a sorrowful crew, and very unlike the usual voyages in the "Star of the Sea." Lady Florence and the Countess used often to sit on the poop, beneath the white awning, and gaze with a sad delight on the dark blue billows, as they boomed and hissed past them, with their feathery foam-crests. Beneath that blue, lone sea slept the loved of all! it was on those surges, perhaps, he had striven long and well, but at last succumbed to his fate! Sometimes the wish would force itself on the mind of Florence that the same cruel waves would engulf their frail craft, and she would rest deep under the changing, surging waves; but Ellen used to tell her it was wrong,—to bear was to conquer her fate; when it was Heaven's will, her bark of life would reach its haven of rest; and from this she gradually went on, and spoke so sweetly, so gently, to her young friend, that, little by little, her mind was weaned away from selfish sorrow, and she half resolved to live for others,—not to give way to unavailing grief.
Nine days after they embarked from England, the "Star of the Sea" anchored off the Molo Grande. After some trouble with passports, the party disembarked at the Porto Grande, from whence they drove to the Villa Reale, so called from the gardens by which it was surrounded resembling those bearing the same name at Naples,—the great promenade in the evenings. About half an hour's drive on the Castellamare road brought them to their destination. The villa stood on the rising ground, sloping upwards towards Vesuvius, which formed its background to the right. Behind it vineyards, orange and lemon groves made the white castellated mansion stand forth gloriously; and Mr. Ravensworth and Maude, who had never seen Naples before, thought,—as every one thinks,—nothing could be more beautiful! The warm air, and mild sea breezes, for a time seemed as if they would restore the drooping Florence; but as the winter drew on,—unfortunately rather colder than usual,—her cough grew worse, and every eye saw the swift decline again hurrying its victim to the grave. Lady Florence alone thought she would recover; alone she knew not her danger,—part of the fatal complaint! Still, it was rather with grief than otherwise she looked on her restoration. All that she had lived for had gone; life had nothing now to make her woo its stay; and often, almost dejectedly, she would say—
"I shall get well, after all, Ellen; I half wish I may not; and yet there is a lingering love of life, though its bloom is all gone."
"I hope, my darling, you may."
But Ellen knew her hopes were vain; yet she did not tell her fears to the invalid.
As the spring came on Florence grew worse. At first she made long excursions by sea and land,—to Ischia, Sorrento, Vesuvius, and many other places; or took long drives into the interior. Soon she grew unable to bear these fatigues, and used to drive along the shore, or walk to the volcano's side only. As she grew weaker, and her cough became more and more troublesome, and wearing on the system, even these short excursions were given up, and the invalid during sunny days used to be wheeled on a sofa to the balcony, where she used to gaze listlessly on the blue Mediterranean, or converse with her friend the Countess, who scarcely ever left her side. The most skilful medical care now availed nothing,—slowly, but surely, the victim sank! the hectic flush grew brighter, the eye more unearthly clear, the form more emaciated,—and then the patient was unable to leave her dying bed.
Naples is now considered a climate thoroughly unfit for consumptive patients; but in those days climatology was not so well understood as now; and the Doctor balancing the comforts of the Villa Reale with the miseries of hotels overlooked some more important items.
Lord Wentworth, when he saw his sister failing so fast, as a last resource communicated with the then celebrated Abernethy, who, on hearing the case, ordered her immediate removal to Rome, or else inland as far as she could bear the journey. Accordingly a carriage was fitted up as a couch, and the lady removed from the Villa Reale, travelling by easy stages to the ancient mistress of the world. The journey again seemed to feed the dying flame of life, and the Earl with joy beheld his sister able to be wheeled once more to the balcony of the palace which he rented. It was but once she was permitted to do this: never more did she quit her couch. The fatal sirocco blew for three days, and this seemed to dry up the last hope. On the evening of the last day she called her friends to her bedside, and told them she was dying. The scene was peculiarly sad. From their windows they saw the Capitol with its ruined towers in the last light of day,—and her sun was sinking too! The Earl sat with downcast looks near the foot of the dying girl's bed; Mr. Ravensworth and Maude sat on one side, and on the other knelt the Countess whispering words of comfort in her friend's ear. The expiring beauty sat up in her bed, and, pointing to the reflected beams on the ruins, said—
"My sun is, too, setting, Ellen; if there is one grief in parting, it is leaving you."
"You will rise again, as will that orb, brighter, and in a better land, Florence love! But, oh! it is hard to lose you, though we should not grudge the change from weeping into glory, and life into eternity. Are you happy, dear?"