"I never was happier; could all my life be promised over again, I would not wish to live! to die is far better. I do but go before, Ellen, and I shall see him!"
She then lay down again as if exhausted; her breathing became quicker, as though she almost panted for breath; a light of glory seemed to shine on her face, and her eye looked brighter still; her lips moved as though she were speaking, but no words were whispered.
"Did you speak, love?" asked the Countess.
"I am dying now,—I feel the chain that still holds me here slackening fast. Ellen, love, farewell!—Wentworth,—dear Maude, and—Mr. Ra—vensworth—adieu! adieu!"
The last few words were rather guessed than heard. The Earl rose and hastened to his wife's side; kneeling down, he took his sister's hand, which he pressed to his lips,—it was growing cold. Just then the Doctor entered. He did not speak, but took his patient's hand. The pulse still throbbed, but so faintly it was scarce perceptible. For some time, perhaps a quarter of an hour, they all watched in dead silence. The day faded fast, and presently a small lamp was lighted by the Doctor. The dying girl once more opened her eyes, which had been so long closed all thought she had gone, but feared to express their opinion. Again her lips moved. Ellen pressed close to her, but failed to catch the words. The flickering flame of life hovered long;—they "thought her dying when she slept, and sleeping when she died." So passively passed away her soul, her form had long grown cold ere they knew she was gone. Not a sigh, not a word, not a breath told the exact moment she ceased to exist! It was on a night as calm as her spirit she died,—and thus tranquilly ended a short, but latterly embittered life.
It is impossible to paint the grief of the surviving mourners; as they stood round the bed where she lay so lifelike they could scarce believe her dead. The "hectic streak" still tinged her face, and a smile so placid that it seemed as if it lingered there to tell the mourners how the disembodied soul was blessed.
"She is happy now," said the Countess; "we should not grieve over her as if we had no hope; but we have a blessed certainty she is happy."
But though she said so, Ellen's heart was too full, and she gave way to a passionate flood of tears, as she kissed the placid cheek of the dead.
We need say no more, save that the loved remains were laid in their coffin bed, the waxlike arms closed crosswise over her breast, and a white rose laid between them. The lid was then screwed down, and the coffin sent to the Towers, where with becoming solemnity she was laid beside her sister.
The Earl and Countess and their companions started for England, and after the funeral of Lady Florence remained in perfect seclusion for many months at the Towers. Grief often follows grief, and woe comes on woe, as billows roll on billows, and smite the rocks. Scarcely had the Earl and Countess recovered from the grief of Florence's death, when the scarlet fever broke out at the Towers, and seized both of their children. Augusta passed safely through it, but it assumed a more malignant guise with little Viscount de Vere, and with fearful rapidity crushed its victim, leaving the poor Countess almost heartbroken. She looked on Augusta as her last hope left, and the culture of her opening mind seemed almost the only object worth living for, excepting her husband, who was utterly stricken by the death of his sister and their only son, and needed indeed a loving wife like Ellen to soothe his sorrow. Faithfully did she fulfil her vows to love him in sickness and in health, for better and for worse!