Francesca Carrara

la

of life

of

The Harris Family
Eldon House
London, Ont,

HANDBOUND

AT THE

UNIVERSITY OF
TORONTO PRESS

FRANCESCA CARRARA.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY JAMES MOYES,
Castle Street, Leicester Square.

s

FRANCESCA CARRARA.

THE AUTHOR OF

ROMANCE AND REALITY, THE VENETIAN BRACELET,

Must we in tears

Unwind a love knit up by many years ?
I cannot break my faith — cannot re-send
The truest heart that lover e'er. did lend."

KING.

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.

LONDON:

RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET,
(SUCCESSOR TO HENRY COLBURN.)

1834.

1531

FRANCESCA CARRARA.

CHAPTER I.

" To people who hare naturally very intense feelings, nothing
is so wearing to the heart as the curtailed affections which are the
offspring of the world."

DEVEREUX.

MARIE MANCINI returned with her sister to Paris,
and, for the next week, the whole hotel was hurry
and confusion with the approaching nuptials. Her
manner to Francesca was very unequal. Some-
times it had all the frankness of their early in-
timacy ; at other times it was forbidding, and even
petulant. On the very night before her marriage,
when, at a late hour, Francesca was seeking her
own room, as she passed along the corridor,
Marie's door opened, and Marie herself appeared.

" I knew your step — do come in, for the last
time here."

Francesca, softened by the kindly tone, and
still more by observing that the other had been

VOL. II. B

2 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

weeping, entered immediately ; and Marie, draw-
ing one fauteuil into the large old window, mo-
tioned to her companion to take another already
there. After amusing herself for a brief time with
picking to pieces some mignonette which filled a
box on the window-sill, Marie threw the flowers
from her, and exclaimed, — " And here we are
seated together, as we used to talk away half the
night in Italy. Good Heavens! how we are
altered!"

" I am sure I am altered," replied Francesca.

" Not so much for the worse as myself," con-
tinued the other; " and yet, perhaps, I am not
changed, as I said — I was always vain and selfish.
I have only lately had good opportunities of dis-
playing my amiable qualities. Still, I have had
my moments of compunction, though I own the
fits have at every recurrence briefer duration and
longer intervals. I daresay I shall soon not feel
them at all, and shall therefore make the most of
them when they arrive, as I have done to night.
How unkind I have been to you, Francesca! —
how I have envied and hated you !"

" Ah, Marie ! I cannot understand your hate
— what cause have I ever given ? and envy — what
could you find to envy in the lot of one who,
save for yourselves, were a friendless orphan ?"

FRANCESCA CARRARA. <5

" Don't say yourselves — say my sister, at once.
Henriette has been your friend, not I ; and as to
envy — look at your face in yonder glass — wasted
on you, I must say ; for beauty, properly managed,
is woman's power. Now I understand the man-
agement, while you have the means, and, as I
said before, quite wasted upon you."

Francesca could not help laughing, as she
asked, " Why, what would you have me do ?"

" It is not to be taught! — but how many
opportunities have I seen you throw away ! Ah !
beauty without vanity is but a sort of barbaric
gold, unfit for any of the purposes of civilised life.
I can only supply its place by the delusions of self-
love — by deceiving people into the belief that they
are thinking of me, when they are in -reality
thinking of themselves. How often am I obliged
to speak mal a propos, because my features are
not sufficiently charming in a state of repose ! —
how often is my ingenuity racked to find a word,
when a look would have been far better ! I am
compelled to be amusing, in my own despite."

" A great misfortune, truly."

" Yes, it is ; for amusement destroys interest.
There is nothing for which people are less grate-
ful than for being entertained ; in their hearts
they are ashamed of not being able to entertain

4 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

themselves, and therefore seek consolation in
despising, or at least undervaluing, those to whom
they owe that very entertainment."

" But, dearest Marie, thinking as you do, of
what avail is your exertion ? "

" Why, life's high places have many paths, and
we do not choose our own. I must make the hest
use I can of my own gifts, even while those of
others are better. I desire as much of the wealth
and as many of the honours of this life as I can
obtain ; and in France their royal road is royal
favour. It was a brilliant dream which you, Fran-
cesca, destroyed !"

" I !" exclaimed the other, in amazement.

" Yes. Louis's admiration of those superb
dark eyes opened mine to the perils and chances
of the way I was pursuing."

" You allude to the bracelet. Blessed Madonna !
how little admiration had to do with a gift dictated
by a most generous courtesy !"

" I believe you were simple enough to think
so — I was not. I saw at once I was mistaken in
my calculations of Louis's feeling. At the very
age of fantasies, he was likely to be caught by
one, and then another; — nothing short of une
grande jjassion could have answered my purpose.
For the first time I steadily reviewed the obstacles

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 5

• — and to consider them was at once to see they
were insuperable. I penetrated my uncle's ambi-
tion by my own. I felt convinced, had there been
even a probability, he would have aided me — his
opposition shewed me that he thought the attempt
hopeless. In the meantime, the Queen's jealousy
was aroused. Had my original project remained,
I would have conciliated ; as it was, I irritated.
Her fear led direct to my establishment ; and the
more that was excited, the more brilliant would
the terms be by which she might purchase security.
I made but one error — giving way to petulance in
the earlier instance ; that lost me the Prince of
Conti. Temper is bourgeois indulgence, though I
own to a predilection for it. However, I corrected
myself in time. I tormented my uncle still, but
it was on principle — it is the best method of
managing him. I frightened the Queen — the best
method of managing her ; and, having lost the
chance of Louis's heart, tried for his confidence.
I assure you, though you may not think it, I have
told him such charming things about you! — the
subject has its interest, ma belle."

" To me none," said Francesca, somewhat
gravely.

Without noticing the interruption, her com-
panion continued.

6 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

" Well, the denouement has succeeded beyond
my expectations. To-morrow I am Comtesse de
Soissons. The Comte is a fool, like the Prince
of Conti, but of a more manageable kind. He is
avaricious, and yet ostentatious ; I shall always
make him hear reason through his interests. I see
already the advantages of my early friendship with
the King — the habit of confidence, once acquired,
is indeed difficult to break. I shall try that best of
flattery — divining his tastes, and adapting myself
to them. Attraction will be the secret of my
society ; and let who will be Queen of France, I
shall be Queen in my own circle."

" And does not this anticipation of perpetual
intrigue, anxiety, and exertion — this want of affec-
tion— this utter severing of all the deeper and
dearer ties of life, weary you even in contem-
plation r

" The deeper and dearer ties of life ! — what
ties can be so deep or so dear as those which bind
me to myself? or what is there so very depressing
in the anticipation of a brilliant and animated
future?"

" With nothing to really interest — nothing on
which the heart can rely."

" Ah ! you are romantic — it suits your style
of countenance ; my features do not express superb

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 7

disdain with any effect. That is the reason, I
firmly believe, why Cleopatra poisoned herself,
while Zenobia walked in the triumph of the Roman
conqueror. The one knew she would not look
well — the other knew she would."

" And can you be contented to pass through
life, unloving and unloved ?"

" Unloved? — I don't know; unloving, cer-
tainly ; but feared, admired, and courted. I be-
lieve we must all sacrifice quelque petit brin de
sentiment ; and, thanks to my early fancy for your
brother, my sacrifice is made."

Francesca bit her lip, while the colour came
into her cheek ; nothing said of herself could have
inflicted half the pain of this careless allusion to
one whose feelings were so strong, and ought to
have been so sacred.

Marie in an instant observed her change of
countenance.

" Poor Guido ! how like you look to him at
this moment — with those large dilating eyes I
never saw but in yourselves. I know you think me
very unfeeling — and so I am ; and yet at this very
moment I am sadder than I seem. I shall never
be so loved again — nothing can evermore call,
even into momentary existence, the many kind

FRANCESCA CARRARA.

and good thoughts which I had then. Tell me,
does Guido ever speak of me ?"

" Nay," answered Francesca, " your pity is
unavailing, even if I wished to excite it. What-
ever may be Guido's emotions, to me they are
holy."

Marie remained a short while in silence, and
then said, — " After all, it was not my fault; cir-
cumstances threw us together, and over these cir-
cumstances I had no control. It was from no choice
of my own that I was brought up in an out-of-the-
way pallazzo, with nothing to do but to fall in love.
Constancy, to say nothing of its not being in my
nature, would in my case have been insanity.
You might, but I could not pass my life among
myrtles and ruins filant le parfait amour. But,
come, I must shew you the Queen's present ;" and,
first retrimming the lamp, she opened a casket,
containing a lustrous set of emeralds.

" There are some pleasures in matrimony/'
said she, twisting her necklace round her fingers.

" How beautiful their colour is as you catch
the light upon them !" exclaimed Francesca, exa-
mining the various ornaments with a very natural
delight.

" It is four o'clock, I declare!" cried Marie.

FRANCESCA CARRARA, 9

" Good night, for, as it is, we shall look like
ghosts to-morrow."

Her prediction was not accomplished ; for
when Francesca saw her enter the chapel, glitter-
ing with jewels, and radiant with triumph, she
thought that she never had seen Marie look
so handsome. Both Anne and Louis, who had
returned the day before from Sedan, were present ;
and Francesca marked the Queen's quick eye
turn more than once on her son, as if she would
fain read his inmost thoughts. It was very obvious
he had no emotion to conceal.

Marie went through the ceremony rather with
the appearance of elation than of timidity. But
when it was over, and the bridegroom approached
to lead her forth, Francesca saw her change colour,
and a slight shudder ran through her whole
frame, and saw too that Marie's eyes were fixed on
herself, as if recalling the resemblance of another.
It was but for a moment ; and she instantly turned
to the Comte de Soissons, and took his offered
hand, with a glad smile and a slight gesture,
which made up with courtesy what it wanted in
tenderness.

Nothing could exceed the ease and grace with
which she accepted the congratulations of Louis.
Those of the Queen were met with less empresse^
u2

10 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

ment — it was not her good favour that the Countess
intended to conciliate. A group of the noblest of
the court crowded round ; and as Francesca's
gaze dwelt on the waving plumes, the golden
embroidery, the many-coloured lights flashing
from the profusion of gems, she involuntarily
asked herself, " Can Marie, now the centre of this
gorgeous circle, be the same with whom I have so
often gathered wild flowers and wood straw-
berries ? "

The star of Cardinal Mazarin's destiny had
rays for many beside himself. Let a fortunate
man do what he will for his own fate, he never-
theless works the most for the benefit of others.

11

CHAPTER II.

" The scenes through which of late I have conducted my
readers are by no means episodical : they illustrate far more than
mere narration the period."

DEVEREUX.

BRIEF as had been the young King's campaign, it
was quite sufficient to produce a sensation at Paris.
Henri Quatre was in every body's mouth in the
way of presage and comparison. In reconnoiter-
ing the trenches, Louis's temple had been grazed
by a bullet ; and the exaggeration of praise and
anxiety would have been ridiculous but for its
entire sincerity. From that period may be dated
the rise of that personal devotion which marked
all the earlier part of his reign.

It has been said, with that degree of truth
which is necessary to give effect to point, that the
French character has been determined by two
rhymes, gloire and victoire. Of this character
Louis was the beau ideal. Young, brave, chi-
valrous, handsome, and graceful, he was every

12 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

Frenchman's perfection of himself. One proof of
a great man is fitness for the circumstances in
which he is placed. That talent may reasonably
be doubted which is never exercised ; but no one
could be more suited to his station than Louis.
He possessed the genius of representation, — a
genius especially requisite among a people who
require to be both excited and impressed. His
ambition was but the then voice of the nation
carried into action — his wars were the public will ;
change was only brought about by the humiliation
of defeat. His tastes were magnificent — such as
belonged to the monarch of a rich and great
country ; and a more enlightened age would have
added utility. His original character was generous
and high-minded, though tried in after-years by
the too severe ordeal of constant gratification and
unvarying success, whose certain result is selfish-
ness.

We cannot understand what we have never
experienced ; and we need pain, were it only to
teach us sympathy. It is a good lesson of mortal
instability ; and we should be sorry to lose the
touching spectacle of the noble firmness with
which the aged King met the defeats and disasters
which overwhelmed him in his old age. But, for
his . own sake, Louis's misfortunes should have

FRANCESCA CARRARA, 13

happened earlier in life ; what wholesome correc-
tions they would have been to his overmuch pros-
perity ! As, in after- time, we read the annals of his
court, we are revolted by his self-indulgence, his
utter thoughtlessness of others, his ingratitude, his
cruelty — and all is summed up in the conviction,
This man knows nothing of suffering — he cannot
measure the pain which he inflicts. Truly, we
need human infirmity to teach us human nature,
and that to Louis had been as a sealed book ; he
had only seen the coloured and gilded outside : too
late he had to decipher the rough and gloomy
page within. His natural impulses were good, and
these are all most manifest in youth — the truth
is, time wears them out ; and manhood needs prin-
ciple, which he had not. The beginning was pro-
mising. Look at his constant and attentive affec-
tion to his mother ; his unvarying gratitude to the
Cardinal ; the energy with which, on Mazarin's
death, when government came to be necessity, he
devoted himself to the duties of his high station.
No pleasure, no idleness, ever trespassed on the
hours given to business.

But it is the earlier and lighter part of his
career with which our readers have to do; and
the present period at Paris was as gay as fetes of
every kind could make it. The youthful monarch

14 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

was, of course, the centre of all ; but Francesca
could not but perceive, that while others addressed
their flatteries to him, his were addressed exclu-
sively to her.

The attention of which she was now the object
would have amused if it had not embarrassed her.
It was as if some spell had changed both herself
and her situation. Every one seemed suddenly to
have discovered some merit in the once neglected
stranger. Homage came from every quarter, and
adulation from every lip. No one was more
ready to caress and bring her forward than the
Comtesse de Soissons, who appeared to think
every party incomplete without her early friend ;
and Louis passed almost every evening at her
house, where restraint and ceremony were equally
banished.

Madame de Mercosur's health now scarcely
allowed her to stir from home ; and Francesca
would never willingly have left her. But this her
good-natured friend would not hear of: " No, no ;
Marie has come to her senses. She is as fond of
you as I am, and very much gayer ; so go about
with her. When will you ever enjoy yourself, if
you do not now?"

It was useless contesting the point ; and
Francesca secretly longed for the period of the

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 15

Duchesse's confinement, when she would have an
undeniable excuse for remaining with her. " And
by that time," thought she, " Guido will be re-
turned ; we will then fix on our future plan of life.
Ah ! I should be happier in our old dwelling than
here. Guido, I know, loves his native land the
best ; and we, in seeking each other's pleasure,
shall both find our own. Surely we have both
said farewell for ever to the vain dreams with
which we came to Paris."

There was vanity and pleasure enough around
her now to have turned many a young head, and
to have supplied many excuses for the turning.
But Francesca was thoughtful beyond her years.
The traces of her early disappointment were in-
delible ; not that she sunk or pined away under
the blow — she owned, after Ihe first shock was
past, and the beating heart severely tasked, that
life had still many duties, and even some enjoy-
ments. Were it only as a debt to Madame de
Mercosur's kindness, some appearance of cheer-
fulness was necessary ; and assumed cheerfulness
often becomes more real than is always acknow-
ledged. But, unlike the generality of her age,
love now occupied no place in the future. How
could . she ever believe in the worthiness of any

J(> FRANCESCA CARRARA,

one ? or, if she believed, it could never so interest
her again.

One morning she accompanied Madame de
Soissons to the fair, then the favourite lounge and
amusement. The Comtesse bought every trifle
that caught her eye, while Francesca looked on.
Now it is not in human nature — at least, in femi-
nine nature — to see pretty things, yet not wish
for them ; and while her look lingered on many a
graceful toy, the young Italian, conscious they
were far beyond her slender finances, could not
help contrasting her own necessity of debarring
herself even from a slight purchase, with the lavish
expenditure of her companion.

She had scarcely returned home an hour,
and was giving Madame de Mercreur a full ac-
count of how Madame de Chatillion found out
that it was so cold whenever 1'Abbe Fouquet ap-
proached, and put on her black velvet mask, thus
not allowing him to see her beautiful face even at
a distance,— how the Due d'Anjou was inseparable
from la belle cousine, who consulted his taste in all
her purchases ; when several packages were brought
in, directed to Mademoiselle de Carrara. They
were opened, and found to contain all kinds of toys,
gloves, laces, ribands, &c., till the floor was strewed

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 17

with their glittering contents. Not the slightest
indication appeared as to who was the donor.

" Some anonymous lover," exclaimed Madame
de Mercoeur. " This is really too delightful. Who
can it be ? " and she began to guess every person
she could remember as having even spoken to
Francesca.

" For pity's sake," said the latter, laughing,
" do stop ; for I am really alarmed lest you should
end with l'Abb6 Fouquet himself ; and I have
really no ambition to succeed Madame de Cha-
tillion."

" Now, out upon such a supposition !" replied
the Duchesse ; "I am too much charmed with
the gallantry to wish to destroy the illusion. But
is not this fortunate?" continued she, taking up a
superb plume of white ostrich feathers, fastened
by a small agraffe, enamelled so as to represent
a bunch of violets • " this is just what you wanted
for the velvet cap you are to wear at Madame de
1'Hopital's masked ball."

" Oh ! but I do not like to wear it. It is so
disagreeable to accept favours from you do not
know who."

" On the contrary, you are saved from all ob-
ligation ; for what is the use of being grateful, and

18 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

to a wrong person, perhaps ? Wear these exquisite
feathers you must."

" I would much rather not."

" How very ridiculous! But I shall not argue
the point, — I shall only command ; and you know
how contradiction disagrees with me. I will not
be made ill, that you may look well ; so, silence,
ma mignonne. Here, Mariette," continued she, ad-
dressing one of her women, who had just entered ;
" place this plume in Mademoiselle de Carrara's
cap, — and, remember, in the most becoming
manner.""

Both parties had their differing convictions.
Madame de Mercoeur, who always looked to what
she wished, instantly recalled the admiration she
had observed her beautiful protegee had excited
in the Due de Candale, and immediately deter-
mined that he was the generous incognito. Fran-
cesca's suspicions were less pleasant, but more
true. She never for a moment doubted but that
Louis was the donor, while the Comtesse de
Soissons was the purchaser. She was certain that
she recognised many of the toys. The feathers she
did not recollect; but she remembered her own
bunch of violets which Louis had taken the even-
ing previous to his departure for Sedan. Should

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 19

she mention her belief to Madame de Mercceur ?
— her natural frankness prompted this course;
but it was opposed by every reason that could
suggest itself. If she were mistaken, and it was
just possible that she might be so, how monstrous,
and, worse, how ridiculous, would her vanity
appear ! and, even if it were true, Madame de
Mercoeur was scarcely the person to consult — in
her circle, the King was every thing ; who there
would think of gainsaying his pleasure? She
felt rather than acknowledged, that between their
ideas of right and wrong and her own, there was,
indeed, a wide gulf. She considered, too, how
slight was her claim upon the kindness of the
Mercoeurs ; she had no right even to run the risk
of embarrassing them : — on herself, therefore,
must be her sole dependence. The Comtesse
evidently was making a tool of her, by encourag-
ing the King's predilection. Provided he was
attracted to the Hotel de Soissons, she cared not
how; Francesca, or any one else, might be the
magnet.

Madame de Mercoeur had herself arranged her
dress, which was splendid white silk, damasked
with silver flowers ; but it was with much internal
misgiving that she put on the graceful cap and
plume.

20 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

At first, she had resolved to wear none of the
other gifts ; and then it struck her, that this would
indicate a secret preference for the tell-tale agraffe,
— better choose amid the others, avow her present,
openly, and take refuge in unsuspecting pleasure
and gratitude.

On her arrival at the Hotel de Soissons, she
saw that the keen eye of the Comtesse scanned her
from head to foot. She evidently did not recognise
the plume ; but a peculiar smile passed over her
face as she noticed the gloves, fan, and bouquet ;
still, she made no remark beyond the general
exclamation, " How well you look to-night! 'tis a
pity to put on your mask !"

Francesca immediately began to tell her of the
good fortune of yesterday. She listened ; but
added, with an incredulous sneer, " And so you
have not an idea who sent them 1 You are fortu-
nate in such an anonymous lover ! "

Francesca made no answer, but followed the
Comtesse in silence, whose manner confirmed all
her previous suspicions, and who, during the
drive, turned the conversation on the most general
subjects. They arrived at Madame la Marechale
de I'Hopital's, where the scene was equally gay
and gorgeous.

Let no one dispute the influence of good and

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 21

evil stars, after witnessing the progress of Madame
la Marechale. She commenced life as a washer-
woman, and now, in its meridian, was residing in
one of the best hotels in Paris, wife to a man of
the highest rank, surrounded by the elite of the
court, Louis at her fete, and herself wearing a set
of pearls larger than the Queen's ; but this was a
delicate subject, for it was well known that Anne
piqued herself on the size of her set. Now, it is
not so much La Marechale's matrimonial achieve-
ments that prove the good graces of her ruling
planet, as her success in society. It was not so
wonderful that the very pretty girl should marry
a man whose years and wealth had alike multi-
plied ; nor that the still prettier widow should
turn the head and heart of de 1'Hopital, both
being a little the worse for use. The wonder
was, how well she succeeded in her new element.
Her house was one of the most frequented in Paris,
and even la superbe Mademoiselle deigned to
pronounce that she was " une Hen bonne femme;"
and yet nothing could be more prominent than
her ignorance, more pronounced than her vul-
garity. Perhaps, if she had been more refined,
she would have been less successful. Though
there was a want of information, there was no
want of talent. She had a good sort of coarse

22 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

cleverness, admirably fitted to get on in the
world ; she possessed those two first requisites, a
good constitution and a good temper ; she had
little feeling, and less delicacy ; she soon saw that
even people of the utmost refinement sometimes
permitted themselves to be amused by its very
reverse — and she cared little for affording amuse-
ment even at her own expense. Let those laugh
who win, is the very axiom of vulgar policy,
and on that hint she acted. .It was now settled
that every body was to be amused by her coarse
jest and her odd expressions, and therefore every
body was amused. Moreover, there was another
great secret of her popularity ; all in her com-
pany luxuriated in a little complacent sense of
their own superiority, — one of the most agreeable
of the senses to indulge. Such was the enter-
prising individual whose saloon was to-night a
representation of the Field of the Cloth of Gold.
Among other things understood of the Marechale
was, that less ceremony was to be practised at
Jier house than elsewhere. All were to do as they
pleased, if they could ; for, verily, to please one's
self is no such easy task.

Dancing commenced ; and during the course
of the evening, Francesca and the Comtesse de
Soissons paused for a moment to rest themselves

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 23

in a small room fitted up as a tent with amber-
coloured silk. The King and the Due d'Anjou
entering at the same minute, a lively conversation
began, which the Comtesse almost entirely sup-
ported. Suddenly the Due caught sight of himself
in a mirror opposite: " Mon Dieu!" exclaimed
he, " I am too fair to remain here — I am quite
overpowered by this colour ; for mercy's sake,
madame, come and dance with me, in pity to my
complexion."

He took Marie's hand, and they quitted the
tent, thus leaving his brother and Francesca to an
inevitable tete-a-tete. Louis was silent, and seem-
ingly somewhat embarrassed ; and it was not till
a slight movement of his companion indicated an
intention of rising, that he said, " Pray do not
go, Mademoiselle — I want to know how you like
the f£te."

" It is very gay," replied she.

" I have not enjoyed it till this moment," ex-
claimed her companion. " Ah! it is so irksome
to have your attention distracted by every one
excepting that one to whom it is devoted."

Francesca could only bow with as little of the
air of taking the speech to herself as possible ; but
a young lover, like a child in the dark, gains
courage from the sound of his own voice. Louis

24 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

proceeded rapidly, shewing her the little bunch of
violets which he had taken the evening before he
left Compeigne, though so dry and faded that
nothing remained to indicate that they once were
flowers but their perfume lingering round the
envelope.

" You see how precious I have held even these
few withered leaves — and your bouquet to-night
is formed again of violets."

" They were an anonymous present, sent this
morning."

" And you do not the least suspect the donor ?"
said the King, smiling.

" My suspicions," replied Francesca, " are far
too presumptuous for utterance."

" Presumption is not a word for a mouth so
lovely — it belongs rather to the one who ventured
on such unworthy offerings, more than repaid by
the happiness of their acceptance."

" Your Grace forgets," answered Francesca,
" that there might be circumstances which made
their refusal more embarrassing than their accept-
ance, however painful that was and is."

" Ah! you fear my mother, or the Cardinal's
anger," exclaimed Louis ; " but I am, and, when
I choose, can be, the master. Madame de Soissons
told me how timid you were; but, surely, my

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 25

power is absolute — you may command rank far
beyond your utmost expectations — wealth—

" I pray you hear me for one moment," in-
terrupted Francesca ; " the Comtesse de Soissons
has somewhat misinformed you as to my timidity,
for I find that I have courage to tell you the truth."

" And truth made beautiful by coming from
your lips."

" It is a pity to waste any thing so graceful as
your flattery — and on me it is wasted. It would
be affectation were I to misunderstand your mean-
ing; and I tell you frankly, that, so gained, I
should despise wealth and loathe rank."

Louis's brow wore its deepest gloom as he said,
" There are few in yonder room who would so
cavalierly reject my love."

" Love!" exclaimed Francesca; " do not use
the word — say a vain and passing fantasy — ay,,
and born of the flattering instigations of others —
unworthy, I must hope, of me, and still more
unworthy of yourself."

" I see nothing so unworthy in the admiration
of beauty."

" A truce to these compliments, which suit
me as little to hear as you to offer. Allow me to
address myself to you earnestly and seriously. I
do implore your forbearance. Look through your

VOL. II. C

26 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

whole court, you can find no one so unprotected,
so friendless, as myself. A dependant on your
dependants, what refuge have I but in your own
sense of right? Madame de Soissons may shew
what I have to expect from an early friend — my
happiness is nothing compared with the advantage
of attracting you to her house for even a few pass-
ing evenings. I repeat to you calmly and truly,
your pursuit may annoy, but it cannot alter me.
The worst thing that I shall have to forgive will
be, your own destruction of my high and respectful
admiration."

" Who is the flatterer now?" asked Louis, but
with a much less moody aspect.

" I do but give utterance to the universal
feeling ; and I can only entreat your pardon, and
throw myself on your generosity."

" Allow me, Mademoiselle, to lead you to the
ball-room ; and the only pledge I ask of your for-
giveness is, that if ever I can render you favour or
service, you will not forget that I shall venture at
least to place myself on your list of friends."

Francesca's eyes were filled with tears of grati-
tude ; she could not trust her voice to speak, but
a look was sufficient answer ; and, with marked
and kind courtesy, the young monarch took her
hand, and led her into the adjoining chamber.

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 27

" If I had known that your dread of the yellow
silk was equivalent to positive banishment," said
Louis, addressing the Due d'Anjou, " I should
not have waited so long for your return, for I
wanted to consult Madame de Soissons about the
ballet to-morrow. My mother, with the Pere
Vincent's good leave, has decided on honouring it
with her presence."

So saying, Louis led the Comtesse a little
apart. Francesca saw them talking — the King
earnestly, his companion at first sneeringly, but
the sneer subsided into silent attention. No one
knew better than Louis, even at that early age,
how to insure obedience.

As she returned home, Francesca observed,
under the veil of more than ordinary politeness,
a concealed constraint in her companion. Both
were glad to separate : and, to the shame of a good
conscience be it spoken, the embarrassment of the
injured, as usual, exceeded that of the injurer.

28

CHAPTER III.

" For what will love's exalting not go through,
Till long neglect, and utter selfishness,
Shame the fond pride it takes in its distress 1"

LEIGH HUNT.

" A TRAVELLER sees many wonderful sights," said
the Chevalier de Joinville, as he entered Madame
de Mercoeur's apartment; " and such have I seen
at Fontainebleau — De Bethune and his Armida
filant V amour parfait, in a style which it would
be worth Scuderi's while making a journey there
to study. I was riding through the forest, when
suddenly (pray correct my phraseology if too
worldly — you know i am not well read in these
epics of the heart) I saw a knight and his lady
traversing one of the glades ; the golden sunshine
fell athwart the green leaves, and shewed their
white steeds and whiter plumes, while the air
around grew musical with their gentle words and
laughter."

" Gage!" exclaimed Madame de Mercosur,

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 29

" that you have been rehearsing this description
at the feet of Mademoiselle Scuderi herself."

" Pardon me/' replied De Joinville ; " your
presence has heen my sole inspiration. But to
return to my Amadis and Oriana; you know I
am not a selfish person, so I could not keep the
pleasure of my company to myself; and urging
my horse into a more rapid pace, I overtook them,
rich in all the news of Paris, garnered for a week
or more."

" Well, in spite of le par fait amour, I can
readily helieve you were gratefully received. Ah !
the country teaches us to appreciate people."

" For once in your life you are mistaken. By
the by, is not the novelty of the sensation rather
agreeable ? But the case is sufficiently extraordi-
nary to leave even your sagacity at fault. I was
actually de trop"

" Pray," interrupted Francesca, " did you find
the novelty of the sensation agreeable ?"

The Chevalier laughed, and said, " Yes, one
likes to add to one's experience, and to find that
the impossible does sometimes occur. I began
telling them the wonders of the world which they
had quitted ; but they had no smiles but for each
other, no ears but for honied words — each sank
into a tender silence, and had I come from the

30 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

antipodes instead of Paris, they could not have
listened with less interest to my tidings. I soon
took pity upon them and on myself, and rode off;
but before I had crossed the aforesaid green glade,
I heard their voices and laughter rising gaily as
before. Very impertinent !"

" 1 hear," said the Due de Mercosur, " that
they are extremely poor."

" Most imprudently so," replied De Join-
ville ; " what a neglect of the future in them to
marry ! "

" Were there not some unusual circumstances
connected with the marriage ?" asked Francesca.

" Why, the chevalier, finding the parents on
both sides inexorable, ran off with the fair lady ;
and really that was a degree of violent exertion
to which now-a-days we are little accustomed.
Both in the desperation before, and the love after-
wards, they are at least a hundred years behind
their age."

" I propose that they should be maintained,"
said Mercoeur, " at the public expense, for setting
so good an example."

" They certainly," continued De Joinville,
" cannot be maintained at their own. Ah! the
Roman emperor, who desired that his slavery
might be alleviated by his fetters being made of

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 31

gold, was a very rational person. I have always
considered it an allegory, shewing the necessity
of marrying for money."

" I prefer lighter chains," said the Due de
Mercoeur ; " it is strange that we should affect,
as we do, to undervalue that love, which is at
once the ideal of the heart, and the daily sweet-
ener of common life."

" It were still more strange," replied De Join-
ville, looking for an instant towards the Duchesse,
" were I to question your experience ; but I was
speaking of ordinary cases. Now, I hold that, in
most matrimonial instances, it is as well to provide
for repentance ; and wealth has its advantages and
its alleviations in affairs of the heart, as in all
other affairs. It was by means of a golden bough
that JEneas passed the evil spirits of Tartarus, and
gained Elysium in safety."

" I believe," said Madame de Mercoeur, " they
will find in their own strong attachment the best
resource against whatever evils may await their
choice."

" That is," added De Joinville, " if they do
not exhaust that resource en avant. But I con-
sider that all individuals have but a certain por-
tion of love in their composition, and it is a pity
to exhaust it at once. Who are the persons with

32 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

whom we remain on good terms to our old age ? —
why, those whom we never cared much ahout."

" What a selfish idea!" exclaimed Madame de
Mercoeur.

" I am only speaking the truth, which, to be
sure, I might have put into finer words. Had I
talked of inconstancy, the misery of unrecipro-
cated feelings, of love enduring as love never yet
endured, both yourself and Signora Carrara would
have been equally charmed and touched. Ay, ay,
merge the selfishness in the sentiment, and it will
be sure to take ; people will be so thankful to you
for a decent excuse !"

" Have you, then, no belief,'7 asked Madame
de Mercosur, " in disinterested and lasting attach-
ment?"

" Passe pour cela" exclaimed the Chevalier;
" I will not answer for all the vain beliefs that
may have passed through that receptacle of con-
fusion called the human mind ; but this I will say,
that the causes of inconstancy are much misunder-
stood. It is commonly said that love never lasts.
Now, that is not so much from change, or that it
exhausts itself, as that it is mixed up with the
paltry cares and daily interests of life ; thus losing
its ideality, which constitutes its great charm.
Two lovers begin by reading poetry, and end by

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 33

casting up bills together. The real reason why
an unfortunate attachment outlasts the one more
happy is, that it is less confounded with the com-
mon-place of existence."

" I must say," cried the Due de Mercosur,
" you are the very last person I should have
suspected of thus subtilising on sentiment."

" Ah!" replied De Joinville, " the truth is,
that nobody knows any thing about any body.
Our nearest and dearest friends have a thousand
thoughts and feelings which we have never even
suspected. We look in them only for what reflects
our own. Our very sympathy is egotism."

" Nay," said Francesca ; " there is nothing
which appears to me so much exaggerated as the
common exclamations about the selfishness of
human nature. We are a great deal better than
we make ourselves out to be."

" If Mademoiselle Carrara speaks from her
own personal experience, I for one will not con-
tradict her."

" Nay," answered she, " I will not be com-
plimented out of my position — mine was a general
assertion. Kind and generous impulses are rife
in our nature. Look at the pity which springs
spontaneously at the sight of affliction — witness
the admiration so ready to welcome any great
c2

34 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

action ; and call to mind the thousand slight acts
of kindness, almost unmarked, because of such
daily occurrence."

" I felicitate you on your experience," said
the Chevalier, rising, " and will now depart, and
at least try to preserve so agreeable an impression."

True enough was the Chevalier's assertion,
that we know but little of even our most intimate
friends — and yet this does not originate from
want of sympathy ; it is rather owing to the
extreme sensitiveness of all our more imaginative
feelings. How many emotions rise in every heart
which we never dream of communicating ! They
are too fine, too fragile, for expression, like those
delicate hues on the atmosphere, which never yet
could painter embody. Moreover, there is an odd
sort of satisfaction "which we all take in making
ourselves other than we are. This is a species of
deception which defies analysis, and is yet univer-
sally practised. Some make themselves out better,
some worse, than they really are ; but none give
themselves their exact likeness. Perhaps it is that
the ideal faculty is so strongly developed in us,
that we cannot help • exercising it even upon the
reality of ourselves.

35

CHAPTER IV.

" There, talking with the ladies, you may see,
As in some nest of faery poetry,
Some of the finest warriors of the court."

LEIGH HUNT.

BUT the grand subject of discussion — the' per-
petual theme to which all referred, was the fete
about to be given by Mademoiselle de Montpensier.
It was to be a bal costume; and the taste ard
ingenuity of the whole court were to be taxed to
their utmost. So, although every fete to which
she had gone had been duly declared to be the
last, yet Madame de Mercoeur felt obliged to
attend this one, as the very last indeed. It was a
sort of visible sign that the heroine of La Fronde
was reinstated in royal favour, and meant to be,
as she had no longer any hopes of being Queen, a
loyal and devoted subject for the rest of her life.

Mademoiselle Montpensier's history and cha-
racter could only have belonged to her time, — a
period devoted to, and distracted by, the very

36 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

smallest interests that ever agitated a whole
country. High born — and, Heavens! how, at
that time, the privilege of noble blood was hon-
oured ! the world seemed but made for " nous
autres grands;' rich — for she was the greatest
heiress in France; hand some — for she possessed
that high and superb style of beauty which suited
so well with her state, — it would seem as if for-
tune had delighted in heaping all her gifts on a
favourite.

But fortune takes a strange pleasure in mock-
ing herself, and sometimes bestows all her gifts
only to shew how unavailing she can make them.
Few lives have had more mortifications crowded
into their brief space than that of Mademoiselle
la Grande, Mademoiselle Princesse, Duchesse, et
Comtesse of domains and denominations enough
to escape any memory save a herald's or her
own. The usual history of the heart was reversed
in her case. Generally speaking, ambition grows
upon the ruins of disappointed love ; and we ask
from honours and interests that delusion which
we can no longer find in affection. But with her,
ambition came first, and love afterwards. A throne
was the vision of her youth ; and the Cardinal
Mazarin's soul must have much to answer for in
purgatory for the many disappointments which

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 37

originated with him. The war of La Fronde was
the festival of her life, and, like most other enjoy-
ments, dearly expiated. Some slight degree of per-
sonal predilection for the Prince de Conde perhaps
dictated her celebrated order for the cannon of the
Bastile to fire on the King's troops ; but not much
— only that transitory flutter of gratified vanity
which is so often mistaken for a deeper sentiment.
If Madame la Princesse had died — as nobody
does die — precisely at the very moment to please
others, the alliance might have taken place, but
with as little expense of mutual feeling as could
well bring two people together. The Prince would
have allowed the principalities of Montpensier,
Doubes, d'Eu, &c. &c. to exclude for the time
les beaux yeux of Madame de Chatillion ; and
Mademoiselle would have considered " mon devoir
a moi-meme" " mes justes pretensions" satisfied
by a marriage with the head of the house of
Conde.

A long, dull exile, only alleviated by household
dissensions — And quarrels are the common resource
of the unoccupied — followed the exciting period
of her brilliant career in Paris. At length she
returned to Paris, still to see crowns passing by,
which rested not on her brow, till religion or
romance became her only refuge.

38 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

It is a great error for the heart to hoard up
that romance which is only graceful in youth — and
it is dangerous, too ; for the feeling is as real and
as keen, though no longer likely to meet return
or sympathy.

Still beautiful, surrounded by flattery, and well
aware of all that she had in her power to lavish
on the man she loved, Mademoiselle de Mont-
pensier may be pardoned for believing in the
reality of his attachment, and for loving M. de
Lauzun. Love him she certainly did, with the
most earnest and disinterested passion. I know
nothing more melancholy than the vain regrets,
and vainer hopes, still raised, and only to be dis-
appointed, of her lonely and irritating condition
during her lover's weary imprisonment ; unless
it might be his return, achieved by her at such a
price, and then to find herself neglected, duped,
and reproached. It was the almost inevitable
consequence of their disparity of years ; but I
never, for the life of me, could discover what con-
solation there is in knowing that we^ are suffering
from our own folly. To my taste, it rather aggra-
vates the ill ; for there is always a sort of comfort
in being able to lay the blame on others.

But the period of which we are writing belongs
to one of the pleasanter episodes in her existence.

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 39

Mademoiselle was but just returned to court, and
enjoying all the gaieties of its brilliant scenes
with the double relish of long seclusion ; and that
evening, as she walked up and down the terrace
of the Luxembourg, waiting the arrival of her
guests, she looked indeed native to the atmosphere.
The1 lightly powdered hair sparkled with dia-
monds ; and her fair pure skin needed no contrast
to set off its transparent whiteness. The plumes
which she wore suited well with the stately turn
of her head ; and if there be one thing more than
another which marks the inherent aristocracy of
gentle birth and breeding, it is the grace with
which feathers may be worn — but a grace to be
found, like truth, in " ah, how few !" Her scarlet
satin robe swept the ground, trimmed with pearls
and black ribands. A gold chain descended from
her waist, and from it was suspended a curiously
chased smelling-bottle ; while- the stomacher, arms,
and throat, glittered with gems. There was a
consciousness, too, about her, which is infinitely
becoming — she felt that the Mademoiselle of to-
night sustained her reputation. Her's was not the
only brow brilliant with its own belief of beauty,
nor the only toilette destined to be too charming !

It is curious, in any great festival, to note the
various motives that animate its crowd. Some —

40 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

and these are the very young — are joyful in the
mere delight of being dressed, and of going out ;
some — and these are the very happy — look forward
to meeting the individual at once their dream and
their destiny. Ah ! the anxiousness of the question,
" Will they be there?" and the delicious know-
ledge of seeing them the first, the only object in
the throng ! A third set go for the credit of the
thing — it is a sort of social trophy to be seen at
such a place. Others go as a matter of course ;
society is the business of their life, and attendance
on a fete is a moral duty. Some go to see — more,
to be seen ; some to be flattered — others, to flatter.
Some go for the sake of their jewels — others, for
themselves ; and at the close of the festival, how
few come away but worn out with lassitude and
discontent !

Poor Francesca set out with these feelings.
She had none of those pleasant, vague hopes
which know not what they ask or what they seek,
but which give such buoyancy and such gladness
to youth. True, that her broken engagement
with Evelyn was a relief; but it had been dearly
bought, at the price of many illusions — of gratified
vanity, of agreeable expectation, and an emotion
the deepest and the tenderest that life can ever
know. She felt such an utter want of interest in

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 41

what was going on, that it was with difficulty she
kept her attention sufficiently alive to go through
the common routine of society.

As she stood before the mirror, gathering up
her rich black tresses into the silken net which
formed part of the Italian costume assumed for
the evening, how often did the glossy braids escape
from her hand ! Climax of feminine indifference,
she did not care how she looked !

42

CHAPTER V.

" This is to be alone : this — this is solitude."

BYRON.

I HAVE heard a great deal said of the cheerfulness
of music, lighted rooms, and a gay crowd. I only
know, that the most melancholy moments of one's
life are passed in such scenes. There is such a
feeling of solitude — so much conversation going
on in which you can take no interest — so many
persons who care not whether you are living or
dead — so many forced words and smiles — so much
fatigue — such a mockery of gaiety — such a drag-
ging together of strangers, who can have nothing
in common — and so much neglect, impertinence,
and indifference. A large festival always appears
to me a funeral on a grand scale of all human
graces, affections, and kindlinesses. Like dancing,
it is a remnant of ancient barbarism — fit for the
days of the Chaldeans or the Babylonians, when
people were only amused through their eyes — the

FRA:NCESCA CARRARA. 43

sole entertainment of which savage nations are
susceptible.

Madame de Mercoeur and Francesca pro-
menaded through the crowded rooms till they
gained a seat near where Mademoiselle was stand-
ing. One of the diamond buckles of her sandal
was unfastened.

"Ah!" exclaimed the Marechal d'Hopital,
" voild une demoiselle proprement chaussee a faire
la fortune d'un cadet ! "

Mademoiselle gave him one of her haughtiest
frowns, and turned away. In so doing, the glit-
tering buckle dragged on the ground, and a
youth, strikingly handsome, and dressed with just
coxcombry enough to indicate that he was not
indifferent to the opinion of others, stepped for-
ward, and, dropping on his knee, entreated per-
mission to fasten the buckle. Scarcely looking at
him, the Princess accepted his services ; the cavalier
fastened the clasp, and, bowing profoundly, drew
back.

" Splendid diamonds!" said some one at his
side.

" Mon Dieu ! " exclaimed the youth ; " I saw
nothing but le plus joli pied du monde!"

A personal compliment paid from the sudden
impulse of the minute, no woman ever yet resisted ;

44 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

and Mademoiselle, turning round with a most
gracious smile to her young assistant, for the first
time remarked how very handsome he was.

Ah ! the slight things in life are the irre-
vocable. The actions on which we calculate and
decide never bring the important consequences
which we expected from them. It is the thought-
less, the careless, the unmarked of the minute,
that set their seal upon our fate — that are the
final and the fatal in their results. That youth
was Lauzun. I do believe, that the rule of love
at first sight, like all other rules, admits of
exceptions — while so many characters and tem-
peraments exist, no one law can extend to all ;
but this I also believe, that love at first sight
belongs to the highest and most imaginative
order of passion — it stamps it at once with the
seeming of destiny. All my readers may not
assent to the truth of this assertion ; but there
must be some who will acknowledge, that at
the first introduction of an individual, they felt
that one was fated to influence all their after-
life— and when did such presentiment prove
erroneous ?

" You really," said the Chevalier de Joinville,
" must come into the next room — Madame de
1'Hopital is astonishing us all by her skill in

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 45

fortune-telling. Do pray go, and be introduced
to the future."

He handed Madame de Mercoeur, and the
Due de Candale conducted Francesca.

" Are you very anxious/' asked he, " to con-
sult the sibyl ?"

" Nay,'7 replied Francesca; " I want faith."

" You will," replied he, " nevertheless be
amused with Madame de I'Hopital's tact ; she
knows enough of the history of the individuals
around to give a shrewd guess at the favourite
fantasy of each, and that it will be successful is
the summing up of her prophecy. She tells each
what he wishes, and so "obtains an easy belief."

" She would be puzzled to tell mine," an-
swered his companion, " for I am sure I wish for
nothing."

" I cannot emulate your philosophy," said the
Due, in a hurried tone. But a sudden movement
of the crowd interrupted their conversation, and
brought them directly in front of the table. The
Chevalier de Joiriville was in the very act of
having his futurity unveiled.

" A most monotonous piece of business this,"
said Madame la Marechale, " to have only good
to prophesy — nothing but hearts and diamonds.
You are sadly uninteresting, Chevalier ; I wish I

46 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

could foresee a few misfortunes, but your whole life
is en rose — very sweet and very insipid. How-
ever, I must do you the justice to say you find
thorns yourself."

" For the benefit of others, I hope," replied
the Chevalier, laughing.

" Madame de 1'Hopital has been quite la fee
bienfaisante" said Lauzun, who, like others, had
been consulting the oracle. " I am bewildered
by my future good fortune. I quite anticipate
being married, if it is to bring me all that she
predicts."

Mademoiselle blushed deeply. Now, the neces-
sity for such a blush must* have been in her own
thoughts, to dissipate which she began talking,
with great animation and little connexion, to the
Due d'Anjou, who stood near. Fortunately, he
was too much occupied in observing the folds of
his azure silk cloak, bordered with silver stars, in
a glass opposite ; and the incoherency of his cousin's
discourse was lost in the regularity of its orna-
ments.

" Shall I tell your fortune, dear?" asked La
Marechale of Francesca, who would fain have
refused ; but a negative would only have drawn
more attention, so she submitted to her fate with
as much resignation as could be assumed with a

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 47

good grace. The Marechale spread out the cards,
looked at them with a sudden change of counte-
nance, and then, with a forced smile, swept them
all together again.

" I cannot tell your fate — it is beyond my art.
I suppose my science is limited to my own coun-
try." But her manner was evidently constrained ;
and, with a momentary superstition, it struck
Francesca how unusually dark the cards appeared
when spread out — while the next moment she
smiled at her own folly.

The Due de Candale followed, and again
the ominous pack was shuffled and cut; again
Madame the sibyl seemed disconcerted.

" You must beware of long journeys," said
she; " but really I am getting stupid and tired —
I will finish your fortune some other night, mon
cher. You are young enough to wait."

The dancing, which had been suspended, now
recommenced with additional animation, and De
Candale claimed Francesca's hand ; but the rooms
were crowded, and they stood for some time loiter-
ing on one of the terraces.

" How beautiful are these orange flowers !" said
Francesca, pointing to a superb stand of that most
lovely shrub, where the golden fruit, the snowy
flower, and the polished blossom, hung together.

48 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

" I know no other plant that brings my own country
and my early childhood so immediately before me.
We had them in such profusion round the old
palazzo ! " and, unconsciously, her eyes filled with
tears as she stood gazing on the well-known
boughs.

" Do you like France?" asked De Candale;
" has it equalled your expectations?"

Francesca shook her head as she answered,
t( Ah! expectations are such unreasonable things !
It was impossible for even France to realise the
dreams of youth and solitude ! What ever em-
bodies our idea of perfection ?"

" I have seen mine realised," said he, gazing
upon her earnestly.

Nothing so completely excludes the idea of
another lover as being already occupied by one ;
and Francesca had been too utterly engrossed by
Evelyn ever to believe in the possibility that she
could be loved, and not by him. The Due de
Candale's admiration had been remarked by all
but herself. Perfectly indifferent, she never
thought about him ; and she now listened to his
words, quite unconscious that they had any latent
meaning as regarded herself.

De Candale misconstrued her gentle silence ;
and the downcast eyes before which were flitting

FRANCESCA'CARRARA. 49

far-off scenes, gave him more encouragement
than any other expression that she could have
worn. Naturally impetuous, disappointment was
to him better than suspense. They were alone on
the terrace ; and Francesca started from her dream
of early and betrayed hopes, to hear the passionate
avowal that was being uttered by her unsuspected
lover.

Surprise for a moment kept her silent; but
to surprise succeeded a bitter sense of regret.
" Not to me," exclaimed she ; " pray do not
address these words to me ; you cannot think how
they are wasted."

" Do you love another?" asked De Candale, in
an altered voice.

She hesitated ; under any circumstances a
woman is reluctant to own her affection — it is
so difficult to say what it is so easy to feel ; and,
in her place, how painful was the confession!
How can the heart bear to own that it has been
given, and in vain ?

Again her silence was misunderstood. " I
have been too sudden," whispered he, in a gentler
tone ; " only say that you will let me hope."

Francesca felt that not to speak now was,
indeed, giving false encouragement ; yet, scarcely
could she command her words. She was so grate-

VOL. II. D

50 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

ful— so touched; but the very name of love con-
veyed almost an impression of terror — it was a
word which she never wished to hear again.
Briefly, but decidedly, she told the Due de Can-
dale that his suit was in vain.

With him, anger was rapidly taking the place
of softer emotions. " Certainly," he exclaimed,
in no very gracious tone, " the folly of woman ex-
ceeds all that has ever been said about it. What
can or do you expect beyond what I offer you ?"

Now, when you have acted upon impulse,
there is something exceedingly provoking in being
suspected of acting from some interested motive ;
and Francesca rather warmly replied, " I am not
aware of any right which you have to question
me ; but my expectations can have little to do
with what is a mere matter of liking."

" Well," said the Due, with that outward
calmness of manner which anger often affects;
" so you do not like me? I am sorry for your
bad taste ! and I bid you good night, quite con-
vinced that you will repent your refusal ; and I
daresay you will never get married at all."

So saying, he left the terrace ; while Francesca
remained for a few minutes, bewildered by the
suddenness of the scene, and half inclined to
laugh at the Due's parting denunciation. " The

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 51

very idea of my repenting my refusal ! his rank
were too dearly purchased by himself. I can
imagine no lot in life more wearisome than a
union of interest and indifference ! The contrast
were too terrible, thinking of what hope once
dreamed such a union could be made by mutual
attachment. Ah, love has henceforth no part in
life for me! Deceived, slighted, humiliated! — I
loathe the very name ! "

They say many a heart is caught in the re-
bound ; — not when the heart has been really
won. Pride may be soothed by the ready de-
votion of another ; vanity may be excited the more
keenly by recent mortification. But the great cha-
racteristic of deep and true love is its entire indif-
ference to all feelings and opinions except its own ;
and, in such a case, and especially to a sensitive
and reserved temper like Francesca's, the first dis-
appointment is final.

52

CHAPTER VI.

" The hour of sacrifice
Is near. Anon the immolating priest
Will summon me." — The Hunchback.

THE usual circle were assembled the following
morning at Madame de Mercosur's apartment,
when the Due himself entered.

" What have you been hearing, seeing, or say-
ing?" asked Madame; " for you look as if you
had something extraordinary to tell us ! "

" I have, indeed !" was his answer ; " but even
more shocking than surprising. The Queen of
Sweden has had her chamberlain murdered —
executed, as she calls it — at Fontainebleau ! "

His intelligence was received with a uni-
versal exclamation of horror!

" How very dreadful !" cried Madame ; " and
to think that such an act should have been com-
mitted by any body that we all know ! "

" Why, to be sure, our knowing her is a great

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 53

aggravation of the offence," said her husband,
half smiling at what was, nevertheless, a very na-
tural conclusion.

We daily hear of crimes of all kinds — we are
perfectly aware of their existence ; but we never
think of their being perpetrated by those whom we
actually know. We always deem our own circle
secure.

" But what led to this atrocious deed ? " asked
Francesca.

" Some act of treachery on the part of Monal-
deschi, regarding some letters which he ventured
to open, is assumed as the reason. The truth
seems little known. But I have just had a letter
from the Comte 1'Escars, detailing all the circum-
stances that carne to his knowledge ; " and, taking
out the scroll, the Due read as follows, adding, " I
have omitted the first part of the letter, as being
on my own business."

" You must pardon my thus hurrying over
your affair, to say nothing of its being so incom-
plete ; but my whole mind is so impressed with
the strange tragedy of yesterday, that I can think,
speak, write of nothing else. The ex-Queen of
Sweden has had one of the gentlemen of her suite
put to death in a manner equally sudden and bar-
barous ; and what excites in me a strong personal

54 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

feeling on the subject is, that Monaldeschi, the ca-
valier in question, dined with me the very day of
his murder, as I must call it. Such a gay dinner as
we had ! for Monaldeschi — lively, unscrupulous,
and sarcastic — was a most amusing companion.
His spirits, far higher than his usual bearing,
carried us all along with them ; and I remember
saying to him, ' I envy your gaiety ; why, Monal-
deschi, you are as joyous as if there were nothing
but sunshine in the world.' He changed coun-
tenance, and becoming suddenly grave, exclaimed,
' Do not call me back to myself. I feel an
unaccountable vivacity, which I know is the
herald of disaster.' But again he became cheer-
ful, and we rallied him on the belief, which he
still gaily maintained, that great spirits were the
sure forerunners of misfortune. < Well,' was my
answer, ( I should like mine to be so announced.'
The dessert was being put down, when a mes-
senger came from the palace, and commanded
his immediate attendance on his queen. He
turned pale as death, but prepared to obey the
summons; and, taking up a glass, filled it with
wine. The slender Venetian glass shivered in his
hand before he could raise it to his lips. ' Are
you superstitious, Count ? ' asked some one at the
table , ' the delicate crystal of Venice is said to

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 55

shiver when treachery is at hand.' This careless
observation seemed to affect my guest far beyond
what a slight pleasantry could be supposed to
occasion. His face became livid ; and, snatching
up a silver cup, he filled it to the very brim,
and drank it down ; then he stood for a mo-
ment, as if lost in thought, when, flinging his
cloak around him, he hurried from the room, ut-
terly forgetful of our presence, without even a
gesture of farewell. His strange agitation left its
own gloom behind, and our party soon broke up.
" Have you never, Mercoeur, felt that vague
fear, that feverish restlessness, for which you can
give no rational cause ; but which seems as if
something extraordinary must happen, though you
have not the slightest ground for expectation ? 1
ordered my horse, and rode out; and the plea-
santness of the evening led me further than I
intended, so that the moon was up as I returned
homewards. On my way, I had to pass the church-
yard, which is about a quarter of a mile from the
town. The moonlight was shining full on the
lowly graves, over which the branches of an
old yew-tree swung to and fro mournfully. To
my great surprise, from the lateness of the hour,
when the funeral rites are but rarely performed, I
saw a group of persons gathered round a grave

56 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

which was in the very act of being filled up. I
distinctly heard the falling of the clods.

" Reining up my horse beside the low stone
wall — prompted by I know not what curiosity —
I asked who it was that had been buried ? ' Count
Monaldeschi, — executed this evening for treason
against his rightful sovereign, Queen Christina,'
replied a man in the uniform of one of her guards.
I let the bridle fall from my hand. Good God ! had
he, then, gone forth from my dinner-table to his
death ! Could my cheerful companion of but a few
hours since be lying there, cold as the damp earth
they were trampling down upon his body ? Were
those brilliant spirits but lights of destruction ?

" I know not how I regained the town, for the
image of Monaldeschi floated before my eyes ;
now animated with all the warmth and hues of
life — now pale, as I could fancy him after the
fatal blow ; but brought vividly before me, as
objects are brought only in periods of strong ex-
citement. I afterwards learnt the following de-
tails, partly from a page of his own, partly from
le Pere Mantuony : —

" On arriving at the palace of Fontainebleau,
Monaldeschi was shewn at once into the Queen's
presence, who, with quick steps, was pacing the
apartment, holding in her hand a packet of letters,

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 57

which she had only just refolded. The Count
dropped on his knee ; when, hastily turning towards
him, she bade him go to the galerie aux cerfs. He
obeyed, and there he found the Chevalier di Sen-
tinelli, the chief captain of her guards. Sentinelli
is a man who never changed feature or colour in his

O

life ; and now, with the utmost coolness, he bade
the unfortunate Count address himself to the priest
in attendance ; ' and,' added he, ' make your con-
fession short, for my orders for your execution are
immediate.'

" Monaldeschi staggered against the wall, and
remained for a few minutes in a state of almost
insensibility, when the Chevalier, drawing his
sword, pointed to the Father, who stood nearly
as pale and aghast as the man whose confession
he was called upon so suddenly to receive. The
prisoner sprung forwards, and throwing himself at
the Confessor's feet, implored him piteously to
hasten to Christina, and intercede for his life. At
first, the. Captain Sentinelli objected to Mantuony
leaving the room with his penitent unshriven ; but
respect for the holy man at last induced him to
allow his proceeding on what he warned him.
would be a fruitless mission.

" The priest found Christina in the same
apartment, apparently entirely occupied with a
D2

58 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

volume of Swedish history. ' You come,' said
she, rising from her seat, ' to announce that
my orders have been obeyed.' i I come,' replied
the Father, ' on a more fitting errand for the
minister of our Saviour ; I come in his name to
entreat your pity and pardon for yonder miserable
offender. Please your Grace to think, that you
may take life away, but cannot give it ! ' ' You
will leave your penitent to die unconfessed,' was
her only answer ; ' I would not destroy both soul
and body ; but on your own heads be the sin, if
you waste the time allowed to prepare for eternity.'
' Lady, for your own soul's sake, ' cried the
agitated old man, ' be merciful ! remember, his
blood will rise to the skies, and cry aloud for
judgment, even at the last day!' l Between me
and Heaven be the reckoning,' exclaimed she,
resuming her seat. ' For the love of our Lady,
be pitiful ! Only see him ; you cannot order a
fellow - creature from your own presence into
eternity ! ' The Queen started from her chair.
' I have,' said she, white with anger, which yet
affected not her calm and measured words, — ' I
•have laid down most of the possessions of my
ancestor ; but once a Queen always a Queen ; and
treason shall not pass in my household unpunished
while I retain but one faithful follower to avenge

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 59

the cause of his Queen and of his mistress. Ay,
by my own hand ! ' continued she, in a louder tone,
half drawing a sabre that lay on the table, and
returning the glittering blade to the scabbard
with a force that made it ring again, — l by my
own hand should the traitor perish, rather than
his daring treachery should go. unpunished ! Now,
will you back, and shrive the coward? or must
he die with his guilt on his head ? Yonder clock
wants five minutes of the hour, — when that hour
strikes, it will sound the knell of a traitor — as it
strikes, he dies!'

" The Father left the room, and found the
Count in a state of stupefaction. In vain he ad-
jured him to turn his thoughts^to prayer ; in vain
he offered to him the cross, and implored him to
think on Him who died to save ; but the agony of
his fear was too great for prayer. The clock struck,
and Sentinelli drew his sword ; the noise roused
Monaldeschi, who, springing up, rushed to the
window, and endeavoured to throw himself out,
— it was fastened. Sentinelli followed, and tried
to stab him. The first blow only resounded
against the chain armour which he wore under
his clothes; but at the second the blood rushed
in torrents from his side ; the third brought him
to his knee, and then Sentinelli passed his sword

60 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

through him. The miserable man dropped on the
floor, which was died crimson with his struggles,
for still he writhed ; when the executioner, press-
ing him down with his foot, extricated the blade ;
and as he drew it forth, Monaldeschi sunk back
— dead!

" The corpse was immediately put into a coach,
and buried in the church-yard with all possible
speed ; and, but for the horror in men's minds,
there would not be a trace left of the unfortunate,
even if guilty, Monaldeschi. I hear, however,
that one horrible trace does remain : the floor was
so saturated with the blood shed in his dying-
struggles, that no efforts can efface the stain ; in
vain buckets upon buckets of water have been
poured upon the place, — the crimson is there
fresh and red as ever."

It was some time before any one broke the
silence that followed upon the gloomy narrative.

" And what do his Grace and the Queen say ?
for I believe you come from their presence," asked
Madame de Mercoeur, at last.

" Why, the Queen proposed that it should be
notified to Christina, that her presence was no
longer desired in France; but to this Louis ob-
jected. < The power,' said he, < of life and death
is in the hands of the sovereign. Christina is

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 61

still Queen in her own household. It only be-
hoves us, by some sign of coldness, to shew that
we resent the indignity of having our palace made
a slaughter-house.' "

" Settled with his Majesty's usual sense of the
royal dignity — wonderful in such a youth!" said
an officer of the household ; one of those elderly
courtiers, whose whole life had been an adulation.

But Francesca, unaccustomed from her child-
hood to the ideal reverence with which the royal
person and power were then regarded in France,
could think of the ex-Queen's act as a murder only,
not as a judgment. Was it possible, then, that
such an offence against the laws of humanity — a
human being's life sacrificecPwith such vindictive
cruelty — that this crime against nature and
womanhood, was held as light in the balance when
weighed with a want of respect to one of the royal
residences ! Well, custom is a surprising thing ;
and when we think how, from earliest infancy, we
are surrounded by false impressions, undue rights,
privileges, and prejudices, we may well marvel that
there is such a thing as truth in the world. That
it should be concealed, is far less wonderful than
that it should ever be discovered. After all, the
great error in human judgment is not so much wil-
ful perversion, as that we judge according to situa-

62 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

tion, and always make that situation our own ;
while the chances are, that we really have not
one thought, feeling, or habit, in common with
those on whom we yet think ourselves qualified
to decide.

63

CHAPTER VII.

You know I am fond of the news, though I have as little cu-
riosity as any man." — The Wife. ^

11 WE have always some reigning mania," said the
Chevalier de Joinville, when, in common with
others of the court, he came in to Madame de
Mercosur's, on his way to a fete given by Madame
de Soissons, whose hotel was more than ever the
rallying point of the court. " Every body now
is making what they call portraits of themselves
and of their friends. Pastoral phrases are called
into requisition ; and under some name just stepped
out of an eclogue, our dames and cavaliers flatter
themselves and their friends, and are tant soit pen

" I heard one or two of these candid confes-
sions read the other evening," replied Fratfcesca ;
'/ and I could not but smile at the modest avowal
of one lady, that she had the very whitest teeth in

64 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

the world ! qualifying it, however, by the regret,
that she really had not spirits enough to shew
them ! While another takes up a graver tone, and
thanks God, who gave her only inclinations con-
formable to her duty, and confesses to une grande
passion for pictures, jewels, and furniture!"

" I could soon give my own portrait," said
Madame de Mercceur; " I should at once can-
didly confess that I thought myself very pretty,
very amiable, very good ; and trust to my friends'
kindness to take the assertion for granted."

" I would never," cried the Chevalier, " trust
to my friends' kindness for any thing. We all in
our hearts hate each other!"

" What a monstrous assertion ! " exclaimed
she.

" All profound truths startle you in their first
announcement."

" I am sure," replied the Duchesse, " I hate
no one."

" You are too young. But wait a little ; have
a few mortifications, a few disappointments- — a
few of those surprises of falsehood, slander, and
treachery, with which all experience is well sup-
plied— and you will be astonished to find what a
stock of hate you have for use. But you are sitting
quite absorbed," continued he, turning to Fran-

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 65

cesca ; " .are you sketching portraits in your own
mind? — I hope it is one of our cavaliers ? What
do you say to that of the Due de Candale ? "

The truth was, De Joinville, who took that
constant interest in the affairs of others, called
philanthropy or curiosity according to circum-
stances, had noted Francesca's ttte-a-tete of the
former evening, and wished to draw some conclu-
sion of its result from her manner. He was dis-
appointed— she was too indifferent for confusion;
and, far above the singularly small vanity of con-
quest, she answered him with entire composure.

" I would describe him in three words — chi-
valresque, romanesque, and pittoresque. I heard
Madame de Mercoeur say that he was going to
Spain, and he appears to me an admirable speci-
men of your court — he will do you credit."

" Have you seen Madame de Soissons' portrait
of herself? " asked de Joinville, who now thought
that the subject of the Due de Candale was too
uninteresting for further question.

" No," said Madame de Mercoeur; " I sup-
pose Marie felt that she could tell me nothing
new."

" I have a copy ; so, if you please, you can
judge for yourself," and the Chevalier read as
follows : —

66 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

a Portrait of Madame de Soissons, by herself . —
Portraits are just now the rage ; and as others
are drawing theirs, I will also draw mine, for I
hold it expedient to follow whatever may be the
ruling fashion. Singularity is never forgiven ; it
is taken as a personal affront by all from whom
we differ ; it is an assumption of superiority ; and
why should the general taste not be good enough
for the generality ? I, for one, am content to do
like the rest ; thereby escaping that responsibility
which is, at best, an invidious and, worse — a use-
less distinction.

" I am not pretty, though I pass for such ;
for my face always flatters who ever looks at it.
I have a slight and manageable, rather than
a positively good figure ; and I dress to per-
fection.

" Why should so much skill in colouring, so
much taste in arrangement, be bestowed on a pic-
ture, when half the same attention would produce a
still more charming effect bestowed upon real life ?
A careful toilette is a perpetual flattery — it shews
that you desire to please, and people like that ; for
we all attach an undue value to our own suffrage.
I would here observe, as one of the results of
my observation, that all gentlemen prefer bright
colours in feminine attire; it is on the principle

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 67

of contrast, — their taste is dictated by their vanity.
A woman in sombre hues does not sufficiently
throw out their own dark dress.

" I am franche coquette, and I confess it ; and
sometimes my adorateurs are disappointed, from
an expectation of my constancy, which it is not in
my nature to realise. Yet, methinks their com-
plaints are unreasonable ; their worst reproach is
that of being indebted to me for some agreeable
hours. I beg to plead the excuse offered by some
Athenian orator, who, announcing a victory to the
people, induced them to proclaim a fete, crown
themselves with flowers, and to pour out libations,
both on the gods' account and their own. The
next day, the tidings arrived of defeat, and loud
were the exclamations against the deceitful Cleon.
' Nay, my friends,' replied he, ' can you blame me
for making you pass a pleasant day? — rather give
me your thanks.'

" I have very buoyant spirits, and hence am
easily amused. This makes me a charming com-
panion ; for many seeing me entertained, set down
the entertainment to their own powers, and admire
me out of compliment to themselves.

" I am obliging and caressing, and really do
like people very much when I see them. I own
my memory is not good; the fact is, that life is

68 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

too short to be occupied by aught but the present
— hope and remembrance are equally a waste of
time.

" I am given to flattery, not from any in-
terested motive, but because I like to say agree-
able things. My own vanity, which is great,
makes me sensitive to that of others. And here
I would observe, that love of admiration seems
scarcely to be properly appreciated ; it is the only
bond of society — we could not otherwise endure
each other. It is the true source of the sublime,
and, my conscience obliges me to add, of the
ridiculous. Still, it is the strong necessity of ad-
miring each other, and the being admired in our
turn, that has built cities, congregated multitudes,
and organised what we call our present state of
civilisation.

" I am lively — a sort of temper very popular,
for it makes no troublesome demands upon our
civility ; and am entirely carried away by the im-
pulse of the minute. Hence, I am incapable of
every profound or lasting attachment. I should
forget my own identity, could I be parted from
myself for a week.

" I incline mostly to look at things on the
ridiculous side, and this makes me an amusing
companion ; and I rarely think much of my

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 69

trouble, for any body's applause is better than no-
body's. Novelty has to me great attraction. A
new acquaintance and a new silk alike rapidly
lose their gloss. Unfortunately, I am soon wearied;
for most individuals, resembling short stories, are
soon read to the end.

" I am more easily entertained than interested,
and rather object to having my feelings much ex-
cited, emotion being bad both for constitution and
complexion. I am heedless of getting into scrapes,
but very ingenious at extricating myself. My
genius is fertile in inventions, excuses, and reme-
dies. I consider myself clever ; have tact and
shrewdness ; and whatever wits I may possess, I
have them always about me."

" Good," exclaimed Madame de Mercosur ; " se
non I vero, e ben trovato."

" After all," said the Chevalier, " these por-
traits— Madame de I'Hopital's fortune telling —
the pleasure we take in a lover or a physician —
may all be referred to the same cause, — we do so
enjoy talking about ourselves; and yet we feel
some sort of excuse necessary. It must be ad-
mitted, that we are ready in pretexts."

" Is this declaration," asked Francesca, " pre-
paratory to sketching your own portrait ? "

" Nay," said he, " I feel quite inadequate to

70 FRANCE&CA CARRARA.

my own merits ; or, to be candid in my confes-
sion, I have a conversational reputation to sup-
port, and cannot venture upon paper. Half the
character of wit must rely upon what is for-
gotten."

71 •

CHAPTER VIII.

" Near and more near

They bent, with pale inquiry and close ear:
Her eyes were shut, — no motion — not a breath, —
The gentle sufferer was at peace in death."

LEIGH HUNT.

" THE very image of his mother," — "but with his
father's eyes/' — " a perfect picture." Such were
the usual run of exclamations that greeted the
little Marquis de Mercosur. Fortunate it is for
the tranquillity of the new-horn infant, if he have
any turn for philosophy, that he understands none
of the nonsense consecrated by old usage to the
commencement of existence. The birth of an heir
seems a sort of security taken of fate,

" For the old honours of some ancient line ;"

and the young heir of the illustrious house De
Mercoeur was received with due joy and rever-
ence. The satin curtains of the cradle were heavy
with the many quarterings of the broidered arms,
and were put aside by no less a hand than that of

72 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

Anne of Austria, who, gazing on the speck of
humanity enveloped in cambric and lace, pro-
nounced that it " was a most promising child."
Her Majesty is not the only person who has de-
cided on unseen merit. The mother was as well
as possible; and perhaps that week there was as
much hope and happiness in the Hotel Vendome
as under any other roof in Paris.

The christening was to be unique in its splen-
dour, and the Duchesse had fallen asleep during
its details. There had been a slight shower, when
suddenly the sun shone out, as it shines in that
bright uncertainty which precedes another rain,
and Francesca, fearing that the light should fall
on Madame de Mercosur's face, rose to draw the
curtain. She was not sleeping, for her eyes were
open; and as her companion approached, they
looked up with a strange and earnest expression.
Francesca went to the bed-side, and asked, in a
gentle whisper, " Did she want any thing?" No
answer was returned, but the features still wore
the same appearance. She took the Duchesse's
hand ; but when she loosed her hold, it fell quite
powerless on the bed. Again she spoke, and
aloud ; but there was no answer. Seriously
alarmed, she called to the attendants, one of whom
was instantly sent for the physician. He was

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 73

scarcely five minutes in arriving; but these five
minutes seemed an age. A slight change came
over even his guarded countenance, as he looked
upon his patient. He withdrew without uttering
a word, and Francesca followed him to the ante-
chamber.

" Young lady, there is no hope ; one side of
the Duchesse is struck with palsy ; she retains her
senses, and will, most probably, to the last; but
she cannot live through the night."

" Good God ! " exclaimed Francesca ; " and the
Due de Memjeur left Paris this morning ! " For
a moment all command over herself was lost, and
she sank on a seat, sick and faint with sudden
agony.

" You must not give way to your feelings, at
least now," said the physician, kindly taking her
hand. " Madame is sensible, and you seem to
be the only near friend about her. Go you to her
room, while I send to the Cardinal, and summon
my colleagues."

Francesca wrung her hands in suppressed an-
guish, and seated herself by the bed-side ; it was
evident, from the look of gratitude, that her friend
recognised her ; and she never afterwards moved
from her sad watch beside the dying sufferer.

The physician soon returned, with two others.

VOL. II. E

74 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

After a few minutes of silent observation, they re-
tired to the adjacent apartment, for the purpose of
consultation : it was evidently but nominal ; there
was no power on earth that could close the grave
now yawning for the young, the lovely, the beloved,
and, but an hour since, the seemingly healthy
Duchesse de Mercceur.

A thousand confused images arose in mournful
succession as Francesca bent over that melancholy
pillow. Who could tell the husband, who had
that morning left her with no other anxiety but
that gentle solicitude inseparable from love, — who
could tell him that his idolised wife had breathed
her last — and not in his arms? Who, in after
years, could supply a mother's place to the be-
reaved child, in whom affection's sweetest foun-
tain must remain for ever unstirred ? There was
something inexpressibly painful in the monotonous
nursery song with which the ancient nurse was
mechanically soothing its unconscious sleep.

A momentary restlessness in the features of the
Duchesse induced Francesca to attempt altering
her position ; and with the aid of the attendants,
this was soon accomplished ; but observing that
Henriette followed her with an anxious gaze, she
seated herself on the bed, and supported her head
with her arm, so that she could watch the slightest

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 75

change. Madame de Mercoeur looked up with
a faint smile ; hfcr lips moved, yet no sound was
audible; but Francesca felt the pressure of her
hand returned.

It was a strange instance of the contrasts where-
with Fate delights to mock her toy and prey — the
human race — to mark the opposite scenes of that
night. The Duchesse de Mercoeur lay palsy-
stricken on her death-bed ; while her husband
was full of his occupation, exerting his utmost
powers of persuasion in a secret and difficult nego-
tiation with the Due d'Orleans, — one of those
intrigues whose successes are such certain steps in
the ladder of ambition. Madame de Soissons was
full of triumph, to find that Louis admitted readily
her plea of unbounded devotion to his lightest
wish, as full excuse for somewhat of duplicity
practised towards, not only Francesca, but him-
self. He was to sup with her that evening, and
it would not be her fault if the young Italian was
missed, as she had assembled every various attrac-
tion of wit, youth, and beauty. Her supper would
\be brilliant, while her sister was dying.

The Cardinal, as he stood beside the Queen's
chair that night, during the performance of the
ballet, would seem to have drawn around himself
a charmed circle of prosperity; he was the real

76 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

sovereign of that gorgeous court' — wealth and
power were in his right hand ; and his enemies —
where were they? — who now was bold enough to
call himself Mazarin's enemy? — all was submis-
sion, varnished by flattery. Some passing allu-
sion on the stage was adroitly turned into a per-
sonal compliment, and the whole audience marked
their perception by their applause. Just then, one
of his suite entered, and whispered a few words ;
— the Cardinal became deadly pale ; he muttered
some hurried and inaudible apology, and rushed
from the box. He attempted to open the door of
the first carriage he saw — his hand trembled too
much. The servants, seeing a stranger, were about
to repulse him, when some one recognised him.
He was assisted in, and they drove with all speed
to the Hotel Vendorne.

Rapidly he passed through the silent and
lonely chambers, till he reached one, the most
silent of all. For her sake who was suffering
there, he paused to repress his emotion ; but his
step was unsteady, and his face ghastly, as he
approached the bed. His niece knew him in-
stantly ; and a gleam of joy passed over her coun-
tenance, too beautiful for sickness or death. The
fever which consumed her gave a deep colour to
her cheeks — a flashing light to her eyes ; while the

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 77

disordered braids of her rich auburn hair lay like
dark gold round her white brow and throat.

" My darling — my own sweet child! speak to
me ! " She smiled ; but though the lips moved,
not the faintest whisper was heard.

Still he gazed earnestly upon her ; a joyous and
deceitful incredulity sprang up within his heart.
He drew the physician aside.

" Is there no hope in that bright and blooming
face?"

" None/' was the low, but decided answer.

Mazarin again approached the bed, but the
effort was too much ; he bowed his face down, and
wept like a child.

Francesca, who still maintained her watch by
the pillow, saw, by Madame de Mercosur's face,
that she observed her uncle's distress — the large
tears gathered on her own eyelids.

" For her sake," whispered Francesca, " I pray
your Grace's composure."

The Cardinal had not been aware of her pre-
sence tili that instant. He rose, walked across the
room, and, drawing a chair forwards, seated him-
self, with one of Henriette's hands in his own.

" We will watch together," said he.

Madame de Mercosur looked from one to the
other with a grateful and affectionate gaze, and

78 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

again reclined with closed eyes on Francesca's
shoulder. How long did that silent and dreary
night appear ! At last the dim tapers grew pale
before the warm red light that came in gleams
through the curtained windows.

" Give us air !" exclaimed Francesca ; " she is
faint ; " for the drops stood on the Duchesse's fore-
head, while a low gurgling sound in the throat
indicated some inward struggle. But again she
sunk, reposed, in Francesca's arms.

" Holy Virgin! the hand I hold is cold and
stiff!" said Mazarin, starting.

An aged attendant drew nigh, and looked
on, — " Mademoiselle, it is a corpse you are em-
bracing ! "

Sick, faint, and weary, for the first time Fran-
cesca relaxed her support. The woman laid the
Duchesse back upon her pillow.

" It cannot be!" cried her uncle, gazing upon
her features, whose fevered colour still lingered.

" Bring a looking-glass!"

They brought a little mirror, one which had
often reflected the smiles of the living — it now
reflected the fixed image of the dead. The eye-
lid had closed for ever ; the crystal gave back the
yet red lip, the still rose- touched cheek; but it
gave them back unstained — no breath, as in former

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 79

times, came from life to sully life's image. The
mirror placed before the mouth was clear as at
first. The silence was sacred no longer. Whose
ear now could be disturbed by the voice of lamen-
tation and of weeping?

A woman's office is always to support and
to console; and Francesca was roused from her
own stupor of sorrow by the Cardinal's agony of
regret. It was needful to perform the last offices
of the dead; to fasten the dropping mouth, to
straighten the convulsed limbs ; but still Mazarin
knelt by his dearest relative, and wasted on the
inanimate ear his passionate entreaties, that his
most beloved child would not leave him desolate
in his old age. Francesca took his hand, and
led him to the next room : exhausted by grief, he
submitted to her gentle control like an infant. He
asked for a glass of water, but the medical at-
tendant gave it him with a strong opiate : he was
scarcely conscious when led, or rather carried, to
his carriage. At that moment a horseman galloped,
as if for life or death, into the yard. Francesca's
heart misgave her — it was the Due de Mercoeur.
In an instant he had reached the Duchesse's cham-
ber— they had just finished laying her out.

80

CHAPTER IX.

" And that should teach us
There's a divinity that shapes our ends
Rough-hew them how we will."

LIFE has no experience so awful as our first ac-
quaintance with death; it conies upon us — that
which we never really believed till we witnessed.
It has, as it were, a double knowledge to acquire,
— when it visits old age, and when it visits youth.
Francesca had once before wept over the sudden
severing of all human ties, save the sad and fragile
links of memory. She had been equally shocked
and grieved by the sudden and violent end of her
grandfather ; but death is the expected of old
age — we anticipate its approach even before we
know what it is ; the full of years seems but to
have fulfilled his destiny. Sorrow is subdued by
strong necessity ; there is no cause why life should
be lengthened for our love ; and we feel that the
worn and the decrepit do but go down into that

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 81

grave which had received youth, health, heauty —
all that made existence precious — long before.
But when the blow comes down in the fulness of
expectation ; when the bough is smitten while green,
and the flower cut down in its spring ; when the
young and lovely perish, while the eyes, full of
light, were fixed on the future, — then, indeed, is
the visitation heavy to bear. Alas for the home
which they leave desolate — or the hearth beside
which is their vacant place ! We ask of destiny,
Wherefore has it dealt so harshly by us? Why
should our beloved one be chosen for the victim,
while length of days is given to so many to whom
existence is a void or a burden ? " It was too soon
to die," is the vain repining of many a fond heart
mourning over the early lost. Existence has its
ordinary allotment — why should ours be the cruel
exception ?

Francesca listened to the Due de Mercosur
pacing for hours his solitary apartment, or she
watched the sleep of the orphan, trusted utterly to
menial hands, and struggled fruitlessly to repress
the constant thought, — " Why was not I taken ? —
what matters my worthless, my neglected being ?
Husband, child, kindred, friends — I have none of
these to regret me: and Guido, poor Guido! ah,
we should not have parted for long ! "

E2

82 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

In the anguish of her loss, Francesca forgot all
which that loss was to herself. Grief brings with
it somewhat of stupor ; and she lived on mechani-
cally from day to day, taking, indeed, no thought
of the future, as if her present existence were
to last of itself for ever. She was seated in the
Duchesse's dressing-room one morning in listless
sadness, endeavouring to recall some last word or
look of her friend, when a domestic announced
that his Eminence the Cardinal Mazarin requested
to see her. She started up in surprise ; it seemed
wonderful now that any one should wish to see
her; however, she hastily obeyed the summons.

The apartment into which the Cardinal had
heen shewn was Madame de Mercosur's usual
sitting-room ; and the marks of recent habitation
and present neglect were strangely blended. The
curtains had been hurriedly withdrawn to receive
the unexpected visitor; and the glad sunshine
gave light, but no cheerfulness, to the desolate
chamber. The dust destroyed the gloss of the
silken draperies, the gilding was already dis-
coloured, and the mirrors, dim and tarnished,
threw a coarse shade over the fairest face. Yet,
on one table lay the embroidery, hastily thrown
aside ; but the bright colours were faded, and the
silks tangled : on another stood a vase, wherein

FRANCESCA CARRARA, 83

the Duchesse herself had placed the flowers ; the
water had long since dried up, and the black and
withered stalks were all that remained. Fran-
cesca entered unperceived by the Cardinal, who
stood gazing on the vacant chair which, the last
time he was in this room, had been the seat of his
beloved niece. Her shadow fell on the wall, and
the Cardinal's attention was instantly aroused ;
he paused, as if unwilling to give way to any ap-
pearance of emotion, and approached his young
countrywoman with a kind but calm demeanour ;
when, gazing upon her face, pale with tears and
close confinement, — " My poor child," said he,
taking her hand gently, " how ill you look! — we
must not allow you to neglect yourself."

Unexpected kindness, though it be but a word
or a glance, goes direct to the heart ; it did to
poor Francesca's, — so lonely, so uncared for, it
was doubly sweet. Her lip trembled, she felt
the tears gushing up, and dared not trust her
voice.

" I am come to talk to you about yourself;
sit down : " and he led her to the window.

" You are very good," whispered Francesca.

" I am grateful;" and then, as if unwilling to
dwell even in allusion to the past, he continued,
" I am commissioned by the Queen to offer you

84 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

the place of Italian reader ; and I assure you the
offer was made with many kind expressions of
interest. You will enter upon the duties, which
are almost nominal, immediately."

Francesca felt at first too much affected to
utter the negative which suggested itself ; for an
instant she was silent, but the necessity of acknow-
ledgment was imperative.

" I cannot thank you," exclaimed she, after a
brief struggle with herself; " if you could know

how unutterably grateful I am But as to the

place you offer me, add to your kindness by for-
giving my refusal."

Mazarin looked astonished.

" What do you then wish for — what do you
expect?" asked he, more coldly.

" Nothing — indeed nothing," interrupted his
companion, deeply pained by his altered manner.

" I think you are scarcely aware of the ad-
vantages of your post : it places you immediately
about the Queen — it gives you every opportunity
of pleasing, and I," — with a slight stress on the
words, — " need scarcely tell you the importance
of the royal favour. Besides," added he, with a
smile, " you cannot fail eventually in securing for
yourself a brilliant settlement."

" As much beyond my merits as my wishes,"

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 85

answered Francesca, who had been gradually
gaining courage. " Will your Eminence vouch-
safe to hear me — the only favour I have to
ask?"

" Why, that my curiosity alone would insure ;
for I cannot understand what can induce a young
woman to refuse such honourable protection, or a
beautiful one such a prospect."

" Ah, your Grace! I have never been happy
in France. I dislike the life I must lead at your"
— she hesitated — " gay court. My plan is fixed.
When Guido arrives, we will at once return to
our native country ; we have sufficient independ-
ence for our few wishes, and we shall at least be
content."

" I do not perceive," thought Mazarin, " one
single motive the girl can have for dissimulation ;
— she must, therefore, be a fool. Still, there is
something about her that interests me; and she
was poor Henriette's dearest friend."

Then again addressing Francesca, he conti-
nued : " You are not well — depressed, too, in
spirits ; and I can readily believe the very thought
of exertion is odious. I shall not, therefore, take
an answer now. Give a few hours' calm reflection
to my proposal, and send me your decision this
evening."

86 PRANCESCA CARRARA,

Francesca could only utter her thanks — it had
been ungracious to urge her refusal.

" Here you cannot remain/' resumed the Car-
dinal; " but Madame de Soissons is coming to
see you, in the hope that for the present you will
consider her house your home."

" O no!" cried Francesca hastily.

The Cardinal looked surprised. " You can
scarcely purpose a longer stay under the roof of
so young a master? But perhaps" — and this rose
from a sudden and secret suspicion — " the Due
de Mercoeur may have proposed some more agree-
able place ?"

" I have not," answered Francesca, quite un-
conscious of the latent surmise, " seen the Due

since " And she stopped with uncontrollable

emotion.

The Cardinal paused too, for his better feelings
reproved his momentary injustice. Moreover, he
knew the Comtesse too well not to conjecture that
many a slight and unkindness might have wounded
both the pride and the affection of her former
friend. Still, this was an evil beyond his remedy.
The Signora de Carrara must bear it as well as
she could, and her situation about the Queen
would soon place her in perfect independence;
while he had the satisfaction of having done all

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 87

•

his attachment to Madame de Mercoeur suggested,
in the shape of kindness to her young and friend-
less protegee.

" I will trespass on your time no longer," said
he, rising ; " do not, in a foolish fancy of youthful
depression, throw away the fortunes of your future
life. I shall expect your answer to-night."

Francesca followed him to the door, offering
the thanks she could yet scarcely articulate. The
moment the Cardinal was gone, she threw herself
into a fauteuil, and wept bitterly. For the first
time, the sense of her extreme isolation pressed
heavily upon her; she listened to that constant
and hollow sound in the air, which tells you at
once that you are in the heart of a crowded city.

" Good God!" thought she, " amid the count-
less multitudes hurrying around, have not I a
single friend? — no, not one! And yet what the
Cardinal said is true — here I cannot remain —
what right have I to intrude? But where am I
to go — to the Comtesse de Soissons? — a cell in
their terrible bastile ! So false, so unkind, so de-
signing— no, no! dependence on her sufferance —
kindness I will not call it — were too bitter. Then
this place about the Queen — ah ! how little do I
desire any such glittering bondage ! Why should
I lay up for myself so much of future discontent

88 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

•

and mortification ? O no ! this court is well for
those who have rank, fortune, and friends ; but I,
poor, a foreigner, without kindred or connexion — -
what have I to do here ? There was a time when
I desired to mix in society, to catch, if possible,
its grace and its ease — I deemed that so much
worthier should I be of Evelyn's love ; but now
that is all over. Why should I desire improve-
ment— what, now, is success to me?" And she
hid her face in her hands, as if to shut out even
from herself the bitter consciousness of despised
and misplaced affection. " Yet, something," con-
tinued she, rousing herself, " I must do; this" —
glancing round the desolate chamber — " is in-
deed no more my home. Guido will be here in
a week's time. Why not for that brief period
take up my residence in the Carmelite convent?
M. Bournonville will, I am sure, make the
arrangement for me."

She started from her seat, and sent a message
to him. Fortunately the page found him able
to obey the summons immediately, which he did
with the more readiness as Francesca was a great
favourite, and one who, during Madame de Mer-
coeur's life-time, had seized many opportunities of
conferring those slight obligations which are often
more gratefully remembered than more important

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 89

and therefore oppressive favours. He was flattered
by her consulting him — he was delighted to be
employed on any body's business but his own ; and
in less than an hour he had been to the convent,
seen the gouvernante, and settled every thing for
Francesca's reception that very evening, when "he
also offered his services to conduct her thither, —
an offer thankfully accepted.

Her preparations were soon completed; and
after looking rather than taking an affectionate
farewell of the sleeping child, she wrote a few
lines of thanks to the Due de Mercoeur — to request
a parting interview appeared to her an unneces-
sary recalling of remembrances too painful. The
letter to the Cardinal took more time to write : it
was so difficult to express her deep gratitude for
the favour she nevertheless rejected! But the
more she reflected on the offer, the more she
revolted from its acceptance ; and her refusal was
at last committed to paper. She sealed the packets,
gave directions for their delivery, and went to
wait in the reception-room till Bournonville's
arrival.

She felt a melancholy satisfaction in gazing for
the last time on a scene so indelibly impressed
with Madame de Mercoeur's image. How many
instances of her sweet and gentle temper rose so

90 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

touchingly to memory ! A noise was heard in the
antechamber ; but before Francesca, who believed
it was Bournonville, could rise, Madame de Sois-
sons had entered. " Quite at home, I perceive,''
said she; " I should have called before, but that
I never thought of finding you here still."

" Whither did you think I was gone ? " ex-
claimed Francesca.

" Oh ! no where. I know young widowers
require consolation. Pray, how is the Due de
Mercoeur ?"

One woman instantly penetrates the drift of
another; the allusion, which from the Cardinal
was lost, was understood at once coming from
his niece. Francesca coloured, but only from
indignation. " I should think his sister must
know best," was her cold reply.

" Oh ! I really have no talents for soothing
solitude, neither do I pretend to your powers of
attraction. However, sorry as I am to interfere
with so interesting and Christian a duty as con-
soling the afflicted, I am come to entreat that you
will favour my poor house with your company."

" I deeply feel," answered Francesca, " the
honour of Madame de Soissons' invitation, which
it is, however, out of my power to accept."

" Nonsense ! Are you aware that the Due de

FRANCESCA CARRARA.

Mercoeur joins his regiment the day after to-
morrow ?"

" I do not comprehend what the Due de Mer-
coeur 's joining his regiment has to do with me."

" Why, you cannot stay here — you .have no
where else to go — so you must come to me."

" I thank you ; but, for the short period of my
residence in Paris, I have decided on staying at
the Carmelite convent."

The Comtesse de Soissons stood silent with
surprise. She had come to the Hotel de Vendome
out of temper, from two reasons ; first, because her
conscience reproached her with her unkind neglect
of her early friend ; and, secondly, she was angry
that her uncle should be the person to remind her
of it. She had, moreover, a vague jealousy of
the influence Francesca might obtain in the royal
household. Any thing but temper would have
been disarmed by the other's pale and languid
appearance; but Marie could subdue, rule, and
manage others, not her own mood. Still, the de-
claration of the intended sojourn and departure
astonished her out of her full resolve of annoying,
she cared not how. " Have you not seen my
uncle ?" was her first question.

" I have," replied Francesca ; " and am most
grateful for his kindness, but cannot accept it,

92 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

I wish for nothing but to leave France as soon as
possible."

" But surely," exclaimed Marie, relenting in
her secret soul, " you can stay with me till you
do?"

" I prefer the quiet of the convent ; and Guido
will soon be here."

The conversation was interrupted by the en-
trance of Bournonville, looking half haste, half
consternation. " Signora, what shall I do — what
will you do? I cannot accompany you to the
Carmelite convent. You know the beautiful Ita-
lian greyhound his Eminence gave Mademoiselle ?
It has been dangerously ill — it is now recovering,
and her Highness cannot rest till she has its pic-
ture. I alone, she is graciously pleased to say,
can give that immortality to the Cardinal's gift
which his kindness deserves. Even if Fido perish,
its image will live in her memory, and on canvass.
She has sent for me three times."

" If, Francesca," said Madame de Soissons, in
an altered tone, " you determine on going to the
Carmelite convent, at least let me take you
there."

Francesca saw at a glance the change in her
companion's humour. " Why should we part
unkindly?" crossed her mind, and she accepted

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 93

the offer. Bournonville hurried off, and the car-
riage was ordered to the convent.

By no uncommon transition, Marie was now
sincerely desirous of Francesca's company. She
laughed herself into amiability by her ludicrous
description of the conventual discipline ; and when
she took leave of her companion, it was with the
utmost kindness, and a promise to come soon and
see her, — a promise she never fulfilled. Neither
interest nor amusement drew her to the convent ;
the momentary impulse of feeling was past, and
she as much forgot Francesca as if she had never
existed.

By one individual, the sister Louise, Francesca
was most affectionately welcomed ; and how grate-
ful did she feel for those few whispered words !
We know not the worth of kindness till we have
known its want. For days she had wearied with
unuttered thoughts, pined with unshared feelings.
Heavens ! the relief, to say nothing of the grati-
fication, of sympathy ! The human heart was
never made for solitude ; thoughts were meant
to be expressed, feelings meant to be partaken.
Neglect and suppression are, indeed, the cold and
lonely process which turns them into stone.

A few days after, Francesca was summoned to
the parlour, where, to her surprise, she found the

94 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

Due de Mercoeur. He was altered more than she
could have thought possible in so short an interval.
" I could not," said he, " leave Paris without ex-
pressing my sense of all your kindness."

" My kindness!" exclaimed Francesca, "who
owe so much to you" — and yours, she was going
to add, but the words died upon her lips. A
painful silence ensued — her presence recalled the
sense of his loss so freshly to Mercosur's mind,
that he could not command his voice. In the
hope of rousing him by awakening some more
grateful thought, she asked of his child.

" Do not name it !" answered he, passionately.
" God forgive me ! I cannot yet bear its name.
But for its ill-starred birth, Henriette might now
be living. What is there in that unconscious
infant to replace its mother?"

" Many years, I trust, of consolation and affec-
tion. Cherish the poor child in your youth, that
he may be a comfort to your old age. Think, too,
how Henriette would have loved him, were it but
for its likeness to yourself."

The Due shuddered ; and then, as if desirous
of changing the conversation, asked her how long
she intended remaining in the Carmelite convent.

" Till Guido's return ; and then we shall go to
Italy."

FRANCESCO CARRARA. 95

" I am too wretched to wish you well. I feel
as if some cruel fatality were on all I love. I
must, however, say, it would give even me plea-
sure to serve you ; but this, I trust, need scarcely
be said."

" Indeed not," replied Francesca; " and most
cherished will be the remembrances I shall take
with me from France."

Again the conversation sunk into silence, and
the Due de Mercosur seemed to have forgotten
the presence of his companion. His loss was too
recent to find comfort in those tender and sacred
recollections with which time invests the dead.
At last, rising abruptly from his seat, he turned
to bid Francesca farewell ; a few sad but kind
words, and his step was on the threshold, when
he drew forth a small packet, which he placed in
her hand : " You will value this — keep it for her
sake."

The heavy portals closed after him, and Fran-
cesca, hurrying to her cell, could not refrain from
tears. " A little while," thought she, " and I
shall have left Paris for ever! It is but a few
months since we arrived here, full of eagerness
and hope, expecting — we should have been puzzled
to say what, but something of greater felicity
than we had ever known. How little of time —

96 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

how much of life, has passed since then ! How
changed I am ! — how much I have seen depart !
My love for Evelyn — but I will not dwell upon
that ; even here my cheek burns to think I could
have placed my heart's dearest trust in such an
unworthy idol. I disdain not him, but myself,
that I could ever have loved him. But that I am
glad to be thus well aware of his perfidious mean-
ness, how I should regret that we ever left Italy !
— we were happier there. Poor Henriette! how
little did I dream we came hither only to see you
die ! Ah ! it is bitter to part with all that life
held so precious. Methinks death were better
than life, but for their sorrow whom we leave
behind. None would have been left to sorrow for
me — yes, Guido, but not long ;" — and the ghastly
apprehension which had of late so haunted her,
made her pale with imaginary fear. But the pre-
sence of death surrounds all things for a while
with its own terror, and the loss of one friend seems
to forbode the loss of another.

It was some time before she opened the packet
given her by the Due de Mercoeur. On breaking
the seal, she found that it contained a small minia-
ture of the Duchesse, surrounded with large pearls,
and suspended to an exquisite Venetian chain,
with links fragile as those of life.

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 97

It is a singular sensation the first time that we
see the portrait of a friend after death. There is
something of mockery in the very pleasure that it
brings. The face, which we know to be moulder-
ing in the dust, looks upon us, fresh with hues of
health ; there are the jewels, and the robe round
the graceful form, now decaying in its shroud . Why
should the work of man's hand outlast that of his
Maker's ? — why should we have the semblance of
life, whose breathing reality is no more ? We are
not half thankful enough for the forgetful ness in-
herent even in our affections : did the first agony
continue in all its keenness, who could endure to
live?

But the emotion exhausts itself — the presence
of our grief grows fainter ; other thoughts force
themselves upon the mind — other hopes involun-
tarily arise ; and grief is forgotten rather than
consoled. But the memory remains, though in a
darkened cell of the heart ; though no longer a
perpetual shadow, the dead are fondly and mourn-
fully recalled. Then how dear is any token of
their former existence ! The coloured ivory which
bears their features is more precious than fine
gold ; and we take comfort in the calm and fixed
smile which is now the semblance under which
the beloved face rises upon the mind.

VOL. II. F

98 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

But Francesca was yet in the first bitterness
of her loss ; and she gazed upon the smiling and
blooming countenance almost reproachfully. Days
passed on, each in expectation of Guido, who yet
did not arrive. How wearily they passed ! Fran-
cesca found that she had indeed taken that first
step across youth's threshold which tells that its
first freshness has perished. She was no longer so
easily amused as she had been — that certain sign
of the weary change which experience is working
within us. During her former stay in the convent,
the unbroken and buoyant spirits of the girUthrew
their own charm over all ; she was either enter-
tained or interested by all she saw ; even her very
melancholy had its own peculiar enjoyment. Now
there was so much that was tiresome — the folly,
the ignorance, the monotony of the place, were so
much more conspicuous ; the solitude of the garden
had lost its poetry. She could no longer surround
herself with a thousand vague but delicious dreams;
painful realities broke in upon imaginations whose
spell was gone ; for she had learnt to anticipate
the future from the past.

The pleasure of seeing Mademoiselle Epernon
over, she found there was indeed a gulf between
them — they had not a thought in common. The
Soeur Louise was growing every hour more mystic

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 99

and abstracted. The picturesque — for there was
much in this early renunciation of the world, in
the avowed sentiment, in the costume, in the
situation, which that word only can express — once
grown familiar, Francesca saw not a little to
deprecate and regret in those vain fervours, and
round of useless penances. One useful lesson then
sowed its first seeds within her mind — that, even
more than pleasure, or sentiment, or reflection, life
requires to be filled with active duties. Time hung
heavily on her hands ; at last she began to wish
that even Madame de Soissons would redeem her
promise of coming to see her ; but she never came.
It is a mortifying conviction to arrive at, that
of being utterly forgotten even by those to whom
we are indifferent. Francesca had of late been
much flattered and caressed, and was somewhat
unprepared for this complete oblivion. Once or
twice she thought, would the Cardinal renew his
offer ? Could she have looked over the records of
Mazarin's memory, she would have found herself
almost completely obliterated from them. Under
the impulse of strong and unusual feeling, he had
been anxious to serve her : he marvelled at the
extreme folly of a refusal — perhaps regretted after-
wards that he had given himself any trouble ; and
there the matter and his recollection of it ended.

100 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

As for Madame de Soissons, immersed in a round
of gaieties, and petty intrigues for still pettier
objects, she knew she had behaved unkindly to
her former friend, and therefore dismissed her
image, as she would have done any other un-
pleasant thought. Louis had discovered that
Mademoiselle la Motte had eyes almost as bright,
and much kinder than those of the young Italian.
And as for the common run of acquaintance, who
ever expects to be remembered by them ?

At last Francesca was summoned to the parlour.
She waited to make no inquiry — she felt sure who
it was ; and in a minute found herself clasped in
her brother's affectionate embrace.

Let those who have passed their childhood
and youth together, and then separated for the
first time — a long and weary separation, — let
them imagine the happiness of meeting again.

" Francesca, dearest, you are pale !" exclaimed
Guido, when the first confusion of joy was past.

Francesca started — she 'had forgotten almost
to look on Guide's face. Slowly, as if she were
collecting her courage, she gazed upon him, more
in fear than in hope. Ah! her foreboding was
right; he looked ill, very ill — but so beautiful!
The eyes were larger and brighter than ever, but
sunk deeper in the. socket ; the skin was clear with

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 101

unnatural whiteness ; while on the cheek burnt a
rich unvarying crimson. Only the lip was pale.
The hand she clasped in hers was feverish, and
she could feel the quick throbbing of the veins.

Hiding her face on his shoulder, that he might
observe no change of countenance, she was silent
for a few minutes— minutes of mental prayer and
resolve. Then, though the tears glittered on her
long black eyelashes, her voice was steady, and
her look almost cheerful. She answered his
anxious inquiry : " And yet I am very well in
health ; but, oh! I have so longed for your return!"

" Are you strong enough to take the place of
nurse?"

She looked at him, pale with apprehension.

" My own sister, what have I said to make
you lose the little colour you had ? It is a stranger
you must nurse. But I have a long, long story to
tell you ;" and they sat down together in the
window.

We will shorten a narrative which with them
was lengthened and interrupted by repeated ex-
clamations of joy. Every thing else merged in
the happiness of seeing each other again ; it was
impossible, however their pity might be excited,
to fix attention wholly on the affairs of a stranger.
Guido had joined company with this Englishman

102 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

at a lonely inn, where many suspicious appear-
ances warned the traveller to be on his guard.
They had afterwards, finding that their road was
the same, travelled together.

" I cannot tell you,'7 continued Guido, " the
interest he took in my history, though, Heaven
knows ! I had little to tell him ; and there was
something in his habitually sad frame of mind,
and a vein of eloquence, striking though gloomy,
that harmonised with my own mood. When within
scarce a day's journey of Paris, I observed he
could scarcely sit his horse ; his illness increased
rapidly; and it was with the greatest difficulty that
we reached the city. When we arrived at the inn,
I saw at once that so noisy a place was ill fitting
for an invalid. Late as it was, I went to Bour-
nonville's, and with his aid took a lodging in a
house near his own, and engaged a sister of Mar-
garetta's to attend upon us. Thither was Richard
Arden conveyed. For some time he was insensible ;
from that he awoke in a delirious state : the phy-
sician whom we summoned said he was in a
high fever. All night Katerina and I watched
alternately, though, I shame to say, I slept more
than I watched ; and, having first ascertained that
there was no change, I came directly hither."

" I have few preparations to make, and but

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 103

little leave-taking," replied Francesca ; " I shall
be ready in half an hour."

" I will allow you rather a longer space," said
Guido ; " for I must wait on his Eminence, in
executing whose commissions I have been com-
pletely successful."

Francesca said truly that a little time would
suffice to make ready for her departure. The
ceremony of leave-taking with the Abbess was a
mere ceremony ; and the nuns were like children
— all engrossed in preparations for the fete of
St. Genevieve. Their only regret was, that Made-
moiselle Carrara would taste none of the conserves
and the pastry they were so busily concocting.

The coolness of sister Louise's farewell wounded
her the most. The heart of the young devotee
had gradually weaned itself from all earthly affec-
tions ; in her eyes their indulgence was a weak-
ness, if not a crime, and their utter sacrifice the
most acceptable that could be offered up in the
sight of Heaven. Spiritual pride came in support
of spiritual exaltation. Louise felt raised above
her species ; a voice had spoken within her inmost
soul, whose revealings were vouchsafed but to the
chosen few ; and what had been indifference, was
now disdain.

This species of mystical misanthropy is, of all

104 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

states of mind, the least accessible to the affections.
It distrusts them as human, dreads them as perish-
able, and despises them as degrading ; and their
renounc'ement, at first so bitter, soon becomes a
triumph. Francesca felt the indifference by which
she was surrounded overpowering in its depression.
If it be sad to go where there is no welcome, it is
equally sad to part where there is no farewell.
Hopes and regrets are the sweetest links of exist-
ence—we pine to attach and be attached; and
Francesca felt both angry and ashamed that the
tears should stand in her eyes, while parting from
those who cared so little at parting with her.

105

CHAPTER X.

" Alas ! we make

A ladder of our thoughts where angels step,
But sleep ourselves at the foot !"

L. E. L.

" AND so . you visited the old palazzo," said
Francesca, as, leaving for a while the sick man
to the sole care of Katerina, they sat down beside
the hearth in the adjoining room, over which the
embers of the wood-fire cast a fluctuating light ;
now the long shadows falling duskily around — now
dispersing them with bursts of brilliant flame, as
the lighter wood kindled into a short-lived blaze.

" So changed, so dreary!" replied Guido.
"Do you remember our favourite windows? —
yours the thick myrtle has completely filled — part
of its branches creep mournfully along the dis-
coloured wall. Mine has been broken in* and
shattered ; and the floor is covered with earth
driven in by the pelting rains, and with fragments
of marble, strewed with dried leaves. The floor has
its mosaic overgrown with moss and weeds ; and

F2

106 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

— but I cannot tell you — the lonely wailing of
the wind through the deserted chambers — I have
started as from a human voice in its last extremity
of anguish ; and even now, I ask, is there no
omen and no sympathy in sounds so like our own
moan of pain — our own cry of despair? Who
may say that the invisible is also the inaudible —
or if the dead and the spirit world wait not in
upper air ?"

" I fear," returned his sister, wishing to break
in upon the thread of his gloomy imaginings,
" that we should find our old dwelling uninhabit-
able."

" And even were it not so, there, at least, I
could never dwell again," interrupted Guido. " As
I sat beside our favourite springs, and wandered
through our old accustomed walks, I was haunted
with the perpetual presence of change — and the
worst of all change, that in myself. I sat beside
the fountain, over which the old chestnut flung
its shade, itself golden with the sun ; the blue
violets looked out from their large leaves, and
twined round the shattered marble of the wall,
yet so graceful with the carved nymphs and gods
from whom I had years ago cleared the moss ;
— there I sat, even as I had done but the very
summer before — -all, to the one sunbeam touching

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 107

the brink, but not the dark waters below — the
hour, the place, the same — all but myself. Then
I leant, dreaming of the future — now, I thought
only of the present. Then I gazed on the Grecian
relics at my feet, and said, even such forms are
sleeping in my mind — such are the lovely creations
destined to be the work of my hand. I looked
forward to praise and achievement ; now I feel
listless and ^dispirited — nothing seems worth its
toil."

" And I," exclaimed his sister, " shame to see
you give way to this unseemly despondency ! "

" Ah ! it is not I that give way — my imagina-
tion is beyond me ; I can control its depression as
little as I could create its buoyancy. Is it my
fault that the beautiful no longer haunts my soli-
tude ? And you, my sister — you, who lesson me
on endurance, your cheek is pale, and your step
languid ; even with you, how much has life lost
its interest !"

" Why, Guido, should we conceal that each
has suffered from bitter disappointment ? We have
early learnt the cold and harsh truth, that it
is hard to brook the passing away of love — pass-
ing away, too, as ours has done, because it has
been unworthily bestowed? Yet, surely not for
that are we to fancy that existence has been

108 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

given in vain. I should despise myself, could I
believe that my whole future was to be coloured
by the vain remembrance of one so mean, so false,
as Robert Evelyn."

" Alas ! my sweet sister, Robert Evelyn and
Marie Mancini are but instruments in the hands
of a remorseless destiny. The pain which they
inflicted sinks into nothing before the knowledge
which they brought. It is their work, that we are
grown less kind, less trusting — that we look sus-
piciously on affection, knowing that it has once
deceived us. It is their work, that we seek to
repress the warm emotions of the beating heart,
lest the encouragement lead to future agony. It is
their work, that falsehood, ingratitude, and wrong,
are things within our own experience ; once we
believed in their existence, but not as existing
for us."

" But, dearest Guido, what injustice to allow
these two to individualise the whole human
race !"

" They are the symbols of the whole. The
reflections which they first suggested have led to
the inevitable conclusion, that evil is inherent in
our nature. I no longer believe in happiness,
because I see the fallacy of my first belief; and
the examination which that induced, has shewn

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 109

me the fallacy of all. Shew me a heart without
its hidden wound."

Francesca did not interrupt the mournful
silence that ensued — all that was sorrowful in
memory rose to the surface. The image of Evelyn
brought before her the little reliance that could
be placed in love. The faithlessness of early
friendship, how was it shewn in the careless neglect
of the Comtesse de Soissons ! — and the mockery of
worldly prosperity rose like a phantom from the
yet-scarce-cold grave of Madame de Mercosur.

"Is it my fault," continued Guido, " that I
can no longer deceive myself? I hold nothing in
life worth desiring, because I feel that nothing in
life can give happiness. Wealth brings indolence
and satiety — power its own terrible responsibility,
but never the enjoyment we expected ; the struggle
was feverish, but thereunto the possession answers
not. And love ! — what is it but the most subtle
mockery! — with the light and vain, perishing of
its own inconstancy ; or, with the fond and true,
betrayed by the deceit which has the gloom, but
not the rest of death. As to what is called a life
of pleasure and amusement, its own inanity is its
own rebuke. I loathe its vapid weariness — its
yawns are sweeter than its smiles. Once I had
higher dreams and nobler aspirations. I looked

110 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

forward to the creation of grace and beauty, and
believed in the immortality I was myself to create.
Alas! I feel unequal to the struggle. Happy
are those who to the hope add the power ! I am
but one of the many who see the distant goal, but
who sink at the commencement of the race."

" The gloom of those failing embers," exclaimed
Francesca, " has infected us both!" and, rising
from the low settle, she lighted the lamp, and
flung some smaller wood on the hearth, and a
cheerful blaze kindled at once.

" How can we," said she, drawing her seat
close to Guido, and laying her hand tenderly on
his arm, " disbelieve in affection while we remain
to each other ? Once let us leave this dreary city
behind, and find a home in some lonely and plea-
sant place, and we shall have our old content come
back. I shall have enough to do in keeping —
even our little household in order; and you — why,
the first graceful peasant that passes, half hidden
in the foliage, will conjure up in your mind a
world of dryades and light-footed nymphs. Ah !
of late we have been too idle."

Ill

CHAPTER XI.

Whither, oh ! whither hath the world a home —
The wide, cold world — for heart so lorn as mine V

IT was the third night after their arrival in their
new abode, that Francesca was seated watching the
slumbers of their sick guest. They were quiet and
deep ; and the physician had pronounced that he
would, in all probability, awaken restored to sense.
More than once she had approached the pillow,
and bathed his temples with some aromatic es-
sence, and moistened his lips with some refreshing
liquid. At length he stirred, and drawing a deep
breath, she could perceive that he was rousing,
and, as she hoped, to consciousness. Placing
the screen carefully before the lamp, lest its
light should flash too suddenly on his weakened
eyes, she took a cup in her hand, and ad-
vanced to give the medicine it had been espe-
cially enjoined he should take when he awoke.

112 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

She raised his hand on her arm, and, like a
child, he implicitly followed the motion of her
hand, and swallowed the reviving draught. He
looked feebly round, and murmured a few inaudi-
ble words ; but Francesca perceived that his hand
was no longer feverish, and his temples, as she
bathed them, were comparatively cool.

The lamp was shaded, and the fire was dim,
when suddenly the log, which had burnt through,
gave way ; a shower of sparkles rose from the
hearth, and a bright blaze illuminated the room,
falling full on Francesca's face, as she bent over
the patient. He gave one wild look upon her
countenance ; she startled back at the expression
of terror in his eyes.

" Beatrice !" he shrieked, and attempted to rise,
but fell back, and fainted in the effort.

She called loudly for assistance ; and Guido
hurried in, and aided in the recovery of the sick
man, who lay pale as death before them. Gra-
dually he revived : he gazed fearfully round, as if
the impression of some awful sight were yet in his
mind ; when, seeing Guido by the bed-side, he
whispered his name.

" Thank God ! you know me again," exclaimed
the youth, not observing Francesca's sign.

" I have been delirious, then ? " exclaimed

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 113

Arden, with a singular appearance of satisfac-
tion.

" You must not talk," said Francesca, closing
the curtains at the foot of the bed. But the pa-
tient had seen her, and again a ghastly expression of
horror convulsed his features. The name Beatrice
again died on his pale and quivering lips, and
he grasped Guide's hand convulsively. " Did
you see her, too ?" he whispered, at length.

" See who?" exclaimed Guido ; and at that
moment Francesca again drew near with a glass
of water.

" Who is that?" cried Arden, speaking with
a strong effort, and gazing with fixed eyes upon
her.

" My sister Francesca; — do drink this."

The sick man allowed them to put the glass to
his lips, and sipped a small quantity; his look
became more composed ; he lay down, as if ex-
hausted, and in a little while slept again, leaving
his youthful friends full of surprise at the strange
terror which he had manifested. It proved, how-
ever, to be the crisis of his disease ; for from that
time he rapidly amended, and was soon able to sit
up for a few hours.

In the mean time, Francesca had leisure to
note the unrest, and unfixedness of purpose in

114 FRANCESCA CAREARA.

Guide's mind. He would listen to all the plans
she suggested, but she could get him to decide
on none ; it was in vain to attempt to interest
him in the future. He warmly entered into her
wish of leaving Paris; but where they were to
go, and what course of life they should pursue,
still remained unsettled. A straw would have
turned him any way ; but orphans, so utterly un-
connected as they were, where was that straw to
be found ? They were equally without motive or
desire ; only that Francesca saw the danger of
allowing this apathy to increase, and would fain
have laid down some determinate scheme, and
sought some fixed home and employment, which
must have brought its occupations, its habits,
and, finally, its interests.

The attention required by the stranger was a
relief to both. They watched his most careless
look, and anticipated his slightest wish, not only
with a kindness, but a pleasure, and a degree of
attachment to the object, which alone would have
proved how much affection they had still to spare
— how much too young they were for indifference
and inactivity. Richard Arden's singular deport-
ment, too, stimulated their curiosity. Sometimes
he received Francesca's attentions with a degree
of affectionate fondness, as if he derived from

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 115

them the most heartfelt pleasure ; then he would
suddenly repulse them with an expression of abso-
lute horror, and remain for hours together lost in
gloomy reverie. At one time he would gaze upon
her face with a look of such deep yet sorrowful
tenderness ; while at another, he would start and
turn away, as if he could not bear to meet her
eyes.

" Do you know/' said she to Guido one morn-
ing, when, after asking her to sing, the English-
man had left the room in the very middle of her
song, " that I have taken a fancy into my head,
which quite accounts for Mr. Arden's singularities :
it is, that I am like some one whom he loved and
lost in early youth ; and though the loss is dread-
ful, the love is yet pleasant to remember."

" I can imagine," replied her brother, " such
a state of mind, acted upon by such a resem-
blance ; but, ah ! the pain must be greater than
the pleasure. Our youth recalled, when we are
no longer young — our hopes brought back again,
but side by side with the knowledge that they
were unfulfilled — our dreams, but attended by
no accomplishment — feelings, the ghosts of them-
selves— and love risen, at it were, from the tomb,
to meet us with a bitter and subtle mockery."

" You take too dark a view," answered Fran-

116 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

cesca ; " the first fierce agony of grief gone by, it
soothes us to dwell upon the memory of the de-
parted. It sanctifies and purifies the heart, to
know that it has one sad and sacred spot, un-
visited by commoner cares and meaner sorrows.
We repose in the deep sense of our own faithful-
ness, and learn gradually to pass in thought to
the other side the tomb, and parting is forgotten
in the diviner hope of a meeting where there is no
farewell ! "

" And that it is which makes my own thoughts
so unendurable. Good God ! to think in what
vain sacrifice I have offered up the best hopes, the
fervent' and young affections of my heart ! Ask
yourself; would the tears shed over the grave be
half as bitter as those which you have shed over
the unworthy? The loss of mistress or lover is
little, compared with that of love ! "

This was a subject on which Francesca liked
not to converse, — nor, in truth, did Guido, unless
carried away for a moment into the expression of
angry disappointment. It is a solace to confide
our hopes, our feelings, and our thoughts; but
none to impart our mortifications, — their shame
is heightened, not subdued, by sympathy.

It was a few days after this conversation, that
Richard Arden entered the room where his young

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 117

friends were seated, as had now become a favourite
habit, by the glimmer of the twilight. Though
Francesca urged it upon her brother, she had her-
self little inclination for exertion ; and hours often
passed away, before the lamp was lighted, in
desultory conversation, only varied by long and
thoughtful pauses. They were now, as usual,
talking of their future plans, and, as usual, the
dialogue had finished with the constant question
of " Where shall we; go?"

" To England/' exclaimed their companion,
seating himself in an old arm-chair in the darkest
nook of the room. " I have long," continued he,
without waiting for an answer, " intended to dis-
close to you all that has loi?g made, all that still
makes, existence a burden. God open your hearts
to mercy as you hear ! How little, my kind and
beautiful child," added he, turning to Francesca,
" could you think that you watched by the sick-
bed of your greatest enemy ! But for me," ex-
claimed he, rising and pacing the room in uncon-
trollable agitation, " you had not now been an
orphan — severed from life's dearest and sweetest
tie, the love of a mother ! Can you forgive me ?
can you bear to hear my history?"

Francesca and Guido gazed with astonishment
on the ghastly paleness of his haggard features, at

118 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

the cold damp glistening on his brow, and then
looked to each other. Each thought that their
guest was stricken with sudden insanity; and under
this impression rose, and endeavoured to soothe
him with the kindest words of solicitude and good-
will.

" I cannot endure this," exclaimed he; "I
have long wanted resolution to reveal the fatal
past — a past so intimately connected with your
fortunes ; but now, though you start from me in
horror, it shall be told."

At his instance they resumed their seats ; and
after a few minutes' pause, to nerve his mind to
its task, he began the following narrative.

119

CHAPTER XII.

" Loved with that deep love which only the miserable can feel/

MAG INN.

IT is singular how forcibly this passage in my
narrative brings to my mind a picture which used
to be, some years ago, at a broker's — that charnel-
house of the comforts and graces of life. It had
been taken out of its frame, and leant in a dark
and dusty corner against a perpendicular arm-
chair, whose rigid uprightness seemed suited only
to the parlour of a dentist, repose being the last
idea it suggested. The painting, for aught I know,
might be the work of some great master, con-
demned to that merit only appreciated in a moral
essay — that of modest obscurity ; or it might be a
wretched daub, — be that as it may, the subject
fixed my attention. The room was low, scantily
furnished, and the gloomy wainsco tings dimly

120 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

shewn by the red fire-light, which lit up but a
small circle, and fell principally on a youth and a
girl, seated on the same seat, with their arms
round each other, as if they had drawn closer
from some sudden impulse of fear and affection ;
while their faces were turned with an earnest ex-
pression of attention, wrought up even to pain,
towards a figure scarcely visible at first ; but
which, once observed, riveted the gaze. It was
that of a man, about forty or upwards ; handsome,
but care-worn and emaciated, with large wild blue
eyes, whose light was almost preternatural. He
was speaking ; but whatever might be the import
of his words, they were such as send the blood
from the cheek, and the hope from the heart.
Crime and sorrow were in that man's breath.

That painting, whose real story I know not,
would give to very life the present scene. There
was something in the sepulchral tone of Arden's
voice that had made the young Italians uncon-
sciously draw together. There was something
beautiful in the impulse of reliance which induced
the act. Let them hear what they might, they
were strong in the confidence of their mutual love,
and each clasped the other's hand with a feeling
of affectionate security.

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 121

RICHARD ARDEN'S STORY.

" Myself and an only sister were left orphans
at an early age. My father fell fighting by Lord
Avonleigh's side, whose life he saved in the low
countries. My mother was the nurse of his two
children; and; as both were destined to perish
in the service of that noble house, she died of a
cold caught while watching the sickness of their
infant heir. We were adopted into the family;
and from that seeming prosperity may I date the
evils of my after-life. Alas ! we were in a place,
not of it.

" There are whole races marked out as the vic-
tims of a blind and terrible fatality ; and circum-
stances, over which they themselves have no con-
trol, work out, unshunned and unsought, the wrong
whereof they perish. The annals of many an an-
cient race testify to this truth ; and so, were they
but known, would those of a humbler lot, for
Fate, the dark and the cruel, presses alike on
high and low.

" I remember once, when as children we were
playing together in the castle plaisaunce, a gipsy
told us of our future. She mistook us for those
of equal station ; but she shook her head when
my sister and myself held out our childish hands.

VOL. II. G

122 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

4 Sorrow and early death are in those lines ; never
good came of the star under which ye were born.'
Our two comrades thought not of the prophecy ;
but Lucy and I kept it in our hearts. As we grew
up, the difference between us and our companion
became more marked. I could aspire to none of
the honours which his mother was for ever point-
ing out to the young Lord Avonleigh as the reward
of his exertions ; my sister had no share in the
homage of the many noble lovers who flocked
around the Lady Ernmeline. Lady Avonleigh,
wrho had by her lord been left sole guardian,
seemed to consider it quite natural that we should
sink back into our original station: — she forgot
that we were now unfitted for it.

" It surprised many, none more than LadyEm-
meline,when my sister married Lawrence Aylmer.
They looked not into the secret recesses of a heart
embittered by discontent, harassed by the petty
jealousies of the Countess, and pained by the
fancied neglect of Emmeline, who was just then in
the early ingrossment of her love for Sir Robert
Evelyn, whom she soon afterwards married. In
youth we deem any evil preferable to the one
under which we are immediately .suffering — any
alteration seems for the better. Lucy said, « I will
return to the rank in which I was born ; I will

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 123

surround myself with household duties and cares ;
surely I shall find happiness in their fulfilment.
The lowliest roof is better than my precarious
and dependent situation.' Alas, she had heen
too delicately nurtured for the reverse ; and the
very day twelvemonth of being a bride saw her
carried along the same green grass -path to the
same churchyard. She left a daughter, who was
adopted by Lady Evelyn, to share a like fate with
her mother; for when I saw Lucy Aylmer, her
protectress was dead, and she had returned to her
father's house, with a pale cheek and languid step,
which shewed how little her heart was there.

" Of a surety it is folly to say that our lots in
life are cast, each even with its neighbour ; there
are some to whom sorrow is an heritage. Lord
Avonleigh loved not his sister better than I did
mine ; but to him it was given to see her pass
from her first happy home to another, and but the
lovelier and more beloved for the change. I saw
mine condemned to one most unworthy of her
grace and beauty, where she pined away, — a fair
flower taken from its native soil, and taken to
perish. And say not that we fancied and dwelt
overmuch on the evils of our condition ; that we
were in reality more fortunate than our rebellious
hearts would allow. Was it nothing that from

124 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

earliest infancy we never knew the indulgent
affection of a parent — that affection which makes
so little of faults, which so exaggerates the germ
of promise, which so delights even in the bright
eye and cheek of the child ? Our place was beside
the hearth of a stranger, and its very warmth was
cold. It matters little to recall this pristine bitter-
ness ; but methinks I would fain enlist your pity
ere you know my fault.

" The death of Lady Avonleigh followed soon
upon my sister's. Lucy died in the spring, when
the first violets were putting forth, and the first
roses drooped from the briar. There were flowers
enough to strew over her lowly grave ; but the
Countess was laid in the damp stone vault, when
not a leaf was on the bough, and the bleak wind
of autumn swept the heath. Earth looked her
loveliest to receive my sweet sister's gentle dust ;
but all was harsh and sullen as her own nature
when Lady Avonleigh's haughty ashes returned to
their original element. Immediately after her de-
mise, her son went abroad, and I accompanied him.
He travelled for pleasure, I for knowledge; and
utterly vain was the pursuit of each — both ended
in vanity and vexation of spirit.

" It was a bright morning when we reined
up our horses to catch the first view of fair Padua.

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 125

We had been quoting quaint conceits and pleasant
passages from a comedy of a countryman of our
own ; merry jests, as to how Catherine was tamed
and Bianca won, made the way short ; and it was
in the most mirthful spirit that we entered the
town. Oh, cold and insensible hearts, that took
no thought of the future, that mistrusted not their
own gaiety, — more limited in our wisdom than
the bird and brute are in their instinct! The
male knows the hidden pitfalls of the morass ; the
swallow feels the storm ere it comes upon the air,
and wings to the quiet shelter of its nest — they
foresee their dangers, and avoid them ; while we
blindly rush forward into the depths of the pit
and the fury of the tempest ; for we know not
what evils await us. No kind foreknowledge
gives us even the choice of avoidance.

" We liked Padua. Lord Avonleigh found
himself the centre of a knot of gay companions,
who, rich, young, and noble, desired nothing
better than present enjoyment. I saw but little
of him — my temper was graver, my pursuits dif-
ferent. I had began to form hopes born of my
own exertions, that talent and industry would do
more for me than birth and wealth had done for
him. Ah, it is no good sign when we refer to
others, not to its own precious possession, in our

126 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

pursuits after knowledge. I found the small
legacy of the late Lord Avonleigh amply sufficient
for my support ; and my mornings in the classes,
my nights in solitary studies, passed as the hap-
piest— the only happy part of my existence.

" This course of life led to my acquaintance
with your grandfather, then among the most cele-
brated of Padua's learned doctors. I soon found
that he was given to abstruser science than he
taught in the schools. The belief that there are
subtle mysteries in nature as yet unravelled, but
accessible to patient hope and toil, suited well
with my temper. Hitherto all that I had ac-
quired had been unsatisfactory — the reward was too
distant ; but Carrara's mystic eloquence brought
the result of our midnight vigils visibly before
me ; and when I left him, it Was to dream of the
glorious secrets which, once penetrated, would lay
all nature open to our eyes, and leave all its
ministering spirits bowed to our rule by spell and
sign. But these dreams were haunted by a sweeter
and a lovelier vision. Carrara had a daughter ;
and how would my look wander from the scrolls
spread out before us to the fair face, half hidden
by the long hair that reached the embroidering
frame over which she was wont. to bend!

" Francesca, you are beautiful; but, oh! not

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 127**.

beautiful like your mother; the shadow is on your
brow, and the sadness in your smile, which tells
of sorrow.; and in your loveliness is the association
of pain. But hers was joyous and fresh as the
morning. No care had ever furrowed that smooth
white brow ; no tears, save those of gentle pity,
had ever fallen from those clear and glad eyes.
You are pale; but her cheek was the brilliant
rose, untouched by the noontide sun — unstained
by the heavy shower. Her light step was so
buoyant ; and, when alone, you ever heard her
sweet voice breaking out into, snatches of song.
Her young heart was full of love ; and a world of
kindly feelings were wasted on her delicate grey-
hound, her bright winged birds, and her favourite
flowers. I have seen her weep when a sudden storm
swept the early blossoms from the orange-plants.
Somewhat self-willed she was, — a pretty resolute-
ness that had grown out of pure indulgence ; but it
was so graceful, so caressing, that her very caprice
became your pleasure. I loved her, perhaps, the
more for her contrast to myself. She looked to
the bright side — it was the only one she knew.
She believed the best of all, for she found it in
herself. Her happiness was half ignorance ; but
I loved it in her.

" The prosperous and the contented may take

128 FRA&CESCA CARRARA.

a tender pleasure in the mournful — to them tears
are a luxurious melancholy; but I enjoyed the
escape from my own dark thoughts, — my sullen
nature found relief in her joyous temper ; it was
not afflicted by gloomy likenesses of my own
moods. Nothing in her reminded me of myself.

" Weeks passed away, and every evening was
spent in Carrara's studio. We spoke but little;
but the silence was charmed. I scarcely desired
a greater delight than to know that her sweet
breath was on the air, and that I needed only to
raise my eyes from the volume and they rested
on her face. I did dream of a delicious future,
and I was encouraged by her father's obvious pre-
dilection. My career seemed promising; for I
had had the office of secretary offered me by the
Bishop of Padua, who needed one well versed in
the modern tongues.

" But though this future haunted me till it
became delicious certainty in my absence ; yet,
when by her side, the moment grew all-sufficient.
I feared to disturb, even by increase, the perfect
happiness of her presence. I accepted the place
of secretary; its duties left the evenings still my
own, and the thought of those few hours lightened
the labours of the day. Every time I went to
Carrara's house, I believed that some blessed

FBANCESCA CARRARA. 129

chance would lead to the confession of my hoarded
love. I invented dialogues, I imagined situations.
They grew distinct to me like reality; still the
opportunity did not arrive ; but its hope was daily
renewed, and daily more perfect in its confidence
and content.

" I saw little of Lord Avonleigh. I believe he
entertained for me the affection of early habit,
and would have served me if he could. Our
estrangement was my seeking; but I loved him
not. I never could forgive his many advantages.
Sometimes I wondered at his long residence in
Padua ; but I cared not enough about it to ask
the cause. All society was irksome to me; the
commonest exchange of courtesy took me away
from the one engrossing thought in which I de-
lighted to indulge. I could keep my attention to
the duties of my post, — they were the means of
her future possession; but to be distracted by
the questions of ordinary discourse was insup-
portable.

" Forgive me for thus dwelling on this bright
and brief period. I need to tell you of the great
passion of my love, that in pity for my wretched-
ness you may somewhat soften my guilt.

" One evening, a discussion with Carrara
had detained me unusually late, and Beatrice had

G2

130 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

left the chamber. At last I bade her father good
night ; but when in the garden which surrounded
their dwelling, a sudden impulse made me long to
gaze on her window. More than once had I seen
her shadow fall upon the lattice with a darkness
lovelier than light. How well I remember the
quiet beauty of the hour, the gentle rustle of the
leaves, the changing perfume, as first one and then
another scented plant imbued its fragrant atmo-
sphere, now redolent of the rich carnation, now of
the voluptuous spirit of the drooping rose ! There
was neither star nor cloud upon the sky, neither
sign nor omen, but the deep blue air filled with
moonlight — that clear flood of radiance known
but to southern climates. The myrtle -boughs
hung in long wreaths over her casement, every
leaf shining with the dew that rested glittering at
the edge. I leant " against the trunk of an ilex
near. I heard my heart beat in the silent night,
but it was with happiness; a thousand voiceless
blessings died on my lips, and all of them invoked
on one beloved name. I marvelled how hate
had ever found place within me. I looked not
towards the dark blue heaven^ but its ethereal
beauty was mirrored on my soul, — all that was
lovely, all that was loveable in nature, exercised
their delicious influence on that charmed moment.

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 131

That little window, half-hidden by the odoriferous
branches, was the vista through which the future
broke, bright, tender, and certain. Years to
come rose visibly before rne. The happy home,
that dearest face for ever beside my hearth, the
successful pursuit, the honours, the wealth, which
were to be gained and lavished for her alone,
gathered round me in perfect certainty. I be-
lieved in the destiny I created.

" Well may the human heart tremble in the
presence of its happiness ; the angelic visitant is
revealed but in departing. Ay, children who sit
there, gazing upon me with the earnest eyes of
youth, dread a moment of enjoyment — it will be
dearly purchased ; it is the bright sunshine which
presages and is merged in the heaviest showers.
I stood gazing upward at that room. I fancied its
sweet inmate sleeping; the black hair sweeping
in masses over the pillow indented with the warm
crimson cheek, which found a yet softer pillow on
the fairy hand. I fancied the low and regular
breathings of those fragrant lips over whose quiet
rest I would have given worlds to watch. Sud-
denly a shadow darkened the lattice — it moved —
she was not sleeping, then ; perhaps, as with me,
slumber was banished by a delicious unrest ; per-
haps she might look forth, and ask for sympathy

132 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

from the summer sky — from the dewy flowers.
She might see me ! My heart stood still, and
then beat with redoubled violence ! A world of
fiery eloquence rushed to my lips ; I felt I could
speak my love, — that I could tell her for whose
dear sake I stood a raptured watcher in the
lonely night. I sprang a step forward, when two
shadows were distinctly traced on the moonlit
myrtle ! Then two figures stood upon the balcony.
A young cavalier jumped from the balustrade,
and hurried down the path that led to the garden,
where I well remember a gate opened on an un-
frequented lane. Beatrice watched his departure :
I could see her tearful eyes strain in the moonlight,
to catch the last glimpse. ' He never looked
back ! ' I heard her say, in the low whisper whose
unutterable anguish haunts me yet. She remained
for a few moments, pale, fixed like a statue,
then, starting, she wrung her hands bitterly,
and darted into her room. I heard the voice of
smothered weeping ; but its agony was too great
for suppression.

" I believe that night the fiend stood by my
side ; I acted on an impulse over which I had no
control. I took no thought of what I did; yet
every action seemed the result of planned delibera-
tion. My soul was given over to the evil one ; I

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 133

did but what that power suggested. One suspi-
cion had taken hold upon me ; I resolved to know
its truth, and followed the cavalier, whom I soon
overtook, keeping at first at cautious distance, till
my belief became certainty. Well I knew his
light and careless step, pausing beneath the weight
of no deep thought, heavy with no deep sorrow ;
its very grace seemed to me unfeeling. The white
plumes waved on his cap, his cloak reflected
back the moonbeams from its rich embroidery,
and the gems, too, glittered on his light rapier.
' Now, mark the folly of the vain !' I inwardly
muttered ; ' he is bound to concealment by every
tie of love and honour ; he should glide along his
hidden path like a shadow, and yet he scruples
not to draw every eye with his shining gauds!'
Still, I wished to see his face; against my full
conviction I tried to doubt; — he turned suddenly
round — it was Lord Avonleigh !

" We stood within two yards of each other in
the full moonlight; I felt cold, pale — a shudder
ran through every vein. Almost unconsciously
my hand sought my rapier; a voice whispered
me, One or other must die upon the place ! A
strange longing for blood arose within me, min-
gled, too, with a painful shame lest he should
reproach me as a spy. I could not have spoken —

134 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

no, though that one word would have obliterated
the past.

" Avonleigh immediately recognised me; he
advanced with unusual cordiality, and, passing
his arm through mine, exclaimed, ' Arden! how
fortunate! You must come home and sup with
me — breakfast rather. But no — I hate the dull,
undecided morning ; night should always last till
noon. Come quick ; I tell you fairly I want your
advice — it will not be the first scrape out of which
you have helped me.'

" I gasped for breath; the ground reeled be-
neath my feet; my eyes closed, to shut out the
fiery sparkles that filled the air. I loathed his
touch, and yet I grasped his arm, as drowning
wretches do a straw, from the strong instinct of
nature.

" ' You are ill,' said he, supporting me kindly.
' Those weary folios over which you pore are
enough to wear out the very soul. I'll try you
with the rosy medicine of the flask. To tell you
the truth, we both need it.'

" I have said that the devil stood at my side
that night — he aided me now. The first agony
was past, and I burned with a fierce desire to
know the whole. Something I muttered about
fatigue, and followed Avonleigh. He suspected

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 135

not my feelings towards him. Young, prosperous,
he had known of life little but its pleasures ; he
dreamed not of its bitterness : floating lightly over
the surface, the depths below were to him as
nothing. Accustomed to be liked, as the rich,
the noble, and the gay always are, it never oc-
curred to him but that he must please ; moreover,
he was attached to me by the two influences most
prevalent in a nature such as his. Early associa-
tion— it was as a duty to like those to whom he had
been accustomed ; and a stronger understanding,
where talent does not excite envy, is sure to exer-
cise sway. Thus, strong in all adventitious advan-
tages, it never entered his head to envy me — me,
his dependant and his inferior. But he was often
glad to have recourse to my ingenuity, or to be
decided by my judgment. I saved him the trouble
of thinking for himself.

" We soon arrived, and his small but luxurious
apartment shewed how precious the master was in
his own sight. He flung himself on a couch, and,
pouring out wine into his own cup, signed to me
to follow his example. ' Pretty well for one of
your sober students !' said he, pointing to the
rapidly emptied flask. ' There, you may leave
them in readiness, and go,' added he to the page,

136 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

who had just brought in a fresh supply. ' And
now, Arden, why the devil don't you ask why I
brought you here V

" Ay, it was with a smile that I assured him
that I waited his good pleasure. He was too
anxious to share the weight of his secret to have
much delicacy in its disclosure. But let me hurry
over the accursed truth.

" He had been some months privately married
to Beatrice — how he could have been such a fool
he did not know— he was sure he repented it
enough now ; ' and this very morning/ he con-
tinued, ' I have had a letter from my uncle, en-
treating my return ; he has lost his eldest son,
and Madeline is sole heiress of his splendid for-
tune. He offers me her hand, and this union
would still keep the property in our family ; our
estates touch, and he says she is grown up the
prettiest blue-eyed fairy in the world. And to think
that I have, like an idiot as I am, thrown myself
away on the daughter of an old Italian doctor,
who torments me out of my life to acknowledge
our marriage! Arden, do contrive something —
what shall I do?'

" The devil found me both words and utterance.
' I really cannot see the affair in the serious light

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 137

that you do. I thought all you gay cavaliers had
a thousand of these pleasant adventures, each dis-
missed more easily than the other.'

" ' But I tell you I have been crazy enough
to marry her.'

" e For the time. Why, a farewell letter, and
a confession that your marriage is not legal in
your own country, settles the business.'

" ' Arden, you are my better angel. But sup-
pose they follow me to England V

" t The most unlikely thing in the world ;
England to them is at the other end of the
earth. Women never doubt what a lover says;
so Beatrice will take you at your word. And
Carrara, except in hjj own peculiar studies, is
as ignorant as a child. Besides, I will confirm
the assertion, hint that you might hang him up
with the crows in England, and will enforce my
words with proper exclamations of horror, sorrow,
and sympathy/

" ' Arden, you are my best friend. But poor
Beatrice — so beautiful, so confiding, so loving!'

" ' Very true. But are you quite sure these
very estimable qualities are only called into exist-
ence by yourself? I am much mistaken if the
pretty Beatrice will be left quite destitute of con-
solation. You flatter yourself.'

138 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

" By heaven ! Avonleigh seemed absolutely
relieved by the idea of his mistress's, nay, his wife's
inconstancy. He was really good-natured, and
glad to remove from his mind the idea of inflict-
ing pain. But the next moment his vanity was
piqued. ' I will reproach her to-morrow, and then
leave her for ever.'

" ' Reproach her with what? I hope you do
not expect that I should surrender up a strict
account of all I may have observed in Carrara's
house? Or will you run through the town, col-
lecting evidence of what gay cavaliers have been
noted at its door ? A wise method, to be sure, of
preserving your secret !'

" ' I do not know wha^ to do. Think for me
— whatever you advise, I shall do/

" ' Write to her briefly — confess that you are
married — implore pardon for the deceit — talk of
the force of your passion, of inevitable circum-
stances— wish her well — assure her that you will
ever retain a tender recollection of her — and end
by being her devoted and miserable. There is a
model of a letter for breaking off a love affair of
which you are weary.'

" Avonleigh drew writing materials towards
him — he could make nothing of it; and I dictated,
word by word, that most cruel letter. It was

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 139

sealed, and despatched by his page to her nurse,
who had been their confidante. Once or twice
some misgivings passed across his mind, but they
were lost in the idea of his rivals, and the image
of the blue-eyed heiress who awaited his coming
in England. Besides, the hurry of preparations
for departure were enough to distract any one's
attention. Some of the young nobles of Padua
came in to breakfast, and two declared they should
see him on his journey — they wanted an excursion
of a few days. No fear, therefore, that, suddenly
deprived of companionship, he should feel dull,
and that dulness might take the shape of remorse ;
so repent, return, and be forgiven. Yet his brow
darkened as he whispered, ' You will write to me,
Arden ?' But five minutes more, and he and his
friends were riding full gallop down the sunny
road that led from Padua ; and the sound of their
loud laughter came on the air.

" And was it for the brief enjoyment of one
like Avonleigh that my whole life was sacrificed ?
Why should fate in all things give him the mastery
over me ? I know not at that moment whether I
most loved or hated Beatrice. I thought of her
wretchedness, and pitied not; but I wished to see
it. Would she yield to her despair ? and, so child-
like, would she weep as a child? Or would

140 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

woman's sorrow teach her woman's strength, and
could she lock her grief deep in her inmost
heart ?

" I had accompanied Avonleigh beyond the
gates, and I now hurried back impatiently, for I
had resolved on seeing Beatrice. On my way to
their house I met one of the students, who told
me that sudden illness had prevented Carrara's
attendance on his class. Was his illness of the
mind ? Had his daughter told him every thing ?
I had now sufficient excuse for calling, and that
was all the sympathy I felt for the grief of my kind
old friend. I entered the garden, and for the first
time paused ; its stillness smote upon my heart.
Every thing I saw was associated with Beatrice's
care, with Beatrice's happiness. There was the
little fountain where I had so often seen her
nymph-like shape reflected ; the waters glittered
in the morning sun — what a mockery it would
be were they to be her mirror now ! I remarked
that she had been watering a bed of carnations ;
half were left unwatered, and the water-vessel
stood in the walk, as if her labour had been sud^
denly suspended, and not renewed again. Had
she been interrupted by Avonleigh's letter?

" I had not courage to look my thoughts in
the face, and hastened towards Carrara's study.

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 141

Both were there, but neither at first perceived my
entrance. The poor old man was leaning over
the unhappy girl, who knelt at his feet, her face
hidden on his arm, her hands clasped convul-
sively, and the slender frame trembling with
emotion; her strength was exhausted in endur-
ance— none was left to resist. An ancient folio
lay open beside them ; I saw that it was marked
by his tears, as if mechanically he had turned to
its familiar pages for consolation, and found none.
God of heaven ! how could his sorrow not rebuke
my inmost soul! But all humanity, all natural
pity and affection, had left me. I gazed on
Beatrice's beautiful form, writhing in its agony,
and felt as if it were but fitting penance for
having loved another.

" At this instant Carrara looked round and
saw me. I started back as if my heart was visible
in my countenance. Misinterpreting my action,
which he naturally supposed resulted from fear of
intrusion, he beckoned me forward, and said in a
broken voice, ' Do not go — I know you are very
kind, and will help us if you can. Perhaps you
may advise us.'

" As he spoke, Beatrice slowly raised her
head, and turned her face towards me. No spectre
from the grave could have sent such ice through

142 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

my veins as that ghastly and bewildered coun-
tenance : the large eyes were so glazed, so wild ;
and the red circle left by weeping was the only
vestige of colour, for lip and cheek were both
deadly white; the features, too, were shrunken
and older — it was as if years had passed by since
I saw her last. I took a vacant seat in silence,
when I felt a little hand put into mine, and a
childish voice whisper, ' Nobody speaks to
Guido to-day ; are you angry, too ? ' I raised the
frightened child in my arms, and hid my face in
his hair, — it was to nerve myself for the coming
scene ; now or never must the parting between
Avonleigh and his Italian bride be made final as
death !

11 Scarcely could Carrara command himself to
tell me a history I already knew so well ; yet I
controlled myself. I listened, I pitied, and at the
close he bade God bless me for my kind heart !
' And now,' said he, ' tell us, you who have known
this cruel Englishman from his birth, is there no
pity in his heart ? will he not return ? is there no
hope ? '

" Beatrice raised her head : she looked at me
as if on my words hung the fiat of life or death,
fear and earnestness dilating her dark eyes — for
an unconfessed hope had arisen within her. I met

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 143

those imploring eyes, yet I answered, ' None!'
Again she sunk back on her father's arm, and I
saw the shudder that ran through her, by the
tremulous motion of her long black tresses.

" ' But,' continued her father, ' if there be no
mercy, there may yet be justice. He has married
my daughter both by the forms of our church and
of his own ; cannot he be forced to acknowledge
her?' * Oh, never !' exclaimed Beatrice, springing
from the ground, her cheek flushing with mo-
mentary scarlet, and her lip curved with a scorn
which I had dreamed not it could possess. ' What !
ask from the cold laws what his love refused !
force my way into his stately home — that which he
once delighted to say I should share — and dwell
there to witness his angry brow and averted eye —
to know that he loathed me as a heavy and hated
chain! What would his name or%*ank avail me?
I to cause him trouble or vexation ! I, who even
now would lay down my life but for his slightest
pleasure ! And yet he can leave me — can take
pride in that which I share not! I, who have
grudged that the very flowers should spend their
sweetness on the air, not on him ! Oh, my father !
have pity upon me, for God has none ! ' and again
she sunk at his feet.

" ' Hush, my poor child!' said the old man.

144 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

' Alas! for another, if not for thyself, must thy
claims be enforced: shame is a bitter heritage!'
And even this moved me not from my cruel stead-
fastness ; I felt nothing but a sudden fear of Avon-
leigh's remorse. ' Does he know it ? ' I asked.
Beatrice shook her head ; but the words were in-
audible. c Perhaps,' I continued, * the truth is best
told at once : Lord Avonleigh, before he came
hither, was wedded to his cousin ; and I do be-
lieve, despite of a temporary inconstancy, tenderly
attached !' ' Then he deceived me from the first !'
shrieked Beatrice, and sunk insensible on the floor.
She was carried to her chamber, which she never
left till after your birth, Francesca.

" Once I wrote to Lord Avonleigh, but it was to
let him know of Beatrice's approaching marriage.
His answer told me he had embarked for England ;
and it was a gla*&, hopeful letter, full of his Eng-
lish anticipations, and ending with a sneer against
woman's inconstancy.

" In the meantime, I exerted every effort to
obtain an influence over Carrara. I spent every
evening with him ; and the weakness ever at-
tendant on great sorrow made him cling to my
support, while I lulled my own conscience with
the thought of this vain kindness.

" It was long before I saw Beatrice ; the very

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 145

thought of meeting any one threw her into such a
state, that her father had not resolution to urge
it ; though, night after night, he would leave
the unread scroll, and ask me what he should
do to dissuade her from this obstinate yielding to
grief, which was gradually wasting life away ; and
I listened — but the damned only could understand
such torture !

" At length I saw her. I had bidden Car-
rara not expect me, as business would engage my
whole evening. It so happened, that I found my-
self at leisure earlier than I anticipated, and, almost
mechanically, my steps turned to his house. I
entered unperceived ; and there they were, seated,
as if time had gone back on the last few months,
and not a change had passed since the first even-
ing I spent in that quiet chamber! The lamp
stood on the table, and Carrara leant by the huge
tome spread out before him ; and opposite sat
Beatrice, bending over her broidery — the small
head, with its rich knot of gathered hair, so ex-
quisitely placed — the slender figure, so graceful
in its attitude. But, as I came in, she raised her
face, and there was traced what seemed the work
of years ! Could this be the bright creature whose
beauty was so joyous — so redolent of bloom and
hope ? . The chiselled features were still left ; but

VOL. II. H

146 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

thin -7- so thin that, but for its delicacy, the out-
line would have been harsh; — the transparent
temples, from which the hair was put back, as if
its weight oppressed them — the wild and sunken
eyes — the white lip — the colourless cheek — the
sad, shrinking expression of look and manner! — -
Oh, Beatrice ! that moment terribly avenged you !
" It was some time after this that I saw you,
Francesca, for the first time. Poor child! yours
was a mournful infancy ! Though unwilling to
let the feeling appear, your grandfather shrunk
from your very sight! — you brought all that was
so painful immediately to mind. With you for a
perpetual memorial, nothing could be forgotten;
and even your mother's shame and fear lay with
a constant weight on her love, — not a caress
but had its pang ! The present gave no plea-
sure, the future no hope ; you were linked in-
delibly with the black and bitter past. There was
but one exception, and that was Guide's affection.
Some kindly instinct seemed to teach the one
child that the other was neglected. He would
carry you in his little arms, grow quiet in his
noisiest play if you were sleeping ; would kiss and
soothe you when you cried, and devise, with pretty
ingenuity, a thousand methods to amuse you ; while
Beatrice, as if in secret gratitude, would lavish on

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 147

him a tenderness she could not bestow on her own
child! But this state was too intolerable to en-
dure : I loved her even more desperately than ever,
— was it still to be without recompense ?

" It will readily be supposed, that Carrara and
myself could scarcely spend night after night to-
gether, and not speak of our mutual circumstances.
f I have been most unfortunate,' said he, one
winter evening, when we had drawn close to the
pine-boughs, whose flickering light illuminated his
worn and pallid face at intervals : ' I have ever
limited my desires, yet, even into that narrow limit,
disappointment has entered, — I have lived in
humble and quiet loneliness, and still misfortune
has come from afar to seek me ! My son — so gifted,
so heroic, such were the creations of our old chi-
valric poets — dies in his first battle, and leaves me
encumbered with his orphan boy, whose only heri-
tage is his father's resemblance. And now, Beatrice
— my bright, beautiful Beatrice — haunts the house
like a ghost — pale, spiritless, and dejected; with
eyes that turn only to the past ! And you, even
you — so kind in your endurance — will go too:
your fortunes will lead you away, and I shall be
left alone in my old age, or left with those two
children, — too old for their love, yet bound to
them by ties I cannot break. I see it before me,

148 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

distinct as if the time* were come; — I shall be left
desolate ! '

" I know not what were the words in which I
spoke ; but beside that hearth my passionate love
for Beatrice first found words. I told Carrara how
long, how dearly, I had cherished her image — how
I had accustomed my lips to silence, and loved
her the more deeply for such restraint. I spoke
of the future .hopefully — cheerfully. I dwelt on
the results our united studies were calculated to
effect. I painted Beatrice roused from her dejec-
tion, and the past half forgotten, or recalled but
as a painful dream ! Carrara entered into my
plans with even more earnestness than I had ex-
pected. The poor old man shed tears of joy and
thankfulness ! Will not those tears rise up in
judgment against me? — they have darkened earth,
— will they not shut me out from heaven ? I left
him almost before he had finished accepting my
offer. His gratitude was terrible !

" I took that night the path through the gar-
den which led by Beatrice's window. I had never
retraced it since that fatal evening. Then, the air
was warm and languid, freighted with the odours
of many flowers ; there were gay colours spread
over the ground, and the full rich foliage bounded
the view with its depth of soft shadow; — now,

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 149

the eye could see far around ; for the branches
were bare, and the distant roofs, no longer con-
cealed by the green leaves in summer, were visible.
The cold moonlight gave no cheerfulness ; and even
that was often obscured by heavy masses of cloud
which swept over the pale chill disk. All was dreary
---all was emblematic of that change and barren-
ness which passes away from nature, but never
from the heart; — and yet Beatrice was at her win-
dow ! I saw her head drooped upon her hand ;
her whole attitude expressing that profound de-
pression, whose lonely vigil wastes the midnight
in a gloomy watch, which yet hopes for nothing
at its close.

".I hurried past ; I could not bear to see her !
I endeavoured to think of the future — to imagine
the colour returning to that white cheek at my
caress, that sunken eye lighting up at my ap-
proach ! " How did my inmost soul vow to watch
her slightest look, to win her from her memory by
the gentlest cares — to soothe, to cherish her, till
gratitude forced from her affection for me ! But
a voice still asked, ' How dared I buy my happi-
ness at the price of hers?' Conscience forbade
me to rely on the future.

" As I entered my lodging, I caught sight of
myself in a mirror that hung near. I started at

150 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

my own haggard appearance! — it was not the
face of youth, but that of a wan, hollow-eyed con-
spirator, haunted by constant dangers, and worn
with secrecy and watchfulness. The last few
months had been long and heavy years ! But it
was too late now for repentance — there was room
only for remorse ; and that the God who im-
planted it in the soul — man's worst scourge for
man's worst deeds — knows, has been as a vulture
whose beak was for ever preying on my heart !

" The next day I marked, before he spoke,
that Carrara's brow was gloomy. Alas ! he had
only words of reproach and refusal to tell me. But
he bade me plead my cause for myself.

A delicious sensation overpowered every other
when I first told Beatrice I loved her — my own
words sounded so musically sweet ; — ah, they bore
the magic of her name ! But she was cold — even
unkind. Her temper, irritated by long indulgence
in regret, could not brook being disturbed from
the mournful solace of remembrance ; — to awaken
her to the present seemed cruel — to lead her on
to the future impossible ! The only feeling I could
excite was anger.

" Still I hoped, and Carrara believed. For
the first time in her life, Beatrice heard him speak
in harshness ; but he had set his heart upon our

FRANCESCA CARRARA, 15k

union, and her refusal seemed both stubborn and
ungrateful. He urged our marriage upon her
by every argument ; he entreated, and, at last,
threatened. ' Marry the only friend we have left,'
exclaimed he, * or leave my roof, disobedient and
thankless as you are ! '

With even a paler cheek than usual, she quitted
the apartment ; and Carrara, whose anger had eva-
porated in utterance, reproached himself for his
impatient words. ' Poor thing ! the very name of
love must be so sad to her ! ' continued he ; 'it
is no easy task to soothe the stricken heart. This
is an ill requital, Arden, of your generous affec-
tion; but I fear me Beatrice has chosen a lover
constant, at least, — Death! We may bind her a
bridal wreath, but its flowers will be scattered
over her grave!' ' Urge her no more,' I ex-
claimed ; ' I will not again vex her ear with words
of love, however true, however deep : ours is an
evil destiny, and we may not control it !'

" The old man pressed my hand in silent
kindness, and I left the house. An aged domestic,
their sole attendant, followed me out. ' My young
mistress,' said she, ' bade me give you this note
when you had quitted the signer's room.' Here
is the scroll ! " cried Arden, rising from his seat
and taking it from his bosom; " for years these

152 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

few words have made existence a curse, and death
a terror ! I dare not face her beyond the grave !

" I hurried on, frantic, when I saw a group
approaching, with loud exclamations of grief and
dismay ! — I foreboded the cause. Four persons in
the midst were carrying a bier, and on it was ex-
tended a female figure ! I marked the garments
saturated with moisture — the long black hair
dripping with water ! I forced myself to look on
the pale, but still lovely face — it was Beatrice !"

Arden sank back on his seat, and hid his face
in his hands ; while his youthful hearers sat mute
with horror, and looked on each other, and tried
to speak ; but their words failed, and Arden him-
self was the first who broke silence ; but his hol-
low and altered voice sounded strangely in their
ears.

" And, now, what havfc I to tell you? For
five years from that period I was a maniac — the
sole habitant of a dreadful cell, where light and
air were measured. The mark of the iron is still
on my wrist j for I was chained, starved, and
beaten, like some fierce and wild animal ! But I
have no memory save of a pale figure that sat at
my side day and night, wringing the water drops
from the heavy black hair, and with a sad bright
eye, which never moved from my face. Oh, the

FRANCESCA CARRARA,

153

horror of that fixed and motionless gaze ! It was
Beatrice's countenance ; but I felt it was a fiend, to
whom power was given over my soul !

" At length bodily sickness mastered that of
the mind. I awoke from a severe attack of fever,
weak as a child, but conscious — conscious of the
terrible past ! An old monk watched beside me ;
his own sin, and his own sorrow, taught him sym-
pathy. He prayed by me ; I could not pray myself,
— I never have, since that fair corpse was car-
ried along the streets of Padua. In that convent
I remained for some months ; the energy of my
mind was gone. I desired no employment ; I en-
tertained no wishes ; my existence was purely me-
chanical— dragged on, like a weary chain, from
which I lacked resolution to free myself. Yet my
health amended ; and, no longer an object for
cMarity to the convent, it behoved me to choose
some future path. The monk I have named easily
induced me to follow in his steps ; and he, as a
last offering to offended Heaven, was about to
make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. I accom-
panied him : even to me might come the healing
influence of that sacred soil where a Saviour's
tears had fallen : there might I weep, too ; and,
humbled on the earth which he had trod, wash
out mine offence with his blood !

H2

154 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

" I will not detain you with our toils and our
dangers. Worn and weary were we when we
stood beneath the purple heights of Jerusalem —
so fallen from her beauty and her "power, and
yet so mighty in her desolation ! My com-
panion joined in the hymns raised by the pil-
grims ; but that very night he sickened, and, ere
morning, my arms sustained a corpse ! I laid
him to his last rest, in a cave among the moun-
tains ; the stone was rolled to its mouth, and I
sat down to keep that midnight sacred with
watch and prayer.

" Bare and bleak, the adjacent hills were yet
turned to marble by the moonshine — black and
white alternate, as the rays or the shadow pre-
dominated. The blue of the overspreading sky
was rendered yet deeper by the masses of vapour
which the heat of noon had collected on the
atmosphere ; a lurid brightness kindled on their
edges, as if the lightning slept within them. A
few stars shone afar off; but with a faint decay-
ing beauty, fading gradually, as the moon climbed
higher in the heavens. Not a breath disturbed
the still and silent air ; but it was cool with the
rising dews, and sweet with the breathings of
leaf, grass, and flower, in the plains below. My
spirit drank in the calm ; the rest which was on

FRANCESCA CARRARA* 155

all things reached even to me. Methought in that
quiet hour I might lift up my voice in supplica-
tion, and ask of that serene and pitying heaven a
sign of pardon.

" I knelt upon the earth ; when, lo ! there
rose before me that frail and drooping form, that
paje and reproachful face ; while moonbeams glit-
tered on the water that yet dripped from the .
long black hair. There she stood, wan and mo-
tionless, till I sprung from my knee ; and I saw
the shape melt gradually away — the large dull
eyes fixed upon me jto the last ! I had asked for
a sign, and one was sent me from the grave : she
came to tell me that my guilt was still remembered
against me.

" Yet I continued to wander amid those
gloomy rocks, till one hot noon I was resting be-
side a well, where a party of robbers sought re-
freshment also. They made me prisoner, and sold
me as a slave. I could move your pity, were I to
tell you of half the hardships I endured ; but I
ask no sympathy but for my love and for my
sorrow. The last master into whose hands I fell
was a follower of the occult sciences ; and now my
previous studies availed me much. Together we
watched the stars, together pondered over their
movements and their influences ; and when the

156 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

Mahomedan died, he left me both liberty and
wealth.

" A yearning desire came over me to see my
own country. Fifteen years had elapsed since I
left its soil. I was now about to revisit it, not as
those who sought with toil and care wherewithal
to realise some dream of their youth, and return
happy in some favourite project, in whose execu-
tion they are at last to find content. No ; I went
back broken in health and spirits, and vainly
seeking relief in change of place. Alas ! I was
myself my own world ; nothing without availed to
alter that within.

" I arrived in England after a long and weary
voyage, and went at once to the New Forest. I
found that Lawrence Aylmer had never married
again — his whole soul was absorbed in the desire
of wealth ; and yet his voice grew gentle when he
spoke to his child — she was so like her mother ;
but, ah ! so pale, so languid, that you asked un-
consciously, Can she be so young ? They told me
of Lord Avonleigh. His had been a life of con-
stant prosperity. In the fierce struggle between the
Royalists and the Puritans he had temporised and
yielded; and while others lost life and land, he
dwelt at peace in his ancestral halls. He had
married Lady Madeline, and was now a widower

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 157

with one only boy ; and report more than hinted
that he was ahout to marry again.

" I saw him in his own domains ; and lightly,
indeed, had years passed over his head ; the step
of the noble youth at his side was scarce more
elastic than his own. His bright hair had lost
none of its luxuriance, and the fair broad forehead
bore no trace of time or care. Yet, there she was
at his side, the lost Beatrice ! I saw her shadow-
less form glide along the sunny grass, — that pale
and mournful countenance turned as ever upon
me. T rushed away, but the image was still be-
fore me ; I closed my eyes, but it rose upon the
darkness, till, at last, I sank faint and exhausted.
When I recovered, it 'was strange how distinct
past events were pictured in my mind, — and,
stranger still, that, for the first time, I thought
of you, Francesca !

" I started from my seat. God of heaven !
what had been your destiny? were you still living?
— perhaps in sickness, in neglect, and poverty!
Somewhat now of expiation seemed in my power :
I would seek you out, restore you to your father,
and deem the agony of my confession fitting
penance.

" My search was long and vain. On my re-
covery in the convent I had been told that Carrara

158 FRANCESCA CARRARA;

had left the place, and had departed none knew
whither. The lapse of so many years made it
impossible for me to find the slight traces of those
I sought ; when, as if some good angel had sud-
denly taken pity on me, I met Guido. The like-
ness struck me ; I asked the name — " Carrara !"
and from that time I have been nerving myself to
tell my wretched history. Even the deliverance
of my late sickness was haunted by the thought !
Now I almost dare to hope, not for myself, but for
you. My plan for the future — "

" Shall be discussed to-morrow," said Fran-
cesca, soothingly ; " you have exerted yourself
beyond your strength : your cheek burns, your lip
is parched. I pray you how retire to rest, and
God pity and forgive you ! "

She poured out his medicine, and gave it to
him. He drank from the cup, and tried to speak ;
but his voice failed, and he left the room in
silence.

159

CHAPTER XIII.

" And are we English born 1 "

" Art thou the England famed in song 1 "

S. C. HALL.

" YOUR father a rich and powerful noble, dear
Francesca! your future station will be worthy of
you.1" exclaimed Guido, as they drew their seats
closer to the hearth, too much excited to retire to
their usual rest.

" I cannot rejoice/' replied she ; "I feel
strangely oppressed, and am for once tempted to
indulge those mournful presentiments which I
reprove in you. What have I done that fate
should deal more gently with me than with my
mother ? I seem to believe with Arden, that there
may be houses with whom ill fortune abides as an
heir-loom. I tremble in thinking what humanity
may be called upon to endure. Amid this vast
and common misery, how dare we hope to
escape ! "

160 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

" There are exceptions, dearest, and such I
hope is for thee. You have known early care,
and soon -coming sorrow. As a very child you
were the stay of our little household ; and how, in
our late worldly experience, your own kind and
true heart has led you aright ! You look meekly
forward — you indulge in no vain repinings — you
exert yourself for others — your affections are hard
to be chilled — and your belief in good, paramount.
Fate forms its predestined wretches of other mate-
rials."

* " I now understand," continued Francesca,
" the reason of our grandfather's dislike to Eng-
lishmen. How I ought to rejoice that some, I
will venture to say, providence enabled me to
overrule the weak tenderness which urged me to
be Robert Evelyn's companion ! His real nature
would soon have shewn its baseness; and, holy
Madonna! to have made such discovery as his
wife!"

" Had your mother so refused to participate in
Lord Avonleigh's concealment, how much misery
would have been spared ! Do you remember that
line in the English poet — whom we now keep for
his own sake, no longer for that of his donor —
where that loving and sweet Viola says, —

' Deceil, I see thou art a wickedness !'

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 161

Oh ! how rash, thus to give fate an additional arm
against us ! "

" How little," exclaimed Francesca, " can I
comprehend such a love as Arden's — so cruel, so
unrelenting! Methinks the happiness of the
beloved one is dearer, a thousand times dearer,
than our own. Mow could he. help confirming
Lord Avonleigh's wavering faith ? — how could he
endure to purchase Beatrice's self ifcith Beatrice's
sorrow ?"

" I know not that," replied Guido ; " there is
something so bitter in a rival. I could sooner bear
my mistress's hate than her indifference."

" What fearful penalty," continued Francesca,
" has his exaggerating spirit exacted! — his love
and his remorse are alike terrible."

" What a change will this disclosure make in
our plans ! Oh ! the vain folly of deciding on the
morrow! Who," asked Guido, " would have
thought of our going to England? — for thither
will I accompany you. What a weight from my
inmost heart will it take to see you loved and
acknowledged in your father's house ! Let what
will happen there, I care not."

" My beloved Guido, unless it be for you also,
there is no home for me. What new tie of duty
or affection can be so near and dear' as that which

162 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

has been cherished from the first ? Whatever be
our future lots, they are cast together."

The next morning — -the excitement of the
foregoing midnight being past — they talked the
strange history more calmly over. "I" should
like to know," remarked Francesca, " whether
Mr. Arden has aught of proof toggupport his story."

" Oh ! the truth is marked in every word.
I would stake^my life on Arden's veracity."

" Lord Avonleigh will require something more
than the assertion of one whose reason is. obviously
disordered."

" I wish to Heaven that my grandfather had
been more communicative. Beyond a vague idea
of the gone-by glories of the house of Carrara, we
know nothing about ourselves."

This conversation was interrupted by Arden's
entrance, who, worn and dejected, seemed scarcely
to know how to address his young companions, as
if he feared some sudden change in their manner.
Both greeted him kindly; for his suffering was
more present to them than his faults. They hesi-
tated to renew the subject, but his mind was too
full to allow of his speaking on indifferent topics ;
and, after a few words alluding to the disclosure,
he asked, " Was there any obstacle to their im-
mediate departure for England ?"

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 163

" None. But," said Francesca, hesitatingly,
" will not Lord Avonleigh need some warrant for
the truth of this history?"

" You have all necessary proofs in your pos-
session, though you may not he aware of their
existence," replied Arden ; " will you allow me to
open yonder box ? "

" There is nothing in that,'' said Guido, " but
a genealogy of the Carraras, drawn up by my
grandfather. We have kept this little ebony
coffer for the sake of its curious carving. The
marriage of Cana is beautifully wrought on its lid."

" I know the box well — it was once mine.
I gave it Beatrice on the day of her fete. How
little then did I dream to what purpose it would
be applied ! You are not aware that here are
hidden drawers."

He raised the cover, and, pressing one of the
figures, a lid flew up, and discovered a secret
place, whose existence they had never suspected.
There lay a picture, a small packet of letters, and
a little roll of papers.

" These," continued Arden, " are the certificate
of the marriage, and the register of your birth.
Though deeming them useless, Beatrice, poor Bea-
trice, always carefully treasured them ; and this is
the likeness of your father."

164 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

It was one of those faces which win their way
through the eye to the heart all the world over —
so frank, so glad, and so full of youth. The rich
auburn hair hung down in the long curls then
worn, as if natural heauty were indeed a sign of
gentle blood, and fully displayed the white and
broad Saxon brow ; the complexion was fair, with
a high colour ; and the clear hazel eyes were full
of eagerness, hope, and mirth. It was a style
of face, with its light yet rich colours, to which
the young Italians were not accustomed. Both
were equally charmed, but the same feeling
made them hesitate. Neither wondered in their
hearts that the gay and brilliant noble had ob-
tained the preference over the wan and gloomy
student ; for they only pictured Arden as he stood
before them — they forgot that he had ever been
young.

He read their thoughts, and, taking the pic-
ture, gazed upon it mournfully ; then added, " He
is almost as handsome still !"

Guido, by way of diverting the embarrass-
ment which seemed to infect them all, began to
unfasten the packet of letters. A faint yet sweet
perfume exhaled from the folds, and some withered
rose and violet leaves fell upon the table ; shape
and colour had long passed away, but a mournful

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 165

fragrance remained — mournful as the memory of
departed happiness.

He was about to open one of the scrolls, when
Francesca took them from his hand. " Nay,
Guido, we will not read them : there are some
letters never meant but for one eye, and such are
these. This packet shall be given untouched into
Lord Avonleigh's" — she corrected her words —
" into my father's own hands.'7

166

CHAPTER XIV.

Within the mirror of the past,

How sadly fair arise
The long-lost hues of early life,

The stars of Memory's skies."

CHARLES SWAIN.

THERE needed but little preparation for their
departure ; it is your leave-takings that lengthen
out the time — and they had scarcely a living crea-
ture to whom they needed say farewell. Guido
obtained an audience of Mazarin, who seemed
surprised, and even vexed, when he heard that
they were about to cross the channel.

" What will you do among those puritanical
islanders, who hold pictures to be an abomination,
and statues idolatry ? The very sight of their white-
washed churches will put your genius to flight,
which, in the attempt to escape, will be lost in
their fogs.

Guido half smiled, half sighed, as he urged
the important family business which enforced their
absence. The Cardinal then asked for Francesca,
and the sudden gloom of his countenance shewed

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 167

that Madame de Mercoeur's loss was still keenly
remembered. He then added a few general offers
of service, but offered as if he would be glad that
they were accepted ; and when Guido knelt for
his parting benediction, it was given with a
warmth and sincerity not often used by the apa-
thetic and haughty minister.

But they were of his own country — were asso-
ciated with the image of the dearest of his own
family — dearer, because lost for ever. He was
interested in their genuine, yet refined simplicity ;
and, moreover, the most worn and worldly natures
vindicate their humanity by occasional preferences
and motiveless likings. True, they are transitor^
and soon both controlled and forgotten ; but their
very existence is evidence that the kindly feeling
which clings to its race never wholly abandons even
the most seemingly hardened and indifferent.

To Bournonville the whole history was revealed.
They owed confidence to his friendship ; but Fran-
cesca was at once chilled, mortified, and amused,
by the warmth of his congratulations. It is a
penance inflicted on all sensitive tempers by their
more common-toned acquaintance. Her imagina-
tion had only dwelt on the renewal of affection —
on the happiness of having a parent to look up to,
and to love ; but Bournonville saw the subject in

FRANCESCA CARRARA.

another point of view, and was never weary of
congratulating her on having found out a rich and
noble father. Ah ! who has no^ suffered from a
similar annoyance, so easily felt, but so difficult
to be described ! How often have I had my ideal
destroyed, my pleasant imaginings checked and
debased, by the ill-timed remark that changed
their whole bearing! Heaven knows, the obser-
vation was true enough ; still there are two ways
of putting a fact, and one prefers that which lends
a little enchantment to the view.

Now that Francesca was about to leave France,
she felt a softening of the heart towards Madame
0e Soissons. Hitherto she had chiefly dwelt on
her unkindness and neglect ; but absence, like
charity, covers a multitude of sins ; and the thought
now paramount was, that she should see her no
more.

She made a thousand excuses for her con-
duct— she even exaggerated the temptations by
which she was surrounded. Her memory went
back to the pleasant intercourse of their early
days — and memory is a most affectionate faculty ;
somewhat of tenderness is inseparable from the
past, and she earnestly desired to bid her former
friend farewell. In this spirit was the following
letter written : —

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 169

" DEAREST MARIE, — For at this moment,
when my heart is full of our former affection, I
can use no other epithet than the one which be-
longs to that time,— I cannot resist the temptation
of writing to bid you farewell. Circumstances,
which are too long for detail — perhaps they might
not interest you — and which have made a great
change in my prospects, induce me to leave
France ; and Guido and myself are on the point
of embarking for England. In all human proba-
bility we shall meet no more. It would make me
very happy to see you before my departure, to tell
you of my future hopes, to offer you my best
wishes, to believe that we shall preserve a kindly
recollection of each other, and to talk a little of
the past. Farewell ! That the holy Madonna
may have you in her keeping, is the affectionate
prayer of FRANCESCA DA CARRARA."

This letter obtained no answer. Did we not
daily observe them, we could not believe the in-
stances of hard-heartedness evinced in social life —
the neglect, the forgetfulness, and the ingratitude.
The Comtesse de Soissons read and was touched
by Fraricesca's letter, and resolved to go that very
day and see her ; but the same morning the Due
d'Anjou gave a collation — so it was impossible.

VOL. II. I

170 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

The next day she was to wait on Madame de
Savoie ; on the third she was languid, and visitor
after visitor came in ; and on the fourth, Francesca
was gone. Madame de Soissons felt a momentary
pang of shame and remorse ; but she was to attend
the Queen to a ballet that evening. She had not
yet decided on her dress ; and in half an hour's
time Francesca's image was merged in the contem-
plation involving a decision, whether pale-yellow
or lilac ribands would best suit her green dress.

Nothing is so soon lost in a crowd as affection ;
we are in too great a hurry to attach ourselves to
any thing or any body. What bitter knowledge is
brought us by experience! — what change is wrought
in a few passing years ! How do we grow cold,
indifferent, and unbelieving — we, who were so
affectionate, so eager, so confiding ! Perhaps we
expect too much from others. Because an indi-
vidual likes you, from some sudden impulse, from
the effect of circumstances which drew both out
agreeably, you have no right to rely on the con-
tinuance of that feeling ; a fresher impulse may
counteract it — a newer situation lead it to some
one else ; and you ought rather to be thankful, for
even the temporary warmth, than feel disappointed
at its cessation.

But though this is what it would be wise to do,

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 171

it is not what we can do. Mutable as is our nature,
it delights in the immutable ; and we expect as
much constancy as if all time, to say nothing of
our own changeableness, had not shewn that ever
" the fashion of this world passeth away."

And this alone would be to me the convincing
proof of the immortality of the soul, or mind, or
whatever is the animating principle of life. Whe-
ther it be the shadow cast from a previous exist-
ence, or an intuition of one to come, the love of
that which lasts is an inherent impulse in our
nature. Hence that constancy which is the ideal
of love and friendship — that desire of fame which
has originated every great effort of genius. Hence,
too, that readiness of belief in the rewards and
punishments of a future state held out by religion.
From the commonest flower treasured, because its
perfume outlives its beauty, to our noblest achieve-
ments where the mind puts forth all its power, we
are prompted by that future which absorbs the
present. The more we feel that we are finite, the
more do we cling to the infinite.

172

CHAPTER XV.

" Most happy state, that never tak'st revenge

For injuries received, nor dost fear
The court's great earthquake, the grieved truth of change,

Nor none of falsehood's savoury lies dost hear ;
Nor know'st hope's sweet disease, that charms our sense,
Nor its sad cure — dear bought experience."

SIR ROBERT KER to DRUMMOND, anno 1624.

IT was the day previous to that fixed for their
departure, that Guido and Francesca were seated
in their chamber for the last time. Both were
silent and somewhat sad — for no place was ever
yet left without regret. We grow attached uncon-
sciously to the objects we see every day. We may
not think so at the time — we may be discontented,
and used to talk of iheir faults ; but let us be on
the eve of quitting them for ever, and we find
that they are dearer than we dreamed.

The love of the inanimate is a general feeling.
True, it makes no return of affection, neither does
it dissappoint it ; its associations are from our
thoughts and our emotions. We connect the hearth
with the confidence which has poured forth the
full soul in its dim twilight ; on the wall we have

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 173

watched the shadows, less fantastic than the crea-
tions in which we have indulged ; beside the table,
we have read, worked, and written. Over each
and all is flung the strong link of habit — it is not
to be broken without a pang,

" What numbers are passing by !" exclaimed
Guido, who had been leaning in the window.
" Good Heavens ! to think that of all this multi-
tude, not one will regret or even remember us ! „
How hard it is to draw the ties of humanity to-
gether ! — how strange the indifference with which
we regard beings whose hopes, feelings, joys, and
sorrows, are the same as our own ! Perhaps there
may be individuals who have never inspired or
experienced affection; — should we pity or envy
them ?"

" Pity them — only that such a lot is impossible.
Even th^ very robbers, of whose ferocity we were
wont to hear such tales in our own land, have
usually possessed some redeeming trait which arose
out of a yearning towards their kind. Do you
recollect a story my nurse told us of a Sicilian
bandit, the terror of the country? — how he saved
a young child from a cottage on fire, brought it up
delicately, and far removed from his own pursuits ;
while, at his execution, his chief regret was the
future provision for that boy ?"

174 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

"I can believe such an instance — can believe
love taking strong root amid cruelty, poverty,
suffering, and danger, rather than in the withering
atmosphere of this crowded city — this miscalled
social, but really heartless, life ; where petty in-
terests distract the mind, and mean desires absorb
the heart. From the beginning of the show to
the end, vanity is the sole stimulus and reward
of action — vanity, that never looks beyond the
present."

" Nay," replied Francesca, " you exaggerate.
The truth is, we begin life with too exalted ideas.
— our wishes and our expectations go together.
We are soon forced to lower our standard ; and
this depreciation brings at first coldness, distress,
and distrust, but also wisdom. We learn not to
anticipate so much, and to cling with firmer faith
to those whose truth has been proved. Courtesy
from the many, kindness from the few, and affec-
tion from the individual, become the limit of our
hopes ; and even that moderate limit must prepare
for exceptions."

They were interrupted by the entrance of an
unlooked-for visitor, the Chevalier de Joinville.

" I have just heard," said he, " from Bour-
nonville, of your intended departure, and thought
I might venture to come and offer my good wishes

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 175

for your safe arrival, to say nothing of the pleasure
I promise myself in seeing you again, and more
beautiful than ever."

He said the truth ; for her nohle and regular
beauty, so rarely seen in such classical perfection,
always struck the eye most forcibly when accus-
tomed only to the more ordinary run of the merely
pretty. Francesca was really glad to see him ;
her original dislike had passed away, and there
was a kindness in his visit and manner doubly
grateful when contrasted with the neglect of so
many others. After a few inquiries, soon made
and soon answered among those who have no
interests in common, the conversation turned on
general topics. And here they had much to ask
and hear. The Chevalier was, as usual, au fait
at all the anecdotes of the court, which had been
exceedingly gay, owing to the visit of Madame de
Savoie and her daughter, the Princess Marguerite.

" Will she," asked Francesca, " be our future
Queen? Remember, I know as little of what has
been going on in Paris as if I had already crossed
the sea."

" The whole visit," replied the Chevalier, " has
been a failure. Peace and the Infanta have car-
ried the day ; and the bride is to come from beyond
the Pyrenees, not the Alps."

1 76 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

" Is the Princess Marguerite pretty?"

" Royally so — not more; but an excellent
actress. She shewed her disappointment as little
as she did her expectations. Truly, it was a severe
task, for she had to appear amused and indifferent
for the whole party. Madame de Royale did no-
thing hut weep, till the Cardinal consoled her by
a pair of diamond ear-rings set in jet,— " the most
becoming things," as she asserted. I am afraid
their effect was not very visible on her."

" Was there not some talk," asked Guido,
" of a marriage between the Due de Savoie and
Mademoiselle?"

" Yes ; and it served him as a pretext to turn
his share of the visit into a mere expedition of
gallantry. He has the portraits of all the unmar-
ried princesses of Europe in his cabinet ; among
others, that of Mademoiselle was hung in the
most conspicuous place. Now he says, ' I have
seen her, and am cured.' It has reached the ears
of the lady, who is furious."

" Next toiler birth," said Francesca, " Made-
moiselle piques herself on her beauty, I believe ?"

" She said the other morning, with the utmost
calmness," replied the Chevalier, " when Monsieur
was rallying her on her deshabille de voyage, ' J am
handsome enough to do without dress — I like it

FBANCESCA CARRARA. 177

to be seen, now and then, that I can trust my face
by itself."

•" A pleasant state of mind,7' cried Francesca;
" that entire repose in the conviction of your
own perfection! But to return to your noble
visitors. Surely Madame de Savoie must have
felt the position in which she had placed her
daughter?'7

" Yes, but she talked it away. She uses a
whole language to herself. Her discourse is an
avalanche of words, beneath which the hearers
are overwhelmed. And then her confidence ! it
goes to the extent of a romance — she confides
every thing. I'll tell you an anecdote, out of
many, that she relates of herself. Monsieur de
Savoie is most devoue to your charming sex, and
one of his favourites had given him a greyhound.
During a short journey from the court, he left
this greyhound to his mother's care, with many
injunctions to watch over its safety. That night,
when she was alone in her chamber, she flung
herself on her knees before the dog, addressing it
with the most tender epithets. ' How dearly do I
love thee ! how happy am I to have thee, reminding
me of thy master ! If he were here I should be
satisfied. I have not seen him since the morning,
and the moments appear to me hours in his ab-
i2

178 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

•

sence ; at least, when he again caresses thee, paint
to him the sensations of my heart.' '

" I do not," exclaimed Guido, " marvel* so
much at these extravagances of affection as at
their being publicly repeated. To express any
emotion seems to me the most difficult thing in
the world."

" She got out of the ridicule very well," replied
De Joinville, " by throwing over it a little tinge of
sentiment. ' I do not mind,' said she, observing a
general smile, ' your laughing at the excess of my
love to my son. I own I feel capable of doing all
sorts of foolish things for his sake.' '

" I could not have believed," remarked Fran-
cesca, " had I not witnessed it since my residence
in your country, how the reality and the affecta-
tion of feeling can exist together. Before I left
our solitary home, the very exhibition of emotion
would have tempted me to doubt its truth . Now,
I observe that some affect, as others shun, display ;
yet the feeling is equally true in both."

" Talking of display, half the court is in ec-
stasies about the romantic devotion of la Marquise
de la Beaume to the memory of the Due de
Candale. He was a great admirer of hers, and,
on his journey to and from Catalonia, invariably
paused to pay his homage at Lyons, where she.

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 179

resided. She has cut off all her long fair hair —
absolutely her principal ornament. There are
always two sides to a story ; and the other version
of this is, that the beautiful hair was severed out
of pique to the husband, not out of tenderness to
the lover's manes. The Marquis had, in a most
husbandly and hard-hearted manner, refused his
consent to a fete which Madame's heart was set
upon giving. The next morning, desirous of
making his peace, and yet keeping his resolution,
he entered while her toilette was going on, and
began to admire the luxuriant and bright hair that
fell over her shoulders. Without speaking a word,
she snatched up the scissors, and, cutting off her
curls with relentless rapidity — ' Voila, Monsieur!'
said she, throwing them towards him, and turning
her back."

" It puts me in mind," exclaimed Guido, " of
one of our Italian harlequins, who, greatly enraged
with some one beyond his reach, says, ' As I can't
kill my enemy, I will kill myself — I must be re-
venged on some one.' "

" Alas!'7 said De Joinville, " I must take my
leave, for the Cardinal holds a levee to-day, and
let those fail in attendance who want nothing.
Now, I want a benefice which is just vacant*
You have no idea how poor the court is ; nobody

180 PRANCESCA CARRARA.

is rich, except Mazarin and 1'Abbe Fouquet. I
am half tempted to cry with Madame Thurine,
4 How happy are our servants ! they, at least, get
Christmas boxes.' "

He then rose, and wished them farewell —
" Only a temporary farewell," added he, as he
reached the door. " I have too good an opinion
of your taste not to expect you back again. Absence
teaches appreciation by the force of contrast — you
will regret us, and return."

Without waiting for their answer, he left the
room.

. Both Guido and Francesca were surprised,
even hurt, at the ease of his farewell. They felt
so much more than he did, and were ashamed
of the feeling. The truth is, that they had still
a world of kindliness and affection in their young
and unused hearts, which had long passed away
from De Joinville. He dreaded the trouble much
more than the pain of emotion ; he could not
altogether escape the many chains of life, but he
wore them as lightly as possible. His love was
gallantry, his friendship liking, and his business
amusement. His philosophy was to s'tgayer on
the route from the cradle to the coffin ; and some-
times I have thought his system the right one.
When I have marked, as all must do, the dis-

FRANCESQA CARRARA. 181

appointment that rewards the noblest efforts, the
agony that attends the most generous affections,
I have asked, Is it not better to waste life than to
use it ? The vain question of a mood of profitless
dejection — the most unprofitable state in which
we can indulge !

182

CHAPTER XVI.

"The morrow

That o'erlooks thy twilight, Earth,
Is one of shade and sorrow !"

LAMAN BLANCHARD.

IT was with sad hearts and weary spirits that the
Carraras found themselves tossing on the rough
waves of the English channel. It was a dull, chill
morning, and the gray, leaden atmosphere closed
round the vessel as something whose oppression
was palpable ; while heavy ridges of thick black
clouds rested on the waters in the distance. The
shore was soon lost in the mist, and nothing
caught the eye but the gloomy sky and the
gloomy sea, which seemed to reflect back each
other. The wind blew with that shrill and com-
plaining sound, which forced from the flapping
sails and creaking planks a thousand strange and
dismal murmurs; while the steps and voices of
the sailors vexed with perpetual stir ears accus-
tomed to the quiet of a lonely chamber. Mono-

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 183

tonous, yet confined, the sea view offered nothing
to distract the attention of the voyagers. There
is something, too, especially fatiguing in seeing
every one around you busy but yourself, while the
novelty, the bustle, and the noise, prevents your
attention from being riveted by conversation or
lost in reverie : you soon become equally restless
and weary.

This was their second voyage, too, and that
forced a comparison with their first. The scene
was as much changed as themselves. Then the
sky, in whose clear, unbroken blue their future
seemed mirrored, was bright as their own hopes ;
the waves danced glittering in the sunshine ; the
dark eyes that looked kindly on them were the
familiar and flashing glances of their own country-
men ; the language they heard was that which
they had known from their infancy. Now, all
was strange and cold ; there was no sympathy in
the light eyes and fair faces which turned upon
them with no deeper feeling than curiosity. Then
the land, with its battlemented town, and stately
church rising high in middle air, and the groves
and orchards of its environs, green to the very
ocean, lingered long on the transparent element,
as if loath to lose sight of them. The wind was so
soft, so warm, and laden with the early fragrance

184 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

of the orange-trees, then in their first and sweetest
blossoming !

But if the world without was changed, still
more changed was the world within. Then, youth
had been taught nothing by time ; their spring
was in its early luxuriance of breath and bloom ;
not a bud had fallen from the bough, not a leaf
had withered. Now, many a hope had perished,
and many a belief gone from them for ever. They
had learnt to think as well as to feel ; and thought
is mournful. They remembered too keenly thtir
pleasant credulity as to what to-morrow would
bring forth, to dare indulge expectation of its
pleasure; they had been disappointed once — so
might they be again — for disappointment ever
leaves fear behind.

There was something, too, in Arden's gloom
which increased that of his companions. To that
man pain wa*s ever present; his brow never re-
laxed, his eye never brightened, and cheerfulness
or anticipation seemed almost insults to him —
they jarred with such utter mockery on his tone
of mind. He felt that it was a duty, and had
accelerated to the utmost this voyage to England ;
but the humiliation of the necessary confession to
Lord Avonleigh was wormwood to his soul. It
occupied him by day, it haunted him by night;

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 185

he framed it in a thousand shapes, but the thought
that he must humble himself before the man he
hated was as the presence of a demon for ever
beside him.

Towards the afternoon, Francesca, who ob-
served how worn out and cold Guido appeared,
prevailed upon him to go down into the cabin,
and rest upon one of the benches. She covered
him carefully with a cloak, and at last he dropped
off to sleep, her arm supporting his head, as she
knelt beside, breathing fearfully lest she might
disturb his unquiet slumber. While she ^hus
watched him, she could not but mark the insi-
dious progress of disease ; it startled her, as it had
done when she first saw him on his return, in the
convent.

The most anxious eye grows familiar with the
face which is seen every day, till some chance
circumstance awakens the alarmed observation.
This was the case with Francesca, whose now
terrified imagination exaggerated every symptom.
She saw the one red spot on the cheek, contrast-
ing with the transparent whiteness elsewhere, so
delicate that the face seemed almost feminine.
She wiped with a light yet trembling hand the
dews that gathered heavily on the forehead ; she
laid her head close to his heart, to catch its quick

186 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

and irregular beating, and could scarcely restrain
a start of dread at the peculiar murmur in the chest.
Every breath was difficult even to pain.

He was roused from his brief rest by a violent
fit of coughing, which seemed to shake the whole
system. It was one which in England is so simply,
yet so emphatically, denominated a churchyard
cough. It was hollow, like the echo of the grave.
Francesca could not trust her voice with an
inquiry.

At this moment a sailor entered to summon
them on deck. " We are in the middle of the
Southampton waters, and shall land in half an
hour. I thought you would like to see the coast,
and it will soon be dark."

Guido rose eagerly, and followed the man,
when Francesca had translated the words, for she
understood the language much more readily than
he did. The sailor, when they reached the deck,
good-naturedly offered a great-coat to Guido, for,
though fine, the air was chill, and he observed that
the young foreigner shivered as he came up.

" How beautiful ! " exclaimed they, as they
leant over the side of the vessel; and beautiful,
indeed, it was.

On one side was Hampshire, whose dark out-
line was in shadow ; on the other, the green and

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 187

undulating shores of the Isle of Wight, whose ver-
dant meadows came down almost to the strand.
The trees were leafless, but the sunshine played
upon their branches; behind them the sea was
clear and dark, but before them it was like fire, for
the winding of the creek brought the bay directly
below the setting sun, with whose glory the whole
west was kindled ; it was too bright to look upon,
— a glory like the track of passing angels. The
vapours of the morning had melted away into a
soft and golden haze, which bathed all things in
its genial hue.

" Can this be winter?" asked Guido.

" I hope so," said Francesca, answering to
her own thoughts ; for, unaware of our uncertain
clime, she relied on its benefit to Guido.

The radiance now began to mellow ; a large
cloud, which had been slowly floating up, crossed
the burning centre; it melted, but into a rich
crimson ; the reddening" tints spread rapidly, soft-
ening as they receded from the round orJb that
now seemed to rest on the waters ; the light be-
came coloured ; many small white clouds rose
flitting from afar, and each as they approached
caught a tinge of pink. The sun sunk below
the waters, which glowed with his descent ; but,
almost unperceived, a purple shadow fell on the

188 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

atmosphere — Nature's royal mourning over her
king. Far as the eye could reach, the waves had
a faint lilac dye, reflected from deeper-dyed heavens
above, whose magnificence at last faded into a
broad and clear amber line, with an eddy of pale
crimson on its extremest verge. Then upsprung
a single star, lonely and lovely over the far sea.
The long shadows now heralded the coming dark-
ness ; and there was something very cheerful in
the numerous fires that were visible from the
different windows. The old castle alone looked
gloomy, as it stood, gray and rugged, close upon
the water-side ; they passed it rapidly, and an-
chored by the quay.

Arden, who had stood by them unperceived,
now approached, and, taking Francesca's hand,
saidj in a low and solemn voice, —

" I dare not bless you ! but, at least, I may
welcome the Lady Francesca Stukeley to her
father's country and her -father's home."

189

CHAPTER XVII.

" What are you in such a bustle about? inquired her husband."

Mns. S. C. HALL.

THE reputation of an inn for cheerfulness must,
like " merrie England's" reputation for gaiety,
have been acquired long ago. The traveller — shewn
into his solitary apartment, with the Sporting
Magazine, some two years old, the sole volume —
a small narrow street for his observation — 'his time
upon his hands, " no nothing to do," and the even-
ing before him, — will surely not find the prospect
very animated. So^puch for the occupant of the
britscha, who waits, as all the horses are out at
a ball or a scrutiny. Neither is the wanderer of
lower degree placed in a more enlivening position :
true, in the common room he has companions;
but to every man is allotted his own table, his own
candle, and his own thoughts. Silence and sus-
picion are the order of the day ; and civility is the
surest sign of a swindler. But in the good old

190 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

times (though perhaps their great goodness may
he debatable ground) the inn kitchen was a
cheerful place; and guests of every rank took
a contented seat on the oaken settles by its blazing
hearth, and did not relish the savoury mess, on
which mine hostess piqued herself, at all the
less because they had witnessed somewhat of its
preparation. The degrees of society were more
strongly marked ; but then there was less fear of
confusion. After all, the English hostel owes
much of its charms to Chaucer ; our associations
are of his haunting pictures — his delicate Lady
Prioress, his comely young squire, with their
pleasant interchange of tale and legend, rise upon
the mind's eye in all the fascination of his vivid
delineations.

But these days were past at the time of which
we write ; a severe and staid, if not sober, spirit
was abroad. And thougl^the annals of the
period do not shew us that there was less ale
drawn, or less canary called for ; men got
dry with the heat of polemical discussion, and
drunk with a text, not the fag end of a ballad,
in their mouths; and. people made a sort of
morality of straight * hair, long faces, arid sad-
coloured garments. Yet, as the Carraras ap-
proached the inn where Arden had decided that

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 191

they should pass the night, it seemed very cheer-
ful. The windows were ruddy with the light
within ; and when the door opened, it discovered
a large warm chamber, and an immense wood fire
was reflected from walls lined with pewter plates
and dishes, polished with a degree of brightness,
and ranged with a degree of display, which shewed
that the preacher's asseveration of " Vanity of
vanities, all is vanity," had not sank very deeply
into the landlady's heart.

Mine hostess herself was a pretty-looking wo-
man, who, whether her age approximated most
to thirty or forty, would have puzzled even the
curious in these matters. She was dressed, ac-
cording to the universal fashion, in a dark co-
loured boddice and skirt, and a white linen cap,
whose closely plaited border covered her hair, ex-
cept a narrow braid. It may be doubted whether
this scrupulously plain attire at all suited the
taste of the wearer ; or whether she did not turn
with a longing eye to the days when she rejoiced
in a scarlet petticoat, and a cap gay with knots of
pink riband.

The host himself was. one of those very quiet
men whom we usually see linked to the most active
helpmates. Whether Nature, in the first instance,
pointed out the necessity of a supply from another

192 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

of that quality in which each was most deficient,
and thus the match originated— or whether the
state of quietude comes on after marriage, exertion
on both sides being discovered to be a superfluity,
— is really too profound an investigation; but the
fact is certain, that the keen-tongued, quick-witted,
bustling wife, is always united to the slow, silent,
and quiet husband.

This proper order of things was duly observed
at the Sun — the Crown it had been, but this was
too loyal an emblem now that England was under
a Protector, instead of a King ; and the sign had
accordingly been taken down. The host proposed
divers puritanical fancies — nay, once hinted at a
head of Cromwell himself; but the hostess over-
ruled all these proposals, and stood firm by the
Sun.

" Nobody," as she justly observed, " has any
particular right to the sun, and it can therefore
offend nobody ; and though your cavaliers now-
a-days don't wear their loyalty like a feather
in their cap, seeing that few wear feathers ; still
there are many of our customers, and good ones
too, who would scruple even at canary, if Crom-
well stood at the door to bid them welcome."

These reasons convinced the landlord, and,
indeed, he would have been convinced without

FBANCESCA CARRARA. 193

them ; but reasons are proofs given as much for
our own satisfaction as for that of others. And,
in truth, the worthy host had every cause to be
satisfied with his wife's management. Their bacon
was a credit even in Hampshire ; their ale worthy
of washing it down ; their accounts well kept,
and most promising at- the year's end. The worst
faults that could be alleged against her were,
that she sometimes * continued her admonitions
and explanations in an ear too drowsy to receive
them, and that she would smile too readily when
a young cavalier chanced to praise her white
teeth ; but that, as she observed, was in the way
of business.

There were already many other guests when
the Italians entered ; but there was that in their
appearance which attracted immediate attention.
The hostess's quick eye glanced from one to the
other, and, pronouncing them to be brother and
sister, she felt inclined to favour one for the other's
sake, namely, the sake of a singularly handsome
youth. Be as philosophical as we can on the
subject, fortify the mind with as many old pro-
verbs as we will, — how that beauty is a flower of
the field that perisheth, and that " handsome is
that handsome does," — yet there will, always be
something in beauty that attracts and interests us

VOL. II. K

194 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

— we know not how. Such homage is a sort of
natural religion of the heart, or rather superstition,
that the good must be inherent in the lovely. But
Guido had a claim far beyond his classical and
perfect features, illumined, as they were, by his
large dark eyes, — a claim, too, scarcely ever with-
out avail on feminine compassion; he looked so
evidently an invalid. The day's fatigue had been
too much ; and with ready thankfulness he took
the proffered seat by the hearth ; while Francesca,
seeing that Arden remained in his usually moody
silence, ventured, though with some trepidation,
on a few English words.

" My brother is not well, and the cold night
affects him ; but he will enjoy such a fire."

Her accent was foreign, but her smile was a
universal language all the world over ; and though
one supper had just been despatched, active pre-
parations were commenced for another.

" Those foreigners," thought the female poten-
tate of the Sun, " won't know what to order ; but
•I'll shew them what a good supper is." And with
a rapidity quite new to the strangers, satisfactory
even to their hunger, a little table was placed in
the warmest nook of the chimney-corner, spread
with the cleanest of cloths, and soon covered with
a dish of fried ham, eggs with the purest of curdlike

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 195

white and the clearest of yellow ; facing was one
of venison steaks, from whose brown crispness
exhaled a little cloud of most fragrant smoke ; in
the middle was a square cut from a pasty ; and
the intermediate spaces were filled up with con-
diments and a large newly baked loaf.

Fraricesca marked with delight the eager man-
ner in which Guido began his meal, and almost
forgot her own hunger in the amusement of watch-
ing him eat so ravenously ; he, however, soon re-
called her attention to herself, by inquiries of —
" Why she did not join them?" and her supper
did as much credit to the cookery as Guido's.
All on " hospitable cares intent," especially when
those cares are also profitable ones, know how
pleasant the appearance of enjoyment is ; and
the strangers increased their first favourable im-
pression by the appetite and the relish with which
they despatched the dishes set before them. The
request afterwards for a flask of her best wine
completed it; — in spite of her husband's advice,
who interrupted her even at the very moment
when the steaks were taking their last shade of
brown, to remark that the new arrivals were ob-
viously foreigners — perhaps papists, and it might
be spies ; and he got what he deserved, an angry
" Hold your tongue!" for his pains.

196 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

Neither Francesca nor Guido were sufficiently
familiar with the English tongue to understand
the conversation that was going on around them ;
but one name rivetted Arden's attention, as soon
did the dialogue in which that name was men-
tioned. Francesca, too, observed his change of
countenance, which led her to mark the group on
which his eye rested ; and if not able to compre-
hend the whole, she yet understood a considerable
part — enough to guess the rest. The speakers
were three men, rather beyond middle life. One
was pale and cadaverous, as if every feature gave
testimony to the length of his vigils and the
rigour of his fasts, while straight black hair hang-
ing down on each side his face added to his wild
and neglected appearance. His sombre dress
was threadbare, and more than one rent was
visible in his cloak ; and yet any who noted pro-
ceedings might have observed that he had taken
care to help himself to the best and the hottest,
while the nearly empty stoup beside exhaled the
odour of some spirit more potent than merely
that of grace — it was the best French brandy.
Hezekiah Pray Unceasingly-to-the-Lord was a fit
specimen of the times, half hypocrite, half fanatic ;
so far just in his deception, that sometimes he
deceived others, and sometimes himself. Near

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 197

him was seated his very opposite ; a man whose
warm, comfortable dress, good-humoured but in-
expressive face, though not wanting in a certain
sort of good sense, together with an inactivity of
body, bespoke the city burgher, well to do in the
world. One always prepared to conform, having
had long practice that way in the whims of his
customers ; whose whole terror of the late commo-
tions was centered in the facl, that one day, in
consequence of a riot, he had to shut his shop at
noon ; and who carried his idea of their results no
farther than that the present grave fashion led to
a great demand for sober colours. At his side
was a thin, restless-looking man, whose embrowned
skin bore testimony to foreign travel — one of those
adventurers who deem their fortune never lies at
home, and encounter great risks for the sake,
not so much of their gains, as for themselves, —
human birds of passage, who make life one per-
petual journey in search of wealth, but who never
die rich.

" But are you sure Lord Avonleigh has been
arrested and sent to London ? "

" Am I sure," said the other, looking with a
smile at the hostess, " that the ale which we are
drinking is good?"

" I saw the ungodly flourishing like a bay-

198 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

tree ; I passed, and lo ! his place knew him no
more," muttered he of the rent cloak.

" I know it to my cost," pursued the former
speaker, disregarding the interruption. " Who
now will buy the gallant falcon I have brought
with so much cost and care from Norway for
Lord Stukeley?"

" Why/' ejaculated the mercer, " they cannot
lay treason to the charge of such a youth ! "

" Yes, he is sent off to the Tower with his
father."

" And did you hear from the servants if any
hope was entertained for them?"

" Hope? — why there is very little fear. It is
the talk of the place, that he has been arrested to
keep him out of mischief. There have been ru-
mours of a conspiracy on foot in the neighbour-
hood; and Sir Robert Evelyn's death" — Fran-
cesca could not repress a start — " has left him
too powerful. So Cromwell has very wisely taken
him out of the way of temptation."

" I wish I had sent in my bill for those em-
broidered gloves which the young Lord Albert
ordered ; he told me so to do, but I thought them
such safe customers ; and it seemed more handsome
to wait," said the burgher, with a face of dismay.

" Pshaw!" exclaimed the owner of the falcon ;

tfRANCESCA CARRARA. 199

" if it was handsome to wait then, it is handsome
to wait now. A brief imprisonment and a fine is
the worst that Lord Avonleigh has to expect.
You will be paid when he comes back j and a
trifle added to the next fancy of Lord Albert's will
make up the interest on your money. I am the
only person to be pitied — What am I to do with
my falcon?"

Guido and Francesca exchanged looks ; for the
attention with which both had listened enabled
them to comprehend with tolerable accuracy the
preceding dialogue.

" I have scarce enough English to make a
bargain," said Guido; " but we must buy this
falcon."

Francesca thanked him with a smile; and
thought within herself, whether her new relatives
% would have such ready sympathy with her wishes.
Guido beckoned to the hostess, and by an inge-
nious mixture of words, looks, and signs, made
her fully understand his desire of purchasing the
bird. In the meantime, their pallid companion
was overwhelming the sellers of the embroidered
gloves and the falcon with denunciations of
the vain follies to which they ministered, mixed
with prophesyings of the vengeance awaiting
them. The mercer, who knew such men had

200 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

often mischief in their power, composed his fea-
tures, and listened with apparent attention ; not
so the other, who leant back on the hench, and
began whistling some air he had picked up on his
travels. The volunteer homilist was stopping for
lack of breath, when the hostess stepped for-
ward, and, addressing the owner of the falcon,
observed, — *

" You will find your bird a sore cumbrance ;
for the noble sport is little kept up in our parts/'

" I know that," said the man, as he looked
with a sorrowful sigh at the cage, which he had
covered with his cloak.

" Well, now, what would you say if T could
help you to a purchaser? There are many bird-
fanciers in the town of Southampton —

" I have a starling myself that can ask what
time o' the day it is, just like a Christian," inter-
rupted the mercer ; who could never hear a ques-
tion of buying and selling raised without putting
in a word.

" Pshaw, man!" exclaimed the other; "do
you think my noble falcon is a fitting companion
for your blackbirds and linnets, to be put in a
wicker cage, and fed on chickweed?"

" I think," added the hostess, " you had better
listen to me. I tell you I know of a purchaser."

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 201

" Let me know who he is," asked the man;
" my falcon shall perch on no hand whose veins
run not with gentle blood,"

" Of that you may judge yourself," answered
she, indicating the intended purchaser by a slight
turn of her head.

The stranger looked at Guido from head to
foot ; apparently his survey was quite satisfactory,
for he crossed the room, and said, —

"I am right loathe to part with the brave
bird that has been my companion these two
months ; but poverty has no choice. Few words
drive a bargain with Peter Eskett. I never abate
one farthing of my price ; but then that price
never asks more than a fair profit. The bird
sleeps now ; but to-morrow, so please you, it shall
take a fair flight, and it is then yours at the price
for which it was promised to Lord Stukeley."

Guido agreed at once to the sum ; but added,
" I doubt our being much the wiser for the trial,
as, I tell you frankly, I know nothing of the
sport. My desire to possess the bird has another
origin."

The man looked his discontent, when Fran-
cesca, who began to fear a refusal from his ex-
pression, said, " But we shall take your directions
as to the management of our prize; and I can

K2

202 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

assure you, not one word of the instructions will
be neglected."

A sweet smile and a soft word have usually
their desired effect ; and so they had on the
owner of the falcon, and, fixing the following
morning to conclude their hargain, he withdrew.

Arden, who had for the last few minutes been
sitting in a gloomy reverie, now approached them,
and said, —

" This sudden arrest has completely altered
my plan ; selfish that I am, to feel it a relief, this
delay in meeting with your father! But to-morrow
I will ride over, learn more accurate tidings, and
see if there be accommodation for you at my bro-
ther's. There best may you await Lord Avon-
leigh's release."

No possible objection could be raised to this
scheme ; and the party retired to rest. Wearied
out, Francesca at once fell asleep— a slumber
which would have been broken by anxiety, could
she have known the feverish restlessness which
kept Guido wakeful on his unquiet pillow, listen-
ing— and dreary it was to listen through the
night — to the distant dash of the waves, as they
rose beneath the loud and sweeping wind.

203

CHAPTER XVIII.

" I did not wish to see that face again."

ARDEN easily ascertained the truth of the report
about Lord Avonleigh's imprisonment, which
seemed rather meant as a curb to the bold and
spirited youth his son, than to spring out of any act
on his own part ; and there was not a doubt but
that temporary restraint was the worst that could
ensue. To wait patiently was all that could now
be done ; and his brother's house would be a most
comfortable abode for the young Italians; while
his sweet and gentle niece would be a charming
companion for Francesca ; and he thought, with a
glow of affection long unfelt, that Lucy Aylmer
must inevitably make a friend whose future kind-
ness might add much to her happiness. Both were
at present placed out of their sphere ; but the one
would in all probability have it greatly in her
power to cherish and aid the other.

204 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

The weather had changed suddenly, and in-
stead of a dull, but warm atmosphere, there had
been a severe and sudden cold ; and for the first
time the travellers saw nature under the influ-
ence of a rime frost. It was well that wonder
and delight forced them from dwelling on their
own thoughts, for both were sad. The delay was
matter of great regret to Guido ; he felt his own
increasing weakness — he looked forward with a
gloomy foreboding, and thought what a relief it
would have been, could he have seen his sister —
for he could accustom himself to nothing but the
tenderness of that long-familiar name — could he
have seen his sister acknowledged, beloved, and
secured from all further reverses.

Francesca, deceived by the colour which the
keen air brought into his cheek — deceived, too,
by his exertions to appear well before her, was less
solicitous about his health ; but, now that she was
actually in England, grew more so about their
future. Like Arden, though from a different
motive, she was glad that the meeting with her
father was postponed. Hitherto, she had been so
little accountable for her actions, save to herself
alone ; now, she was about to submit to the autho-
rity of another, and that one a perfect stranger to
her. Bound by no affections that had grown up

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 205

unconsciously — swayed by no early remembrances
— by, in short, none of those ties which bind parent
and child together far more than the fancied force
of blood ; although I do believe there is much
even in that — still Francesca could dwell only on
the thought, that she was unknown, nay, it might
be, unwelcome. She must come before Lord Avon-
leigh connected with a very unjustifiable passage in
his life ; perhaps — and that idea strengthened her
—his heart might be softened by the memory of
her mother's sufferings — former love must awaken
into tenderness for the orphan she had left.

Guido, too, was among her anxious question-
ings of the future. The home which was not a
home for him could be none for her ; but surely
Lord Avonleigh would feel what was due to one
who had indeed been the most kind, the most
tender brother to his own, would he add deserted,
child. On this subject, perhaps the first one in
their lives that had not been talked over together,
they had been silent, — Francesca from delicacy,
Guido from presentiment.

An exclamation from Guido of " How beauti-
ful ! " broke their meditations, and all reined up
their ponies to look round. They had just entered
one of the forest-roads ; both had been so pre-
occupied by their thoughts, that beyond their first

206 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

shivering glance, when they mounted, at the white
world around, neither had noticed that peculiar
and brilliant landscape, a wooded country covered
with a rime frost. But now, the first fog of the
morning had cleared away ; the shelter of the
dense boughs made it much warmer ; and the
round red sun looked cheerfully as it shed its
crimson hues amid the topmost branches. The
light snow lay on the narrow and winding path
before them, pure as if just fresh winnowed by the
wind. The outline of every tree was marked with
the utmost distinctness by the frost which covered
it ; but every spray drooped beneath the weight
of the fairy and fragile tracery that gernmed them ;
while the gossamer threads, like strung and worked
pearls, only still more transparent, seemed to catch
every stray sunbeam, and glitter with the bright
and passing hues of crystal. Every tree was as
distinguishable as in summer. The oak might
be known by the weight of snow supported in its
huge arms; the ash, by the long and graceful
wreaths that clothed its pensile branches ; and the
holly wore a long icicle, clear, and radiant with
many colours, at the end of every pointed leaf;
while the noiseless manner in which they moved
along, from the light fall on the paths, added to
the enchantment of the scene.

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 207

" Tis a world of sculpture !" exclaimed Guido,
catching hold, as he passed, of a long garland
covered with the most delicate frost-work, some-
thing like those which you see carved on the
ancient marble of some old sepulchral urn.- As
he touched it, the snow fell off, and, cleared from
its mimic alabaster of rime, the green ivy, with its
long bright leaves, remained in his hand.

" You would like," said Francesca, smiling,
" to have your marble creations somewhat more
lasting."

" And yet/' replied he, "it is emblematic ;
behold it shelters the evergreen !"

"Just a lucky chance that there was not
hidden beneath a dry and withered bough."

" It would have been a truer omen," answered
he, mournfully. At this moment Arden came to
their side.

" Yonder road," said he, " leads direct to
Avonleigh. After a little while we shall have to
branch off, as Lawrence Aylmer's house lies to
the left ; it is midway between Avonleigh and
Evelyn Hall."

" So near!" thought Francesca; — and her
thoughts turned more to the last road than the
first. A woman never can wholly shake off the
influence of him whom she first loved. The love

208

FRANCESCA CARRARA.

itself may be past, — gone like a sweet vain dream
which it is useless to remember, or dismissed as an
unworthy delusion ; still its memory remains. A
thousand slight things recall some of its many emo-
tions — it has become a standard of comparison ;
and the " once we felt otherwise," occurs oftener
than many would allow, but all must confess.

Again they rode along in silence, though less
abstractedly than before ; for every now and then
some far vista, like the aisle of a mighty temple
upreared in giant marble, caught the eye, to rest
with delight on the clear blue sky to which it
opened ; or, perhaps, most beautiful in the rapidly
approaching dissolution, they marked some sin-
gularly slight and graceful tree, covered with its
white wreaths and icicles, every one a rainbow in
the colouring sunshine.

Suddenly a distant sound of music came upon
the air — a far and melancholy sound, like the
wailing poured forth for defeat or death, — when
even the trumpet, so glorious in its rejoicing,
shews how mournful can be the voice of its lament.
Francesca turned to Arden, who could only express
his surprise. She then questioned the boy who
led the horse with the baggage, with some difficulty
— for to hear and to comprehend were two very
different things ; but from him she could obtain

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 209"

no information ; he evidently knew nothing about
it ; and fear was all it excited. Still the sounds
came nearer and nearer ; and as they turned off
into the road before mentioned, a long and evi-
dently funeral procession was winding slowly
along.

They drew up in a small open space, beneath
the shelter of a huge beech, to allow it to pass
by, for the foremost horsemen were already beside
them. A band of troopers, two and two, in the
buff jackets, large boots, and slouched hats, which
marked soldiers in the Parliamentary service, rode
first; their arms were reversed, and every eye
bent gloomily on the ground — sorrow was obvi-
ously no mere form, to be observed and forgotten.
The trumpeters came next, and their wild lament
filled the air ; then two pages, dressed in black,
led a gallant steed ; but there was no need of a
rein, for the head of the noble creature drooped,
and it seemed to have an almost human conscious-
ness that it was now paying its last duty to its
master. An open bier, drawn by four horses,
whose tossing heads covered with plumes tangled
the white boughs, and shook down the glittering
icicles at every step, followed ; and on it was the
coffin, covered with a velvet pall, on which lay
the sword and gloves of the dead who slept below.

210 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

Behind came a concourse of vassals and spec-
tators ; but Francesca only saw the young cavalier
who rode bareheaded behind. His long fair hair
hung to his shoulders, but the wind blew it aside,
and, pale and careworn, she instantly recognised
the face of Robert Evelyn.

211

CHAPTER XIX.

" O, youth, thou hast a wealth beyond
What careful men do spend their souls to gain."

MABY HOWITT.

" WHOSE funeral has just passed?" asked Arden,
wlio little suspected that his companions were
already informed.

" Sir Robert Evelyn's/' answered the lingering
follower whom he questioned. " It is a sore loss
to the whole country ; for a kinder master never
existed. But his son is like him, God bless him !"

" That," continued Arden, " was the pale fair
young man who rode after the coffin ? "

" Yes ; that was Mr. Evelyn. And, sad though
the task be, he may lay his father in peace in the
grave ; for he never hastened him into it by care
or sorrow of his causing ; and he watched him
like a girl during Sir Robert's last illness."

Arden turned to the Carraras, when Guido,
who guessed that Francesca would little wish to

212 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

hear all this repeated, began to tell him that they
had slightly known Mr. Evelyn ; and proposed, as
they were chilled with their pause beneath the
beech, to ride on a little briskly.

Francesca's eyes were too full of tears even to
look her thanks for his watchfulness ; but she rode
on, glad to be distracted by the rapid pace, which
demanded all her attention ; for, little accustomed
to ride, she was a timid horsewoman. But the
moment they slackened their pace, she reverted to
the scene which had just passed. Only to have
seen him again was enough for agitation ; but to
see him engaged in an office so holy and so
touching, and to hear his praises, made every pulse
in her heart beat even to pain. His pale, mourn-
ful countenance rose before her ; and, as it had
ever happened when aught occurred to soften her
feelings towards him, she went back to those first
and happy days in Italy, when she loved him so
entirely, so confidingly, and he seemed so worthy
of her utmost devotion ! But again that last scene
at Compiegne rose vividly before her ; not only
his falsehood to her, but his slander of her, came
to mind. It seemed as if she had never felt their
full heinousness till now — now that with shame
she owned that for a moment she had relented in
his favour. With shame — for resentment was a

FRANCESCA CARRARA, 213

justice she owed to herself. There are some offences
which it is an unworthy weakness to forget.

She put back her hood, and allowed the fresh
air to blow upon her face. She forced herself to
mark the beautiful and radiant hues that the noon-
rays flung over every melting icicle ; and in a
short while was able to speak to her brother, and
turned the conversation on what sort of a home
they should find in the English farm-house to
which they were going.

They had not much time for fancying or guess-
ing. They left the forest ; and, after passing
through a narrow lane, from whose warm and
southern aspect the frost had almost disappeared,
they arrived at a large low dwelling, to which
Arden welcomed them as to that of his brother-in-
law. A rosy child opened the gate which looked
upon the yard, at whose entrance was a pond,
where a flock of ducks were catching the sunshine
upon their brown-and-white wings, while their
throats took a still richer shade of green. The
buildings formed a square. Opposite the house
was a roomy barn, whose open doors shewed a
thresher hard at work, and the sound of his flail
resounded on every side. Then came a range of
stables, with a shed filled with carts ; and the
right was occupied by a cow-house, whose tenants

214 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

were being milked, and whose fragrant breath
was sweet even in the distance. In the middle
was a large dunghill covered with poultry ; while
one very fine hen, with a brood of half-grown
speckled chickens, started off with her flutter-
ing company beneath the very horses' feet, who
apparently were too used to the confusion to
mind it.

Lawrence Aylmer came to the door and helped
Francesca to dismount. A spacious porch opened
into what was at once kitchen and sitting-room.
An immense hearth filled up one end of the
apartment ; two small square windows were on
each side the chimney-place, too high to serve any
purpose of observation, but their light shewed the
curious carving of the man tie-shelf ; a matchlock,
and a cross-bow suspended above. The floor was
of red brick ; the walls were whitewashed, though
but little of them could be seen, from the delf and
pewter which crowded the shelves ; and here it
was obvious, that, unlike those of the Sun, no
mistress's eye rejoiced in their splendour, for
though perfectly clean, there was little attempt at
display. At the other extremity was a large win-
dow, which, from the white sprays that hung
before the glass, seemed to look into a garden.
The table, which was spread for dinner, was drawn

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 215

towards its recess, thus leaving an ample space for
the culinary preparations, which were now pro-
ceeding in full vigour.

As we have but little to say of the master of
the house, that little may as well be said here, where
he has at least the importance of being host.
Lawrence Aylmer had but one pursuit ; for that
he rose early, and late lay down to rest — for that
he toiled and speculated — for that grudged even
the common expenses of his living. We need
scarcely add, that this pursuit was gain ; and this
passion — for such it was, with all the strength,
the endurance, the hope, the imagination of passion
— this craving for wealth, rose from some of the
tenderest, the purest, the saddest feelings in our
nature; so strangely do the emotions of the human
mind originate their opposites !

Lawrence Aylmer loved his wife with the
poetry born of her own sweet face — of the green
meadow with its early wildflowers — of the long
starry walk through the dim shadows of the old
forest, wherewith that image was associated. He
felt, while he loved, her superiority ; his eye
might grow gentle beneath hers, and his voice low
when meant for her ear. Yet these were not his
habits ; he was rude in comparison with Lucy.
Every hour passed beneath his roof made him

216 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

more deeply conscious that his was not the home
for his drooping and delicate flower ; and when
she died — died of that insidious disease which so
mocks with the semblance of hope when hope there
is none — he forgot that the breath of consumption
also fades the cheek that sleeps beneath the purple,
and that the highest and noblest have to deplore
over their loveliest and best. With that proneness
to accuse our own peculiar lot of whatever may be
its sorrow, he blamed the circumstances in which
he was placed, and said, " If I had been wealthy,
Lucy had not died." And when — the very image
of her over the headstone of whose grave the moss
was growing grey — another Lucy grew up to dwell
within his home, how did he delight in lavishing
on her every luxury ! and said within himself,
f < Shew me a lady in the land that has her heart's
wish more than my child ; and her dower — there
are few amid the ruined gentry around but would
be thankful for a tithe of the broad pieces, or a
few roods of the broad lands, that will be hers."

And yet Lucy thought her father neglected
her — at least, that he took no pleasure in her
society ; and, naturally shy, she often shrunk from
offering those thousand little acts of affection which
make the enjoyment of daily life, and which, in-
deed, would have made the happiness of theirs.

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 217

The truth is, they had lived too much apart —
apart at the time when tastes, more than opinions,
are formed, and when the memory treasures up
pleasures and sorrows, hopes and disappointments,
which, whether good or bad, are such perpetual
and grateful subjects of familiar discourse after-
wards. They had nothing in common, and this
led to constant restraint; their conversation was
always brief and confined, because neither ever
spoke of the things which really interested them
— and confidence is the soul of domestic affection.
Years passed by, and Lawrence Aylmer was
surprised at the riches which he had accumulated ;
yet he could not deceive himself into the belief
that they added to his enjoyment. His thoughts
went continually back to her who was cold in the
unconscious grave. Ah ! his wealth might have
added to her happiness ; but, like most good things
in this world, it came too late.

VOL. II.

218

CHAPTER XX.

Ah ! life has many dreams, hut yet has none
Like its first dream of love."

WITH hospitable eagerness Lucy Aylmer hastened
to conduct her guests to her own room. Francesca
was soon disencumbered of her riding-hood and
cloak ; and the three young people, left together,
became rapidly acquainted. The very blunders
made by the two Italians in the English tongue,
— the necessity of explanations, and of mutual
assistance in comprehending each other, soon put
the conversation on a familiar footing.

The dinner was very cheerful ; for all were in-
clined to please and be pleased. Francesca was
not only attracted towards her sweet and gentle
hostess, but wished, by exertion, to banish the
image of Evelyn, brought too readily before her
by the frequent recurrence to mind of the morn-
ing's scene.

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 219

Lucy was delighted with the strangers. She
had too little society not to enjoy the prospect of
such an addition to their household circle during
the dull and dreary winter ; besides, there is a
readiness of attachment in youth — the fresh and
unused heart is so alive to the kindlier impres-
sions. Pass but a few, a very few years, and we
shall marvel how we ever could have found love
enough for the many objects which were once so
dear !

When Lucy left the room, both were warm
in her praise. Ah ! that exaggeration of liking
— that readiness to like — that taking for granted
all imaginable good qualities — to what a joyous
time, to what a buoyant and happy state of feel-
ing, does it belong ! Their young hostess was
so fair — so delicate, with her golden hair only
visible beneath the snow-white cap, just where it
parted on the forehead. There would have been
something childlike in the pure skin and small
features, but for the deep and melancholy blue
eyes ; and in them was a thoughtful sadness,
never yet seen in the clear orbs of childhood.
There was a tone, too, of pastoral poetry shed
over the new scenes to which they were just intro-
duced, that had a greater effect from the contrast
to those, artificial and crowded, which they had

220 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

just left. The simplicity of the pretty chamber
where they sat was different from any thing they
had seen before. The cheerful white wainscoting
was ornamented with carving; and on the high
mantle-shelf were ranged some curious shells and
pieces of glittering spar, and a nest filled with
various eggs. Around were many of the little
graceful signs of feminine taste and presence.
There were some light book-shelves, an embroi-
dery-frame, a lute, and in the large bow-window,
so placed as to catch whatever sunshine could be
found in December, a number of plants — mostly
common flowers, but improved into another nature
by sedulous cultivation.

The aspect was southern and sheltered, the
rime had long since melted from the evergreens,
and a few late roses looked in at the casement.
Somewhat pale were they, arid drooping ; but
lovely, for they were the last. Beyond the garden
was a field, and that skirted a vast arm of the
forest — dense and impenetrable, though now the
thickness of the foliage added nothing to the
matting of the branches.

A drizzling rain kept them close prisoners for
the three succeeding days, which, nevertheless,
passed easily away. Of Lawrence Aylmer they
saw but little ; enough, however, to mark and pity

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 221

the restraint that existed between him and his
daughter; though convinced, at the same time,
it was one of those evils for which, at all events,
no stranger could bring a remedy. More fa-
miliarity of intercourse might have taught both
parent and child the affection hidden in each
other's heart ; but this would have been to reverse
the long-established custom. They never took
their meals together; there was no hour in the
day to which they looked as a rallying point,
where each is prepared with the little narrative
of daily occurrence, only interesting from daily
listening. As to Arden, he was more gloomy and
unsocial than ever. Of what could the scenes of
his boyhood remind him, but of talents wasted, of
time departed, and of hopes gone by for ever !

The first day they were able to walk out,
the young people hastened to explore the neigh-
bourhood.

" That is Avonleigh," said Lucy, as they
paused upon an eminence, which commanded a
fine sweep of country, " though you can scarcely
see it for the trees ; and that old hall, on whose
gray walls the sunbeams are glistening, is Evelyn
House, — perhaps you might like to go over it ?
there are some beautiful pictures."

" Oh, no!" exclaimed Francesca, interrupting

222 FRANCESOA CARRARA.

her ; " we should very much dislike coming in
contact with strangers just now."

" None of the family are there," replied Lucy;
" as Mr. Evelyn went to Ireland the very day
after Sir Robert's burial."

At this moment Guido, who knew how dis-
agreeable the subject must be to his sister, drew
their attention to those golden slants of sunshine
which seem to come so direct from heaven to
earth, — bright and vapoury ladders, — fitting steps
for our vain wishes to mount above ; and just then
so distinct from the dark mass of shadow flung
from the deep forest in the distance. This turned
the conversation, and the topic was never again
renewed ; for Fraricesca carefully avoided aught
that could bring on any mention of the Evelyns ;
and Lucy had her own secret consciousness, which,
by keeping a subject constantly in the mind, often
prevents all allusion to it.

Lucy was still in the early and golden time of
affection — vague, visionary, and believing. She
never dreamed that in her lover was the greatest
obstacle to their happiness. No remembrance of
falsehood was treasured bitterly in her memory —
a warning for the future which we are better
without ; for what avails distrust ? It only deprives
us of life's greatest enjoyment — being deceived.

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 223

Made up of illusions, as our existence is, alas for
the time when we come to know those illusions
beforehand !

Lucy's cheek was pale with the sickness of
hope long deferred ; and her imagination, wearied
with exertion, sometimes sunk down, languid in
its utter solitude. Still she hoped and trusted, and,
in so doing, was far happier than she deemed.
Gentle fancies waited around her ; the poetry of
her youth was over all the associations of her
attachment — the days to come rose beautiful be-
fore her, for they were of her own creation ; and
absence was sweetened by expectation.

In all things there is one period more lovely
than aught that has gone before — than aught
that can ever come again. That delicate green,
touched with faint primrose, of the young leaves,
when the boughs are putting forth the promise
of a shadowy summer — the tender crimson of the
opening bud, whose fragrant depths are uncon-
scious of the sun, — these are the fittest emblems
for that transitory epoch in the history of a girl's
heart, when her love, felt for the first time, is as
simple, as guileless, as unworldly as herself. It is
the purest, the most ideal poetry in nature. It
does not, and it cannot last. It is only too likely
that the innocent and trusting heart will be ground

224 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

down to the very dust. Falsehood, disappoint-
ment, and neglect, form the majority of chances ;
and even if fortunate — fortunate in requited faith-
fulness and a sheltered home — still the visionary
hour of youth is gone by. There are duties instead
of dreams — romance exhausts itself — and the ima-
ginative is merged in the common-place. The
pale green returns not to the leaf, the delicate red
to the flower, and, still less, its early poetry to the
heart.

225

CHAPTER XXI.

" I feel the awful presence of my fate."

THEY had been settled about a fortnight at Holm-
hurst, the name of Lawrence Aylmer's farm ;
when, one evening, finding Francesca and Guido
alone, Arden gave the former a closely-written
packet. " This," said he, " is for Lord Avon-
leigh. It has been, for the last three nights, my
wretched task. Its contents are already known
to you ; for it contains my history, and will ex-
plain every thing. Give it to him yourself, Fran-
cesca— let him see your mother in your face;
and for your sake he may forgive me. I leave
this to-morrow."

An exclamation of surprise broke from both
his hearers.

" Why should you go?" cried Francesca;
" you have not a connexion or a friend in the wide
world, save among ourselves. Have we given

L2

226 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

you unconscious offence? — unconscious, indeed, it
must have been."

" None, dear child ! " said he, taking her hand;
" but misery makes rne restless. I feel, too, as if
the very sight of me must cast a gloom over you !
I often hear your voices, and that of my gentle
Lucy, mingled together in cheerful converse ; and
I shrink from the pleasure it gives me — I dread
lest it should be punished on you ! "

" Nay," interrupted Guido, " this is being
too fanciful. We will run the risk," added he,
smiling, " of any judgment you may bring down
upon us."

" You speak like a boy," replied Arden, almost
angrily, " who imagines that doubt is wisdom. My
whole past has taught me the mysterious in-
fluences which unite our destinies together. Bless-
ings wait on the steps of one, while curses follow
in the path of another. To whom have I ever
brought good ? My sister pined away in the home
which I urged her to enter ; my first friend,
through my act, became a broken-down exile in
his old age ; the only woman I ever loved I forced
to a violent and dreadful death ; my eastern
master perished as soon as he befriended his fatal
slaved I seek to repair my former crimes, and

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 227

now Lord Avonleigh, who has known but one un-
interrupted course of prosperity, is carried away
into captivity. If I wish your good I must leave
you. Why should my shadow be flung upon your
path?"

There is something in a deep conviction that
forces, for the time, its own belief on others. As
the youthful Italians gazed on Arden's pale and
haggard face, with its wild and gleaming eyes, seen
by the fitful light of the decaying hearth, while
the only sound that echoed his slow and hollow
accents was the winter wind that went howling
drearily past, — they felt as if the evil influence
were indeed upon them, and shrunk before that
nameless dread of the future, which for the mo-
ment subdues the energies, and in whose presence
reason trembles. Surely all the more imaginative
know this sensation ; it is not omen — sound,
light, even a cheerful word, have power to de-
stroy its dark dominion ; and, unlike most other
human emotions, it has no consequence. But
who has not shuddered before the indefinite and
unknown ?

In the ordinary course of daily life, it is won-
derful how little we think of the morrow. That
sufficient for the day is the evil thereof, is a truth
unconsciously, but universally, acknowledged. In-

228 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

stinct clings to the immediate ; but when we do
think of the future, uninfluenced by any present
hope — by any strong tide of anticipation carrying
us along its darkening depths — how terrible does
that future ever appear ! — what may it not have in
store for us! Sickness, sorrow, poverty, age, and
even crime — all that we should now indignantly
disclaim, but that to which we may yield under
some strong and subtle temptation. The guiltiest
have had their guileless and innocent hour. Who
knows what may await them of degradation and
despair? Death, too ! — that awful spectre, which
stalks over the morrow as his own domain, opens
before us his many graves — our own the last! — no
rest till we are worn with weeping for the loved
and lost ! At such times, how we marvel at our
usual recklessness, and pause, as it were, shrink-
ing from the busy and inevitable current which is
hurrying us on to eternity !

Each, however, felt that their silence was un-
kind to Arden : both urged him to stay, by every
motive that could persuade, and every reason that
could induce. But entreaty and argument were
alike in vain. Arden had arrived at the last con-
solation of misfortune — fatality. Strange the un-
conscious comfort which it is to exaggerate our
self-importance, and that crime and sorrow are

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 229

redeemed from the common-place by stamping
them with the character of fate !

Arden departed early the next morning. He
took no farewell, and left no words of blessing
behind him. Some slight noise had awakened
Francesca, and opening her casement, she looked
through the thick and misty air, and saw him
riding slowly over the heath. It was a bleak
and desolate scene. In summer, it was a wide
and beautiful panorama ; but now the dreariest
hours of the year were m paramount, and nature
looked rather lifeless than sleeping. The com-
mon was brown, and the trees leafless ; while a
dull and leaden sky oppressed, rather than sur-
rounded, the landscape.

Never tell me of the sterner beauties of winter.
Winter may have a mighty beauty of its own,
where the mountain rises, white with the snow of
a thousand years, hemmed in by black pine forests,
eternal in their gloom ; where the overhanging
avalanche makes terrible even the slightest sound
of the human voice ; where the pinnacles of ice
catch the sunbeams but to mock their power, and
wear the genial and rosy tints of that warmth
which they know not ; and where waters that
never flowed spread the glittering valleys with the
frost-work of the measureless past.

230 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

But the characteristic of English scenery is
loveliness. We look for the verdant green of her
fields, for the rich foliage of her luxuriant trees,
for the colours of her wild and garden flowers,
for daisies universal as hope, and for the cheer-
ful hedges, so various in leaf and bud. Winter
comes to us with gray mists and drizzling rains :
now and then, for a day, the frost creates its own
fragile and fairy world of gossamer : but not often.
We see the desolate trees, bleak and bare ; the
dreary meadows, the withered gardens, and close
door and window, to exclude the fog and the east
wind.

Such a morning was it when Arden wound
his way along the cheerless road. Twice or thrice
he looked back; but suddenly he clapped spurs
to his horse and rode on, as if in the deter-
mination of fixed resolve. A turn of the path
shewed him once more ; but immediately a group
of trees intervened, and shut him for ever from
Francesca's sight.

None in his native country ever saw Richard
Arden again. He left his niece richly dowered ;
and months afterwards, they had a brief scroll,
which told his fate — it was his last communica-
tion with his kind, — he had entered the abbey
of La Trappe. Penance and vigil soon did the

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 231

work of* time on his worn-out frame! Scarcely
had he fulfilled his gloomy task, and dug his
future grave, ere in that grave he was laid —
the fevered brain calm, the beating heart at rest
for ever !

232

CHAPTER XXII.

" The mighty conqueror of conquerors — Death !"

BUT while the common run of ordinary circum-
stances were going their little round of influence,
— small pebbles flung in the great stream of time,
whose motion extends not beyond their own narrow
eddy, — one of those mighty events was on the
wheel of fate which shake the nations with the
sound thereof.

The generality of individuals perish and are
forgotten before the wild flowers have sprung up
in the grass sods that cover them. Their home is
desolate for a time, and, perchance, missing their
care may force their children to grieve for their
loss; perhaps, too, some faithful heart may feel
that its life of life has gone from it for ever. But,
take the majority of deaths — how little are they
felt — how little do they matter ! Strange mystery
of human existence, that its most awful occurrence

FRAtfCESCA CARRARA. 233

is often its least important ! Death is ever around
us, and yet we think not of it ; its terrible presence
is made manifest, and then forgotten. The most
passing interests of life occupy more of our thoughts
than its end.

But the Destroyer had now struck down the
mightiest in England — one of the great ones,
whose destiny is that of many — one of those
daring spirits whose history includes that of thou-
sands : — Cromwell was dead ! The hand that held
the bond of so many jarring interests lay powerless
beneath the pall. The perils of war had been
about him, and the midnight assassin had watched
his path ; yet he died quietly in his bed. No part
of his fate seemed to fulfil the prophecy of what
went before. Who could have believed it? was
the motto of his whole life.

There was not a hearth in England where the
death of Cromwell was not the sole discourse ;
and, resembling all other events, each drew that
inference from its consequences that best pleased
them. Royalist and Republican were equally
fervent in their hope, and strong in their belief.
Our part, however, lies only with those of our
own narrative; and to express their feelings on
the occasion, we must claim our privilege of
changing the scene.

234 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

One red gleam of a winter sunset broke the
heavy vapours that had collected on the air —
a single bright spot, but rapidly disappearing, for
the thick atmosphere rolled like the turbid waves
of some dark sea. That crimson light passed
through the murky gratings of a high and narrow
window in the Tower, and, falling direct on the
hearth, almost extinguished the decaying brands,
whose fire was lost in the white and smoul-
dering ashes. There was something peculiarly
dreary in the aspect of the room ; the lofty walls
and ceiling were discoloured with smoke and time,
and the smooth wainscot had no other ornament
than initial letters and names, rudely carved by
some unpractised hands : each was a record of the
weary hour and of the hope deferred — the languid
task set by imprisonment to itself, glad to waste the
time which has no employment save melancholy
thought, and finding even in this trivial labour a
resource.

Two chairs, a deal table, and a worn footstool,
were the sole furniture of the comfortless chamber;
and yet there were indulgences which told that
the prisoners had command of that universal talis-
man, gold. Glasses, whose slender stems seemed
endangered by the touch, and carved with the
delicate tracery of Venice — flowers just breathed

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 235

on the clear crystal — stood upon the table; and
the half-finished flask exhaled the delicious odour
of Burgundy.

The elder cavalier was seated beside the hearth,
half asleep ; and sleep, which so shews the face in
its truth, unbrightened by expression — which so
often conceals the ravages of years — marked how
little time had wrought upon Lord Avonleigh.
The brow was smooth and fair ; no deep thought,
born of deep feeling, had grown there — those
indelible lines which stamp even youth with age.
True, the fiery eagerness of former days was past,
and in its place was the quiet, self-concentrated
look of habitual indulgence. His dress was rich ;
the finest lace formed his ruff, and his curious
gold chain was rather elegant than massive ; while
an attention to the disposition of the whole, to-
gether with the intentional grace of the attitude,
bespoke the still remaining consciousness of per-
sonal attraction.

His son, the companion of his imprisonment,
was very like him ; but, strange that the young
face possessed already stronger lines than its proto-
type! Scorn seemed habitual to the curved lip;
and the starting veins in the middle of the fore-
head were the unerring indication of a violent
temper.

236 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

Lord Stukeley had been for some time watch-
ing the small portion of the Thames which could
be caught from the barred casement. There was
but little to interest in the carpenter's yard oppo-
site, or the few boats that were floating slowly
down the river. He turned away listlessly, and
at first, with the sole idea of its own enjoyment
ever uppermost with a spoiled child, was about
to rouse his father, when his natural kindliness
of temper prevailed, and he desisted, though obvi-
ously not knowing what to do with himself. He
then opened a drawer in the table, and took from
it a pack of cards. " I can't play by myself,"
exclaimed he, discontentedly. Suddenly his face
brightened, he drew his seat forwards, and began
building houses. One after another the parti-
coloured fragments of each fragile fabric were
strewed over the table, till gradually his hand
became accustomed and steady — walls and roofs
were properly balanced, and the mimic Babels
mounted high in air, — fittest symbols of all the
graver plans and trials that agitate human exist-
ence. Scarcely is one scheme overthrown ere
another is raised out of its ruins, but destined,
like its predecessor, to destruction; and yet, it
would seem, the more we know the chances
against our efforts — how a breath may demolish,

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 237

nay, what our own weariness will soon destroy, —
the more earnestly do we pursue them to the end.
Albert was too young to moralise thus, and he
pursued his employment. At length he raised a
tower whose merits really deserved to be appre-
ciated, and Lord Avonleigh was awakened by
a loud and sudden demand on his admiration.
" It reaches above my head!" exclaimed Albert
eagerly. But eagerness in this case, as in most
others, annihilated its own delight ; down came the
tottering height, while the disappointed builder
found relief for his sorrow in anger — sorrow's hest
remedy, after all. " It is your fault/' exclaimed
he, turning pettishly to his father — " shaking the
table so !"

« Why, you see, Albert, the consequences of
awakening me," replied the indulgent parent;
" but if you will build it up again, I will promise
to admire as much as you please, and at the most
respectful distance."

Lord Stukeley was not to be easily soothed ;
his father's commiseration only made him think
that he had been really aggrieved ; so he leant
over the cards sullenly enough, but without at-
tempting to renew his former occupation.

" We shall soon be in the dark," said Lord
Avonleigh, who, like most indolent people, pre-

238 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

ferred not to remark the mood which he lacked
energy to reprimand. And so he began to nurse
the small remains of fire yet lurking in the
smouldering wood -ashes, which revived as the
red sunbeams were lost in the masses of black
clouds now gathered in piles upon the west. A
pale clear flame had just coloured the thick white
smoke, when Lord Avonleigh started up into a
listening attitude of intense attention, exclaiming,
" St. Paul's bell is tolling!"

He was right. Heavily and gloomily the
mighty sound swept along the Thames, and was
answered, as one church after another repeated
the melancholy peal. Dull, loud, and mono-
tonous, stroke after stroke fell like a weight upon
the ear ; the whole atmosphere seemed oppressed
with the invisible but conscious presence of Death.
" They are tolling," ejaculated Lord Avonleigh in
a subdued voice, " for the death of Cromwell. "

" For Cromwell's death?'7 cried Albert, his
eyes flashing, and his cheek colouring, like a
young gladiator in the first flush of his ferocious
triumph — "for Cromwell's death? Why, it is
the bravest peal that ever rang from the steeples
of London. Out upon their dastardly tolling !
Why don't they ring the bells merrily, and cry,
' Long live King Charles the Second !' "

ERANCESCA CARRARA. 239

" Hush ! hush!" said his cautious companion.
But the injunction was not needed, for a burst of
thunder directly ahove their heads completely over-
powered both their voices. An instant after, a
vivid sheet of lightning filled the chamber. They
involuntarily approached the window ; the oppo-
site side of the river was hidden in a dense black
vapour, and the huge dark clouds were piled upon
the sky like the waves of some vast and stormy
sea, just marked by thin meteor-like lines of faint
crimson, illuminated almost every minute by the
white glare of the forked flash, while the old and
massive walls of the Tower seemed to rock as
each tremendous clap of thunder followed fast
upon another.

" Hurrah!" cried Albert, as one roll, more
violent than the rest, made the solid floor vibrate
under their feet. " Hurrah ! the devil is taking
his own in fine style."

This storm, which devastated all England, was
felt in Hampshire before news arrived of the death
which it was supposed to attend. The depths of
its old forest reverberated to the echoing thunder,
and many a stately tree stood scorched and black-
ening, to whose withered boughs spring would now
return in vain.

The ensuing noon, Francesca and Guido were

240 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

watching from the window the destruction that
had been wrought in the garden, whose paths were
like running brooks, on which floated the smaller
branches torn off by yesterday's fury, while the
larger ones crushed the slighter shrubs on which
they lay. Several trees had been blown down,
one of which was a fine old laurel just opposite
the casement.

" It was not for nothing," said Lawrence Ayl-
mer, entering the room, " that the storm came —
it arose round the death-bed of Cromwell."

" Is Cromwell dead?" was the exclamation
from all.

There was no party spirit, no political hopes
or fears, in that little chamber ; so that the news
was received in the silence of awe and dread.
But the general rarely triumphs long over the
individual feeling; and the young Italians na-
turally reverted to the probability of Lord Avon-
leigh's immediate release. Such anticipation was,
however, to be disappointed, as the council of
Richard exacted pledges which his lordship was
unwilling to give ; for, already calculating on
the return of the royal family, he determined
to take no step that might then be recorded
against him.

No such change in affairs as was expected,

FBANCESCA CARRARA. 241

however, took place. The truth is, that people
in general are stupified hy any great event. The
awe of Cromwell rested like a dead weight on
men's minds, and the shock and pause were mis-
taken for security.

VOL. n. M

242

CHAPTER XXIII.

" I look into the mist of future years,
And gather comfort from the eternal law."

WILSON.

HAVING claimed our privilege of carrying our
readers to scenes, however far apart, which bear
upon our narrative, we must now shew the effect
of Cromwell's death on our other actors ; and
cross the Irish channel, to where Henry, the
younger son of the Protector, resided, the govern-
ment of Ireland having been intrusted to his
charge.

It was an evening of much festivity and some
mirth — things often more opposed than their near
neighbourhood would indicate ; but Henry, who
desired to conciliate, had collected round the board
a numerous assemblage, who, whatever heart-
burning might be hidden by the embroidered vest,
or what less kindly feeling might lurk beneath

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 243

the apparent smile, at any rate came to the feast,
and talked loud and drank freely. Enough was
done to pass the meeting off as one marked by
extreme cordiality and unbounded hilarity, — com-
mon phrases, which imply so little, and are used
so much.

Among the guests was one, a young and hand-
some man, of that appearance which his own sex
would pronounce gentlemanlike, and the other,
interesting. He was dressed in deep mourning,
and looked pale and sad, as if the sense of a
recent loss was still strong within him ; while his
fair though somewhat wan complexion was made
more striking by the contrast with the bright pro-
fusion of hair that parted on his brow, and, hang-
ing in long curls down his shoulders, might have
vied with those of any native chieftain who held
his freedom and the golden length of his locks
synonymous. He was seated next an elderly offi-
cer, to whom he paid a degree of attention which
was refused to the gayer sallies of a younger com-
panion on the other side. Still it was obvious that
his attention was the result of that good feeling
which is the best politeness ; for when the old
man became at last engaged in a warm discussion
with his neighbour, touching the merits and de-
merits of chain armour, Robert Evelyn (for it was

244 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

he) looked relieved by being again able to sit in
silence and in thought.

It is curious to mark the many shapes taken
by mental suffering. With some it at once assumes
the mask and the mariner, puts on smiles, and
forces the gay and brilliant word. These are they
who are sensitively alive to the opinions of others,
who, having once been called animated, deem that
they have a character to sustain. Such shrink
with morbid susceptibility from its being supposed
how much they really feel ; and vanity — vanity,
by the by, in its most graceful and engaging form,
usually native to such characters — aids them to
support the seeming. They cannot endure being
thought less agreeable ; and only in solitude give
way to the regret which oppresses them — then
exaggerated to the utmost. Ah ! none know
the misery of such solitude but those who have
felt it. The reaction of forced excitement is ter-
rible ; pale, spiritless, and exhausted, we are left
suddenly alone with our memory, which on the
instant acquires an almost magical power of crea-
tion ; every sorrowful passage in existence is re-
traced anew, every mortification rises up in double
bitterness; slights are magnified, and even in-
vented,— they almost seem deserved ; for we are
ashamed of ourselves for having acted a part. We

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 245

feel lonely, neglected, miserable, aggrieved ; and
all that but one half -hour before we had been
exerting ourselves to attain, appears to be utterly
worthless.

It is easy to say that such a state of mind is
morbid and mistaken ; but before we can change
our feelings, we must change our nature ; and a
temperament of this sensitive and excitable kind
is of all others the most difficult, nay, impossible,
to alter and to subdue.

Evelyn's character was completely the opposite
to this ; he was naturally grave and reserved, and
too little interested by the generality of mankind
to be solicitous about their suffrage. More vanity
would have made him more amiable, but it would
have been at his own expense. He did not, could
not, lightly attach himself; but when he did, it
was with all the energy and depth of a passionate
and melancholy nature — one of those attachments
which are the destiny of a life. He was more given
to reflection than to imagination — hence he dwelt
more on the past than on the future ; and with
such tempers, impressions once admitted are deep
and lasting.

With Evelyn, all the poetry of his mind was
bestowed on the days which had been ; those to
come were mere matter of calculation. Placed in

246 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

such and such circumstance, which were but ra-
tional to suppose, such and such results would
ensue. He was prepared to meet them, but he
delighted in no fanciful creations concerning them :
he looked back when he indulged in the tender
romance of the heart. His father's death was but
recent ; and no loss can be so severe as our first, —
till then, scarcely had we believed in death ; now
its presence darkens the world; we are haunted
by a perpetual fear, for ever whispering of the
instability of humanity.

Evelyn took the earliest opportunity of with-
drawing from the hall, and, while waiting for the
interview which he wished with Henry Cromwell,
paced slowly up and down one of the terraces that
looked towards the sea. During the preceding
days the weather had been unusually stormy ;
and though the wind had sunk down from its
terrific violence, and the giant waves subsided to
their wonted level, yet, both on sky and ocean,
there were the many slight signs of the late tur-
moil. The waves heaved with an unquiet motion,
while flakes of froth floated upon them, and gleams
of phosphoric light scintillated in the distance.

All things in nature are types of humanity ;
and Evelyn pleased himself with tracing a like-
ness in the tremulous sea to man's own agitated

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 247

bosom, shaken with the conflict of contending
passion, and trembling with exhaustion rather
than repose ; while a thousand vain cares and
feverish hopes are rocked to and fro on the rest-
less surface. The heavens were equally unsettled ;
the dense purple, lighted by the large bright
moon, was broken by huge masses of clouds —
some dark, as if the thunder still lingered in
their gloomy recesses, while others, fragile and
snowy, seemed to harbour nothing rougher than
a summer shower, enough to bathe but not to
spoil the rose.

The general aspect of midnight is calm and
solemn; the lulled spirits unconsciously are sub-
dued by the deep repose. Not so this night. The
keen air from the water made exercise necessary
to circulate the blood ; and somewhat of cheerful
exertion is connected with a fresh gale and a quick
walk. The light, too, was wavering and uncer-
tain, as the heavy vapours sailed by and obscured
the moon ; and her mirror, the ocean, at one mo-
ment glittered with her silvery beam, and the next
was left in total darkness.

The scene greatly harmonised with the young
Englishman's mood ; from its wearing a likeness
to the human lot in general, he, by a common pro-
cess, began to associate it with the fate peculiarly

248 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

his own. Even so had his past mingled gloom
and brightness, and so unquiet and troubled was
his actual life. Still present to his mind rose
one beloved fa/je — beloved in spite of all. In
vain he said to himself, " How lightly did she
give me up ! " He felt aggrieved, but not the
less did he feel that for him there existed no other.
Never again could he love woman as he had loved
Francesca Carrara. Vainly he strove to banish
that sweet face, which rose too vividly to his
memory; he could not fix his thoughts on the
many important points which needed considera-
tion in his present position. Highly trusted, and
for his father's sake, by the Protector, he knew
all the need there was to prove himself worthy of
such confidence ; still, to-night one vain and fond
regret reigned paramount.

But his reverie was interrupted by hurried
steps ; he turned, and saw Henry Cromwell, white
with some strong agitation, and so absorbed in
his own thoughts that at first he did not observe
Evelyn. He caught sight of him suddenly, and
anxiously grasping his arm, exclaimed, " Have
you heard the intelligence? The Lord Protector
is no more!"

Evelyn stood speechless. The awe of a great
man's death struck upon his heart ; and even the

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 249

mighty consequences were forgotten in the single
idea of Cromwell being dead. One by one the im-
portant results rose up within his mind, and he felt
that the present was the epoch in his companion's
life, — was he prepared to meet it? Henry Crom-
well's first words proved that he was not. " I am
half inclined," said he, in a hesitating voice, " to
proclaim Charles Stuart." Half inclined ! — that
little phrase contains the secrets of all failures :
it is the strong will, which knows nothing of hesi-
tation, that masters the world. His father had no
half-inclinings.

" Proclaim Charles Stuart! " exclaimed Evelyn.
" Impossible! — it were the basest outrage upon
your father's memory. Do you dare, before his
body is cold in the grave, thus to declare his life
to have been a crime, and his authority a tyranny
— to which you submitted from fear, and now
seize the first moment of denying ? Will you act
in such instant and direct opposition to all that
he held necessary and right? Will you brand
him as a usurper?"

Henry stood silent, but unconvinced ; for a
weak mind is not easily dislodged from its first
impulse — retaining from cowardice what it caught
from surprise.

M2

250 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

" I am sure/' resumed he, " we might make
our own terms with Charles."

" Do you remember/' asked Evelyn, " what
the late Protector said, when urged to descend
from the station which he worthily filled? —
1 Charles Stuart cannot forgive his father's death ;
and if he could, he were unworthy of the throne.'
I believe he could and would easily forgive, or
rather forget his father's fate ; but the same selfish
indifference would equally pervade all his actions
— and England needs a sovereign of far other
metal."

" My brother Richard, perhaps?" replied
Henry, with a sneer.

" Good God ! " exclaimed his companion.
' Why cannot genius transmit itself? — a worthier
heritage than king ever left. How many great
designs are unfinished — how many noble projects
untried — because death smites down the mind
capable of conceiving and executing them ! Alas !
such a mind passes away, and leaves no suc-
cessor. Henry Cromwell, what a debt does your
father's memory claim at your hands ! — it de-
mands from you its justification. The high and
prosperous state of our country has been the best
answer to all cavillers at his power ; for when has

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 251

power been more nobly exercised ? It remains
for you to shew that his influence extends for good
even beyond the grave."

His enthusiasm carried his companion along
with it.

" My sway here," he said, after a pause, " seems
firmly enough established. Men have now seen
too much of change to desire it more ; and their
security and mine are combined. I can detain
the principal persons assembled in the lodge to-
night as hostages."

" Yes," answered Evelyn ; " and such a breach
of faith will inevitably destroy the very confidence
which it must be your object to create. Sus-
picion never obtains more than the mockery of
security."

" At all events, there is no necessity of an-
nouncing the Protector's demise to-night."

" Out upon any temporising policy!" returned
Evelyn ; " concealment always implies fear ; and
dread is God's blessing to our enemies. Go at
once to the hall, and dismiss your guests with
the intelligence of your father's death, and your
brother's accession."

The companions separated ; the younger Crom-
well to execute his most unwelcome mission, while
Evelyn remained for a time pacing up and down,

252 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

lost in meditation on the events which a few
months would probably unfold. Like most young
men whose imagination exercises itself in politics,
he was a republican. Every age has its own en-
thusiasm ; and it was only of late years that en-
thusiasm had taken the direction of liberty. The
ideal of liberty — now the excitement of the day
— had arisen from three sources. First, from the
religious discussions, which led to an extent and
to conclusions of which the original agitators of
such discussions little dreamed. To claim a right
of thinking for yourself in one instance, ends by
claiming that right in many ; and when the habit
of examination is once introduced, the folly of any
exclusive privilege is soon manifest ; for most pri-
vileges have commenced in some necessity of the
time, and a positive benefit has accrued from their
exercise to the many as well as to the individual.
But, unfortunately, the privilege often remains
after its necessity has passed away ; and for a
space holds on by the vain yet strong tenure of
habit. Some unusual abuse awakens unusual at-
tention ; the right is questioned, while the power
to enforce it is weakened, and then alteration be-
comes inevitable. The despotic power vested in
the church during the darker ages was the only
check upon that lawless era, and was far more

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 253

useful than its assailants now admit. The eccle-
siastical republic afforded the only opening for
intellectual talent — the mental, that counter-
balanced the feudal, aristocracy ; but for its de-
crees, the very name of peace would have been
unknown in Europe ; and mighty was the pro-
tection afforded to the weak, while charity and
support to the poor was exercised on a scale far
beyond the poor-rates and subscriptions of the pre-
sent day. We are well prepared to allow that this
vast authority was often directed to evil ; but what
human authority has not been abused ? — and the
Roman church was a human institution, growing
out of human circumstances and human exigences.
The moment its empire was no longer needed,
that moment it was impugned- In vain persecu-
tion strove to keep down the fast-growing intel-
ligence of the age. The authority was not re-
quired, and it fell before the more liberal faith
which suited the period ; while the habits of inves-
tigation and inquiry which men had acquired soon
extended from religious to all other subjects.

There was also a second class among whom
notions of freedom had sprung up in their most
tangible and useful form— we allude to the mer-
cantile ranks. For a long and stormy period
after the downfal g the Roman empire, war

254 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

was the business of the world ; the sword alone
obtained and secured property. This state of
things could not last ; one species of barter
led to another ; and finally arose a set of men
solely devoted to trade. Wealth acquired by
commerce must always bring with it its portion
of intelligence, and a desire of security. We
would not lightly lose what we have hardly earned.
Security can be obtained but by defined rights,
and these can be ensured only by equitable laws.
Out of these principles arose the various struggles
which convulsed Europe during the middle ages.
The feudal potentates still strove to retain their
military despotism after its necessity had passed
away ; and the people of cities and ports, daily
more conscious of their wants and powers, resisted
that authority which had become so intolerable.
Abuses are never remedied till actually unbear-
able. Liberty has been called the daughter of
the mountains — she ought rather to be styled the
daughter of commerce ; for her best and most
useful rights have been founded and defended by
states embarked in trade.

There was a third class, small indeed when
compared to those vast multitudes actuated by
fanaticism or interest, but destined to exercise the
most beneficial and lasting influence — the reflecting

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 255

and theoretic few, who saw in universal freedom
the only tie between man and his kind — the only
rational hope whereon to ground the dissemination
of equitable principles among the human race.

At the time of which we are writing, the classics,
so lately thrown open for study and delight, were
the universal source whence the young student
drew his faith and inspiration. The glorious
republics of Greece and Rome, seen through the
halo which genius has flung round them, seemed
the very models of that perfection whose belief
ever huunts the mind capable of exertion.

History, it is said, is the past teaching by ex-
ample. Alas, that example has perpetuated many
dazzling errors ! How many false principles have
been laid down, how much delusion supported,
by reference to the glories of Athens and of Rome !
It remained for a later time to observe that those
so-called republics were but aristocracy in its most
oppressive form ; and what are now the people
were then positive slaves ; to say nothing of how
utterly unsuitable their form of government would
be to our differing creed, climate, and manners.
But it was to them that the wisest philosophers of
that day turned for examples of legislation, and
instances of patriotism ; and it may well be ex-
cused in one young and ardent as Evelyn, if he

256 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

dreamt that his native country might emulate
the graceful refinement of the Athenian, and the
sterner virtue of the Roman.

Evelyn expected nothing from Richard Crom-
well ; but he believed that good might grow out
of evil ; and the very weakness which would throw
the power into the people's hands, might by them
be so used as to lay the foundations of a more secure
and free government than had yet been known.
Moreover, he held any ill lighter than the return
of the Stuarts to that throne for which long ex-
perience had shewn their house to be so unfitted.

" The parliament," thought Evelyn, " will feel
their strength, and the past has surely taught them
how to use it."

Perhaps the great charm of a republic to the
young mind is, the career which it seems to lay
open to all, and whose success depends upon per-
sonal gifts ; while their exercise seems more inde-
pendent when devoted to the people rather than
to the monarch. They forget that tyranny and
caprice are the attributes of the many as well as of
the one, — that the ingratitude of the mob is as pro-
verbial as that of the court ; and that an equal sub-
serviency is required by either. But the poetry of
the afar off is around the patriotism of the classic
ages, and its record is left on the most glorious

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 257

pages wherein human intellect ever shed its halo
over human action. Evelyn dwelt upon the noble
page with that feverish enthusiasm, that fiery ele-
ment, whence all that is great originates; but
which so often consumes where it kindles, or,
thwarted by small and unworthy circumstances,
exhausts itself in the vain endeavour.

He continued to pace the terrace, till a page
brought him a summons from Henry Cromwell,
whom he found in a small closet, busied in writing
despatches.

" I want your aid/' he exclaimed, in an ani-
mated tone. " All has gone right. The terror of
my father's name is still about us ; there was not
even a murmur of dissent when I announced
Richard Lord Protector of England ; and yet, do
you know, the name of Charles Stuart almost rose
to my lips ! "

" There was a time," said Evelyn, " when I
felt a deep sympathy for the exiled prince — I
pitied him as one deprived of his just heritage ;
but a crown cannot, and ought not to be trans-
mitted like an estate. The prodigal heir can only
waste his own substance, and the punishment falls,
as it should, upon himself; but the prince has an
awful responsibility, — the welfare of others is re-
quired at his hands ; his faults and his follies take

258 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

a wide range, and not with him does their suffer-
ing end. I saw too much of Charles Stuart at
Paris ever to wish him on the throne of his an-
cestors. His undignified and profligate exile —
needy suitor to-day to the only heiress of the royal
French blood, and to-morrow to one of the nieces
of the Italian adventurer, Mazarin. Utterly ne-
glectful of what he owes to the kingdom which he
hopes to regain, Charles has learned but adversity's
worst lesson — expediency. He inherits his nature
from his mother — worthy descendant of the subtle
Medici, — selfish, indolent, ungrateful, and false.
He will look on our fair country but as the trea-
sury of an idle and dissipated court. I, for one,
will forsake land, heritage, and home, rather than
swear fealty to Charles Stuart."

" What do you do, lingering there ?" demanded
Henry Cromwell of the page who had loitered in
the room. " Leave us, and wait in the ante-
chamber."

The page obeyed in silence, and left the closet ;
and the friends pursued their discourse, one of
them little aware how carefully his words had
been recorded. It was far advanced in the night
before they separated ; but almost every arrange-
ment had been made for their future proceedings.
It is curious to note, that amid the schemings of

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 259

policy, and the pressure of business, no time had
heen found for the pouring forth of that natural
grief which would seem the inevitable tribute to be
paid to a parent's loss: no; all the feelings had
been stern, active, and on-looking. Ambition and
affection rarely go together; the great must pay
their penalty, and be content with fear instead of
love. The ordinary death-bed is surrounded with
sorrow and with tears ; but upon the decease of a
man like Cromwell, the future — busy, anxious,
plotting, and dangerous — engrosses every thought.

260

CHAPTER XXIV.

" Death 's

A fearful thing, when we must count its steps.
* # # « *

And was this, then, the end of those sweet dreams
Of home, and happiness, and quiet years?"

L. E. L.

IT was an early and a warm spring ; but, for the
first time in their lives, the Carraras watched it with
a divided heart. Guido dwelt on its beauty with a
deeper love than he had ever before known. We
turn from no object, even the most common and
the most trivial, for the last time, knowing it to
be the last, without a touch of sad thoughtfulriess,
What then must be the feeling with which we
look on this glorious and beautiful world, and
know that such looks are our last? — when we
know that, in a few fleeting weeks, of the green
leaves we now see putting forth, such as are
doomed to perish early, like ourselves, will fall
upon the earth, in whose dark bosom we are
laid in our long rest? — that the flowers, colouring
branches which droop beneath their luxury of

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 261

bloom, will only expand in time to form our
funeral garland? It is even more solemn than
mournful to gaze upon the far blue sky, and feel,
in the dimness of the soon -wearied sight, how,
pass but a little while, and the whole will have
faded from our view — its beauty never more to be
heightened by the tender associations of earth,
and its rain and shine shedding vain fertility on
our grave.

The mysteries of this wonderful universe rise
more palpable upon the departing spirit, so soon
to mingle with their marvels. A voice is on the
air, and a music on the wind, inaudible to other
ears, but full of strange prophecies to the ear of
the dying: — he stands on the threshold of exist-
ence, and already looks beyond it ; his thoughts
are on things not of this life; his affections are
now the only links that bind him to the earth, but
never was their power so infinite, — all other feel-
ings have passed away. Ambition has gone down
to the dust, from which it so vainly rose ; wealth
is known to be the veriest dross of which chains
were ever formed to glitter and to gall; hope has
resigned the thousand rainbows which once gave
beauty and promise to the gloomiest hour; — all
desires, expectations, and emotions, are vanished —
excepting love, which grows the stronger as it ap-

262 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

preaches the source whence it came, and becomes
more heavenly as it draws nigh to its hirth-place
— heaven.

With an earnest and fearful fondness Guido
thought of his sister. Ah! Death had still his
sting and his victory, when such a parting would
be his work. Guido, which is not usual in his
most insidious disease, was aware of his danger ;
perhaps the wish gave rise to the belief, for he
wished to die — but not when he thought of Fran-
cesca. How often in the silence of the midnight
hour, when he turned upon the feverish bed of his
unrest, and watched the stars shine through the
lattice, while he longed to mingle with their rays,
and casting away the wearied and painful body,
be free and spiritual as the pure element which
they lighted — how often, even then, would Fran-
cesca's pale and sorrowful face rise before him, and
create the vain desire to live a little longer for her
sake ! Could he have only seen her safe in her
father's home, and have known her prized and
loved as she deserved to be, he could have died
content, ay, thankful ; but to leave her so deso-
late, so lonely, was a thought that cast its darkness
on the very face of heaven.

But the buds now putting forth on every
branch would not more surely open into flower

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 263

and leaf, than he would perish. Day by day
he grew weaker. The luxuriant hair relaxed
with the damps that rose on the white forehead,
as if the moisture of the grave were already
there. The blue veins shone on the temples with
unnatural clearness ; and often, when Frances-
ca's lips were pressed to them in affectionate but
vain endeavour to soothe their burning pain, she
started at the loud and rapid beating of their
feverish pulses. His hand was wan and slender
as a woman's, with the same delicate pink in-
side ; arid the like feminine fairness extended over
his face, and rendered more striking the terrible
yet lovely red that burnt its small circle on his
cheek — the death-rose of consumption. Formerly
his large black eyes were wild and restless ; now,
larger and clearer than ever, there was a calm
and settled brightness, like the luminous aspect of
some still summer star, whose light is poetry —
poetry, which is the faint echo of the mysteries of
the universe — the beautifier and the unraveller!
All the stormier passions had died away, like the
winds on the blue surface of some unruffled lake,
which mirrors nothing but the lone and lovely
sky. Their deep calm orbs had no anger, no
envy, no discontent, to convey — no vain repinings,
and yet vainer longings. The shadow of mortality

264 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

had disappeared before the awakenings of the
spiritual life, which is dulled and distracted by the
daily cares and fretfulness of ordinary existence.
Sometimes a mist arose upon their placid bright-
ness— while yet here, the soul must be troubled ;
and when he met Francesca's sad and anxious
look, all the tenderness of our struggling life re-
turned upon him — and with tenderness ever comes
bitterness. He had no tears for himself — he had
them only for her. Yet, as he approached the
grave, he looked beyond it ; there they met again,
and to part no more. What were a few brief years
to one whose hope was in eternity ?

But Francesca, in whom life was too warm
and active to feel that calm which is ever the
herald of gradually coming death, could only
dwell on their separation — the reunion was too
far off for comfort — the great and present grief
darkened the distant hope. The approach of the
fragrant and verdant spring was torture to her.
The whole atmosphere seemed instinct with life —
the thickets, golden with furze, were all musical
with the melodious plying of the bees' industrious
wings ; the forest was alive with birds, scattering
the sunshine as they fluttered through the leaves ;
the grass swarmed with myriads of insects ; shoals
of bright-scaled fish rose like rainbows to the sur-

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 265

face of the river; — the slender shrub, the stately
tree, the seed bursting from the ground — all re-
newed their vigorous animation. The bough that
over-night had but the swelling germ, displayed
a full-formed leaf, or an opened flower, to the
noontide sun.

Amid all this luxuriance of life, was there none
for Guido? — was he to be the only one to whom
the spring brought no hope, no renewal of breath
and bloom? She turned away sickening from
the joyous face of nature ; she could not see a rose
unfold without envying its beautiful renovation.

Guido was still equal to occasional exercise ;
and he delighted to wander with Francesca and
Lucy through the quiet glades of the forest. He
revelled in the fragrance of the warm air, and
was never weary of admiring the hawthorn, droop-
ing beneath the transitory wealth of its most aro-
matic blossoms. There appeared to be a thousand
harmonies in nature unnoticed till now ; his soul
had laid aside all meaner cares, and was in unison
with them. A subtle and tender sympathy seemed
to reveal to him secrets before unknown — secrets
whose key was love, — love, which, though tried,
thwarted, and turned aside from its perfectness in
the wayfaring below, is still the animating spirit of
the universe.

VOL. II. N

266

CHAPTER XXV.

" I feel thy tears — I feel thy breath,

I meet thy fond look still ;
Keen is the strife of love and death !"

MRS. HEMANS.

IT was one of those bright mornings which unite
the softness of spring with the warmth and glow
of summer. The sunshine flung its own gladness
over all ; every rippling brook ran in light ; and
the deep blue of the sky was made yet deeper by
a few white clouds floating along in snowy flakes.
The greenwood glade was the only chamber for
such a noon-tide, and the Carraras wandered
forth. They soon reached the solitary dell where
Rufus's stone marks how a random shaft quelled
the pride of the haughty Norman.

Never place made such accident appear more
probable. The trees grow thickly and irregularly
round, and the silvery stems of the ash -trees
glisten so as to dazzle the steadiest eye. A rude
stone is carved with half-obliterated characters ;

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 267

but the record of the fatal arrow is enough to
make the place mournful with the presence of
death, and to fill the mind with solemn fancies of
life's strange accidents. The royal huntsman
rode forth that morning to the baying of the
hound and the ringing of the horn — his gallant
charger bounding over the greensward, obedient
to his slightest sign, and yet less docile than the
vassals who followed, watching every turn of
his fierce and flashing eye. How little did he
deem that a few hours would see him carried a
dishonoured corpse in a common cart, with less
care than would have waited on its usual load of
the meadow hay or the yellow corn. And little,
too, did Sir Walter Tyrrell deem that the morning,
which beheld him a favourite guest in the royal
train, would also see him a murderer and an exile,
flying from the scaffold — which in those days
would have waited for no nice distinctions of in-
tention in the guilt. Ay, these are the lessons by
which history teaches its severe morality, — mock-
ing human power with its own nothingness —
changing the face of a nation's affairs by a chance
—smiting the proud in his place of pride — and
staining the wild flowers with blood, human and
princely blood, poured out instead of that from the
menaced deer.

268 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

It was firmly believed in the New Forest, that
the judgment of Heaven had struck down the
cruel and arbitrary monarch in the very place
which he had made desolate. The levelled cottage
and the wasted field — the peasant, driven forth
homeless and despairing, in the selfishness of
barbarous amusement — were now avenged; the
offender's pleasure had been his punishment — the
visible wrong followed by the visible penalty.

The dell itself was lovely and lonely, and a
favourite haunt with the Carraras. Death leaves
behind its own solemnity ; and, even with the
sunshine checkering the grass, the place had a
peculiar gloom. Though they sat beneath the
shade of the hawthorn, whose blossoms strewed the
ground at their feet, and with the long branches
drooping around them their sweet shelter, yet
their talk was grave, and often broken by long
intervals of silence.

" Do not let us stay here!" at last exclaimed
Francesca ; "I am not happy enough to bear its
melancholy. True, that the fate of the Norman
king was well deserved ; but how often has
inexorable fate struck down the innocent as
suddenly ! Alas ! life is full of strange chances ;
and it is terrible to think that on them we must
depend."

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 269

" Yes," said Guido, rising, " who shall deny
that the shaft which sent the princely huntsman to
the ground was a just judgment ?"

" Ah ! my brother," replied she, " judgment
is an awful word for mortal life to utter! Who
dares pronounce that a doom is deserved ? If the
sudden and early death be a judgment on one,
must it not be so on all ? What had Henriette, so
gentle, so kind, so good, done, that she should
perish ? Yet she died, with all the hopes, joys,
and affections of life warm around her/' Fran-
cesca spoke of Madame de Mercceur, but her
brother was in her hidden thought ; — why was he
to die so young ?

Rufus's stone lies in the outskirts of the forest,
and in a few minutes they emerged upon the
broad heath which bounds it, then like a sea of
gold ; for the furze was in the first glory of its
spendthrift wealth.

" Look there!" exclaimed Guido, both struck
with the scene, and wishing to divert Francesca's
thoughts, whose eyes, fixed on the ground, were
filled with tears.

Placed beside a little copse on the edge of the
road, whose branches, covered with the white
May, were contrasted by the long dark garlands of
ivy, like some fatal love redeeming and beautifying

270 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

the ruin itself has wrought, was a wood fire, whose
red blaze cast a vivid reflection on the deep green
herbage by which it was surrounded. Three chil-
dren, with the rich brown and richer crimson
colour, and the bright black eyes which mark a
southern extraction, were rolling on the grass at
a little distance ; and close beside the fire were
seated two men, with red kerchiefs knitted round
their close-curled dark hair. There was something
in the complexions and the out-of-doors life that at
once carried the Italians back to their own country.
Such a group was to them a familiar sight, linked
with a thousand early recollections.

They had quickened their pace with an inten-
tion of accosting the party, when a few large drops
of rain, and a huge cloud spreading rapidly on the
sky, induced them to retreat towards the forest.
They took refuge beneath a majestic beech, whose
spreading foliage afforded ample shelter, while the
now-fast-falling shower played like music in the
upper branches.

There is nothing more delicious than one of
these summer and sudden showers. There is some-
thing so inexpressibly lulling in the sound of the
falling drops — like remembered poetry, inwardly
murmured, rather than spoken. The leaves and
flowers seem as if they were conscious of the

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 271

reviving moisture, and wear fresher verdure and
livelier hues ; the perfume which they exhale
makes the very breathing a delight — so sweet is
the cool and fragrant air ; while the birds flutter
to and fro, as if they, too, shared the general
enjoyment.

The sun soon broke forth from that one dark
cloud, gradually melting into light ; and the
sunbeams and the glittering rain went driving to-
gether through the forest glades — those long vistas,
of which the slender deer seemed sole habitants.
Yet the gaze of the young Italians rather turned
to the white windings of the smoke, which marked
the site of the gipsies' fire, and recalled so many
associations of their childhood and their country.
Light — transitory — winding its graceful circles,
till finally lost in the blue air, born of the fiery
element which smoulders below, smoke is the very
type of that vapour of the human heart, hope.
So does hope spring from the burning passions,
which consume their home and themselves — so
does it wander through the future, making its
own charmed path — and so does it evanish away :
lost in the horizon, it grows at last too faint for
outline.

But Francesca, who perceived that the heavy
drops were beginning to ooze through the thick

272 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

leaves, while the sun had already dried the rain
that but a few minutes before had shone on crys-
tallised grass, now proposed their proceeding on-
wards. They wound along a little path, edged
on either side with that delicate moss, which is
alone enough to make one believe in fairies ; for
what but their tiny fingers could ever have traced
the minute colours of its starred embroidery ?

Suddenly, where the luxuriant growth of a bog-
myrtle, whose leaves are perfumed as flowers, shut
out all view but of itself, they heard voices, and
removing one of the boughs, caught a glimpse of
Lucy, in deep converse with a female gipsy.
Equally unwilling to overhear or to interrupt,
they turned aside ; but in a few minutes Lucy
passed them by, too absorbed in her own reflec-
tions to see them. It was obvious that her medi-
tations were very pleasant ; for a slight blush
yet rested on a cheek dimpled with unconscious
smiles.

Francesca was about to speak to her, when she
was prevented by Guido. " Nay," said he, " let
her dream out her dream ; she will waken soon
enough. What would not we give again to in-
dulge those once fondly believed illusions ! "

" Believed !" exclaimed Francesca ; " she can-
not possibly believe, that to the ignorant vagrant

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 273

those secrets should be revealed which baffle the
closest study and the deepest science !"

" Perhaps," replied he, " she does not exactly
credit the fortune just foretold; but, at all events,
it is pleasant to think about, and it enables her to
dwell on the subject nearest her heart."

He was right : love delights in hearing its own
name, and has a childish pleasure in making ex-
cuses for the enjoyment it takes in aught that links
its future to that of the beloved. Moreover, Lucy
had a pretty feminine credulity about her, which
was fain to believe, especially a prophecy that
echoed her hope. Wiser heads than her's have
their superstitions ; and so far from wondering that
people should seek to dive into the future, and
attach faith to the spell and to the omen, the real
wonder is, that the future, the dark, the terrible,
the fast -approaching, should excite so little fear
and so little attention as it does.

Another winding in their path brought them
to the gipsy, who immediately addressed them.
She was a picturesque specimen of the race. Her
complexion, of the deepest olive, was relieved by
thev peculiar and rich red which gives such light
to the small bright eye — half arch, half cunning.
Her long black hair hung in straight but thick,
masses over her forehead and round her throat.

N2

!

274 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

Her mouth was small ; but the very red lips, and
the glitter of the very white teeth, conveyed some-
thing of the image of a wild animal. In broken
English and a foreign accent, she offered to tell
their fortunes ; while her quick eye glanced from
one to another, as if taking the most minute ob-
servation.

" We have not time," answered Francesca.

" Nay, lady," said the gipsy, in Italian ;
" yourself and your brother are too young not to
look eagerly towards the future."

Her shrewd eye, accustomed to note the slight-
est indications, had already marked their likeness
to each other, and that ease of affection which
belongs to habit and relationship.

Only those who have dwelt in a foreign land,
can tell the charm of hearing their native tongue
spoken unexpectedly, — the tongue whose music
was around their infancy, and in which were
breathed their first words of love ! Tears bright-
ened the eyes of the young Italians ; a passionate
longing for their own land was at that moment
the only feeling in their mind.

The gipsy, noticing their emotion, added, "And,
beside the future, I can tell you of the past. Is
there nothing, — are there none of whom you care
to hear, — in your own and beautiful Italy?"

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 275

" Nothing, nothing!" exclaimed Guido; " we
left nothing behind us but 'the grave!" Then,
ashamed of this passion before a stranger, he said,
taking out his purse, and pouring its contents
into the woman's hand, " we will not tax your
skill ; but take this for the sake of the land we
have alike left, and the tongue we have alike
spoken."

The amount of the gift for the moment put
to flight even the ready -flit of the gipsy ; and she
let them pass on in silence ; but they moved
slowly, for the least excitation was too much for
Guido, and he leant faintly on Francesca. With
the tenderness of feminine tact, she only followed
them for an instant with a whispered and earnest
blessing, and then left them. " They might well
say," murmured she, as they passed through the
thicket, " that I could tell them nothing; for the
death-damp is on his hand; and she — there is
that in her face which never boded happiness ! "

276

CHAPTER XXVI.

" What vanity in the empty bustle of common life !"
" I gaze upon the beautiful, and my mind responds to the inspira-
tion ; for my thoughts are lovely as my visions."

Contarini Fleming.

•

THAT stroll in the forest was Guide's last. The
moistened ground, on which he had walked after
the falling rain, had given him cold, and his illness
increased rapidly and fearfully ; but his sense of
his danger only shewed itself in a gentler patience
and a deeper tenderness.

Alas for poor Francesca ! to watch the sole
being on earth that loved her thus dying day by
day ! She would sit by him for hours, holding
his hand in hers, and gazing, till she could no
longer bear to meet those affectionate eyes which
would so soon be closed for ever. She would
leave him, to weep those tears of passionate regret
with which she could not bear to harass him ;
and when she came back, he would mark the
scarcely dried tears, and draw her tenderly to his
side; but even he dared not attempt consolation.

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 277

Too feeble for exercise, his only enjoynient now
was to sit in an arbour, reached with difficulty,
that had been formed on a rising part of the
ground. An old ash -tree extended its boughs
overhead ; and those which had been trained
downwards, were latticed by a luxuriant honey-
suckle, whose fairy trumpets hung in fragrant
profusion. It was one of those thoroughly English
gardens, still to be found in some of the old-
fashioned parts of the country, where a mistaken
taste has not severed la belle alliance between the
useful and the agreeable.

I know nothing more pleasant than the half
kitchen-, half flower-garden ; — the few trees that
extend a light shade — either the apple, with its
spring shower of fair blossoms, tinted with the
faintest crimson, and its summer show of fruit
reddening every day ; or the cherry, with its
scarlet multitude — berries more numerous than
leaves. Below, long rows of peas put forth their
white-winged flowers, tempting the small butter-
flies to flutter round their inanimate likenesses ;
or else of beans, whose fresh, sweet odour, when
in bloom, might challenge competition with the
sea gales of the spice islands. Then the deep glossy
green of the gooseberry is so well relieved by the
paler shade of the currant-bush ; and alongside,

278 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

spreading the verdant length of the strawberry-
bed, so beautiful in its first wealth of white blos-
soms— pale omens of the blushing fruit, which
so soon hides beneath its large and graceful leaves.
The strawberry is among fruits what the violet is
among flowers.

Then, I do so like the one or two principal
walks, neatly edged with box, cut with most pre-
cise regularity, keeping guard over favourite
plants: — columbines, pink and purple, bending
on their slender stems ; rose-bushes, covered with
buds enow to furnish roses for months ; pinks,
with their dark eyes ; and the orient glow of the
marigold. And there are the neat plots planted
with thyme, so sweet in its crushed fragrance ; the
sage, with that touch of hoar frost on its leaves,
which, perhaps, has gained for it its popular name
of wisdom ; the sprig of lavender, with its dim
and deep blue blossom, so lastingly sweet ; and
the emerald patches of the rapidly springing
mustard and cress. I would not give a common
garden like this, with the free air tossing its
boughs, and the sun laughing upon its flowers, for
all that glass and gardener ever brought from a
hot-house.

Many a quiet hour did Guido pass in that
honeysuckled arbour, lulled by the murmuring

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 279

bees, whose hives stood in the covert of a large
old beech, the only tree not a fruit-tree in the
chosen patch of ground. Every sun that set in
long shadows and rosy light received from him a
more solemn and tender farewell. Every evening
wind that passed brought a deeper music : — already
the presence of his future and spiritual existence
was upon him, and the result was peace, perfect
and unutterable.

One evening, he had leant against the entrance
of his leafy tent, watching the ebbing crimson that
gradually faded on the purple air, — the serenity
of his soul was glassed in his clear bright eyes,
while all the warm colours of life seemed to have
vanished from that pure and marble countenance.
Suddenly, he felt that Francesca withdrew her
hand from his — it was to dash aside her tears
before he remarked them ; and then, for the first
time, he spoke of that grave upon whose brink he
stood. ,

" Weep not, sweetest sister mine!" said he,
kissing away the warm and heavy tears; " if you
knew the sorrow from which death spares me !
There are some natures which seem sent into this
world but for a brief and bitter trial ; and such a
nature is mine. I have not strength for the strug-
gle. From my earliest youth, I felt despondency

280 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

steal over my highest moods and my gayest mo-
ments. I now believe it was the unconscious omen
of my early death. The weight of an unfulfilled
destiny has been for ever upon me, though then I
knew it not. And yet, Francesca, when I look
within my own heart, and feel how true and high
have been its impulses, — when I think how my
mind has revelled in its own beautiful imagin-
ings, which asked but time for development, I
cannot deem that such things were given in vain.
I believe that they have been here tried and nou-
rished for another sphere. I feel a strong and in-
creasing consciousness that my world is beyond
the tomb."

" And mine," exclaimed Francesca, in an agony
of grief she could no more repress, " is still this
lonely, this dreary life ! Oh, my God ! have mercy
on me, and let me die too !"

" Francesca," said Guido, in a low, earnest
voice, " there is something within me which tells
me it will not be for long. Sorrow and early death
have been busy in our line. My doom is fixed,
— and your fragile life will be a frail barrier to
an inexorable fate ! "

281

CHAPTER XXVII.

" Farewell ! but not for long."

SUMMER had come — bright and beautiful as her
prophecy, spring, had foretold, in the sweet oracles
of opening buds and expanding leaves ; but Fran-
cesca wandered no more through the shadowy
depths of the forest, nor loitered amid the pleasant
paths of the garden. The green grass and the
wild flowers of the meadow were being mown ;
but she only thought of the cheerful season when
the air came laden with the scent of the fragrant
hay, and Guido would ask what new and de-
licious odour came upon the morning air. Fran-
cesca's sole haunt was now the darkened chamber
of the dying. There her light step suited its silent
fall to the faint throbbing of the sick man's
pulse ; there her eye wore the tender guile of
unshed tears, suppressed even when the sufferer
slept, lest he should mark their traces when he

282 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

awoke, and fce pained by grief, which he vainly
deemed was turned into hope.

Day and night she hung over Guide's pillow
— her sweet face, like a mirror, reflecting every
change of his — pale as he beside whom she was
watching. Only for the briefest period would she
allow Lucy to take her place ; and when, worn
out, she slumbered, it was to dream she was still at
his side. Ah ! human nature is beautiful at such a
time — beautiful amid its agony. There was some-
thing so touching in the patience with which Guido
endured many a pang that tortured every nerve,
lest an expression of pain should wring his sister's
heart, who, alas ! knew too well the kindly deceit,
and almost wished him to complain, as she wiped
away the dew upon his forehead.

Guido suffered much, — weakness made every
movement pain ; and yet he was haunted by that
feverish restlessness, which is one of the worst fea-
tures of the disease. The food he longed for one
moment, he loathed when he came to taste it. The
struggle between body and soul which takes place
in this lingering illness is terrible to witness — it
is as if two mysterious powers contended together.
The soul, calm, prepared, or rather pining for its
departure, — the body, still bound to earth, resists
the coming sleep to the last; and these two op-

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 283

posites, never congenial, shew how little they have
in common — the stronger as their final separation
approaches.

" I can feel even here," said Guido, raising
himself with some difficulty on his weary pillow,
u how lovely the day is;" and he gazed on the
lattices thrown open to the utmost, and only cur-
tained by the honeysuckle. The casements were
in shade themselves, and a cool breeze just waved
the ruby tendrils and their veined clusters ; but
beyond, you could see that sunshine rested on the
trees, and that the deep blue sky was without a
cloud.

" You are very pale, my own dearest," he con-
tinued : " I wish you would go forth, and return
with tidings of some of our old haunts. A little
colour on those wan cheeks would do me a world
of good."

Francesca looked towards the window, and
turned sickening from its glad and golden light ;
while her eyes fixed more fondly upon Guide's
face, as if every moment were now precious. Affec-
tion has its own true sympathy, and he never
again asked her to leave him. He felt that the
tender watch which she now kept was her only
consolation.

Alas! in this our valley of the shadow of death,

284 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

•

how many such vigils have been kept, and are
keeping! — it is a common scene: — the' still and
darkened room — darkened, for the eyes are too
weak to bear that light which is departing from
them for ever ; where, if a sunbeam enters, it is
like an unwelcome visitor ; where one sweet and
watchful nurse glides like a shadow; — so sub-
dued is every movement, the loudest noise in that
still chamber is the beating of the sufferer's heart,
or the low music of a whispered question, fainter
than even the failing voice which answers.

How many dreary nights are passed in feverish
wakefulness on one side, and dreadful solicitude
on the other! It seems worst to die at night;
the blackness throws its own gloom, and the
damp on the ever cold midnight hour is as if
disembodied spirits brought with them the chill of
the grave, which only then they are permitted to
quit. How long the minutes seem when sleep is
banished by pain and anxiety ! The single pale
and shaded light, flinging round its fantastic
shapes — that " visible darkness," enough to try the
strongest nerves; and how much more so, when
the bodily strength is worn down, and the imagi-
nation, excited by one ever-present dread, is wound
up to admit all forms of fearful fantasy !

Francesca would start from a moment's drow-

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 285

siness, during which the delusive power had trans-
ported her to scenes afar off — for sleep reverses all
other rules, and its dominion is greatest where its
influence is least. It is the lightest slumber that
is most haunted with visionary creations. She
awakened with sudden consciousness — the myrtle
groves of her childhood yet around her, and the
voices of her young companions still glad in her
ear. Then came the wonder and confusion at-
tendant on fancies disappearing before realities ; —
" Where am I?" is the first idea of the roused
sleeper. Gradually the darkened room seems to
emerge from its shadows ; familiar objects strike
upon the senses — and memory is never so terribly
distinct as on its first reviving from such momen-
tary lethargy.

In an instant Francesca would become per-
fectly collected— every past event would stand out
singularly clear, and she would turn, take one
look at Guido, and then breathe again. One idea
was ever uppermost ; she might gaze upon his
face, and find that life had departed even during
that short lull of forgetfulness ! Alas ! the wea^-
ness of the body is triumphant in a long struggle
over both strong love and will; and yet, during
the months that Francesca watched beside that
bed of death, never, for five minutes together,

286 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

were those affectionate eyes closed in even that
passing oblivion. When forced to leave him,
which she could never be prevailed upon to do
till utterly exhausted, she would sleep heavily for
some hours ; but the first moment of waking was
fearful. She would start from her pillow and
rush to his room, and, when Lucy's gentle smile
reassured her, lean, faint and breathless, against
the wall, till relieved by tears ; while the meeting
between her and Guido was like the tender wel-
come given after a long absence*.

" You are very weak to-day, dearest," ex-
claimed Francesca, as her arm supported Guido's
head.

" And yet I feel all my faculties so strong
within me — my memory so clear, my imagination
so powerful — that I cannot think that I shall die
so soon as I had hoped."

" Hoped ?" whispered his sister.

" Alas!" replied he, " we, are selfish even on
our death-bed ; and I have desired relief even at
the cost of rending asunder life's last and fondest
link."

" It is I that am selfish," murmured she. " God
knows, we ought to be thankful when those we
love stand on the verge of another existence. It
may be better, it cannot be worse, than our present

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 287

life. Weary, disappointed, and desolate as it is,
why should I wish such a pilgrimage to be pro-
longed ? Were we wise, we should weep when
life begins, and only rejoice at the close."

Francesca spoke in the bitterness of a wounded
spirit, whose burden is too heavy to bear. All
patient hope, all cheerful submission, had for the
time passed away ; but oh ! the victory of the grave
is terrible.

" We shall not separate for long," continued
Guido. " The heart has its own revelations ; and
the aspect of the invisible, so soon to be known,
casts its shadows, which are omens, as we draw unto
its presence. I feel the love which binds me to you
stronger every hour ; — would it not weaken with
all my other hopes and earthly thoughts, were I
about to part from you, as I have done with them,
for ever ? Francesca, beloved, we are alike ; and
neither are made of materials that ever yet lasted.
Think of those who have gone down to an early
grave — are they not the good, the beautiful, those
of the passionate feeling and the dreaming hope ?
They have but a brief time in this world, for their
nature belongs to another. Victims of an inex-
orable destiny, they suffer, they struggle, till at
last the trial is ended, and the tomb is the dark
and awful gate through which they pass into

288 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

another sphere ; and that higher, purer, and better
lot is our own."

The crimson burnt upon his cheek, and his
eyes kindled with light — all that was beautiful
and spiritual in his nature speaking in his face.

" You must not talk," said his sister ; " it
makes you feverish."

" It matters little," replied he, with a faint
smile ; but, nevertheless, resting his head on her
shoulder to recover himself. " It is strange," he
continued, " how vividly, now that I have no
future on this earth, its past rises before me.
I often lie for hours with the scenes of my earlier
youth so present, that they seem actual. Fran-
cesca, I have been unhappy, very unhappy ; and
scarcely may I say that it is past even now.
Perhaps, at our birth, we have a certain portion
of enjoyment allotted to us, and this is to last us
through our life ; hence that fear which so often
comes upon us, even in our most delighted mo-
ment— a dread of we know not what. It is a
warning from within, that we are rashly revelling
in that heart-wealth of which so small a pittance
is ours. I was a very spendthrift with mine.
I believe every one can look back to some parti-
cular period, and say, ' Dear and blessed time, how
precious is your memory!' And yet we should

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 289

have trembled in the presence of our happiness —
we were then draining the sweet waters of a foun-
tain, whose silver cord is soon loosened, and whose
golden bowl is soon broken. Ah, dearest ! do you
remember the summer — 'tis nearly four years
since — when the acacia blossomed twice? Me-
thinks it was typical, for the tree exhausted itself
and perished, even of its own too great luxuriance.
But do you not look back to that summer ?"

For a moment the colour came into Francesca's
pale countenance, for that was the summer when
she first knew Evelyn ; but it faded, and left her
paler than before.

" We have paid dearly for that happiness
since. Guido, dearest Guido, what can we have
done to 1m so deceived, so wretched ? Think but
for a moment how precious, how great a gift, is
the deep, strong, and trusting affection of the
young heart; and how cruel is the fate which
decrees it should be given, and in vain !"

" I have not courage, even now, to think of
that," interrupted Guido, the damps rising heavily
upon his forehead. Tenderly Francesca bent over
him ; she parted the thick moist clusters of his
rich curls, and, bathing his temples with an aro-
matic essence, kissed him, and bade him sleep.
But he was too much excited for rest. " Marie!"

VOL. II. O

290 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

whispered he : — " It is months since I have breathed
that name, hut deem you that her image has not
heen present with me? — ay, present as when we
wandered through the pine forest, her frank, sweet
smile encouraging those dreams of the future at
which she affected to laugh. But both then be-
lieved that the future was at their will. Ah, Fran-
cesca! who could have thought that the world
would spoil a nature so kindly and yet so glad !"

Francesca repressed tlie answer which rose to
her lips. She could have said that the Marie of
Guido's love was indeed the creature of his
fantasy. But when an illusion thus lingers to
the last, it is worse than useless — it is cruel, cruel,
to attempt its destruction.

" And yet," continued he, " how ej^l has her
influence been over me ! The imagination, which
wasted itself in bringing her ever before me, in-
venting our discourse, combining every possible
and impossible event, so that they did but bring
us together — of what efforts was not this faculty
capable, had it been more worthily exercised ! It
matters little, though — mine was destined to be
an unfinished existence. I firmly believe that my
mind has here been trained and tried by suffering,
and that the development of its powers is reserved
for another sphere."

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 291

To many, the visionary hope which is born of
the imagination may seem the very mockery of
nothing. We cannot understand what we have
never experienced. The imagination, the highest,
the noblest, the most ethereal portion of our nature,
lies in some almost dormant; and to such, how
strange must the influence which it exercises ap-
pear ! On one of the ideal temperament of Guido
its power is despotic — it had coloured his life,
and it threw its soft, sweet shadow over the bed
of death.

" Oh ! how passionately," added he, after a
brief pause, " I desire to see her again, for the last
time, to let her know the deep truth of a heart
which has never worn image save her own — to
gaze upo$ her with one long, last look of love,
and leave with her an impression no crowd, no
gaiety, might ever efface. We shall meet again,
Francesca — not so Marie and I. Our natures
are far apart — she has no share in my futurity.
Our earthly is an eternal farewell."

He sank back, quite exhausted, on his pillow ;
and at last he slept, but his sleep was feverish and
broken, and his waking was unrefreshed.

292

CHAPTER XXVIII.

And feel the shadow of the grave
Long ere the grave itself be gained."

L. E. L.

" ARE you equal, dearest Guido, to hearing a
letter read which has arrived this morning from
Richard Arden ? " said Francesca, approaching the
bedside of the invalid with that light step which
seems born of the stillness of a sick rfltom — lost
in the deep-drawn breath of exhaustion and
pain.

u I have been thinking so much about him!"
exclaimed Guido. " Are we likely to see him
again 1 Methinks he must return ; none can with
impunity sever every link that binds them to their
kindred and to their country. Earth were too
desolate without some resting-place."

" He has, indeed, found a resting-place, but
a gloomy one. He has by this time entered the
monastery of La Trappe."

FRANCESCA CARRARA.

293

" Holy Virgin!" exclaimed Guido, " he has
annihilated the present and the future. How will
he ever endure the perpetual presence ofthe past ? "

" Think," replied Francesca, " how much he
needs repose."

" He can have it," answered he, " in no shape
but torpor — at least*on this side the grave. But
do read the letter."

Francesca seated herself beside the pillow, and
began the following epistle : —

" DEAREST CHILDREN,

" I had deemed that my words of farewell,
when I left my brother's house, were the last I
should ever address to the only objects of earth to
which my heart yet clings. But it is very hard
to break at once all the bonds whereby our vain
affections fetter us. I still think of you, still wish
to be remembered by you, still believe that you
take an interest in my fate ; that you will wish to
know where my weary steps have found rest, and
my wretchedness sought a place of refuge at last.

" It was very sad to leave you ; but deep in
my inmost soul was written, that the happiness of
loving and being loved was not for me. I lived
in one perpetual fear of the evil that I might bring
upon those for whose welfare I would have laid

294 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

down rriy life. My spirits grew lighter as I in-
creased my distance from you, however the weak-
ness of my human nature might pine to return.
I knew that I was removing the curse far from
you ; and my sorrow, my suffering — had I not
stored them up for myself?

" I arrived in Paris, but a residence there was
insupportable. The noise, the gay crowds, vexed
me with a constant self-consciousness. I could
never call up, vivid almost as life, the image of
her I loved so deeply. She, who of late had so
often stood beside me, with softened look and
forgiving eyes, came upon my solitude no more ;
there was no quiet in that stirring and troubled
city. I had no part in its pleasures, I took no
concern in its business ; why was I to be haunted
with their echo ?

" I left Paris, and wandered forth by chance ;
— by chance, did I say? — by that fate which has
governed my whole life, and has relented towards
me at last. The long shadows of the summer
twilight rested on the venerable building as I
approached; the soft gray light seemed scarcely
to penetrate the arched windows, and not a breath
of air stirred the huge boughs of the old trees that
spread their quiet around the place. Repose was
in the atmosphere — so calm, and so subdued.

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 295

The sky, where the passionate hues of sunset had
faded into a clear cold blue — the noiseless leaves,
which drooped from the heavy branches — the
ancient pile, where the ivy hung undisturbed —
the stillness, unbroken by a sound — all seemed
to whisper to my soul, < Here is rest.'

" I entered the chapel, and above the altar
hung a picture of the Virgin. A gleam of light
came from a western window, and fell upon the
face of my Beatrice ! Her face — but calm, beauti-
ful, and unearthly. I met the radiant eyes turned
towards me, and they looked pardon and peace.
For the first time I hid my brow in my hands, and
wept bitterly ; and it was as if these tears washed
away the weight which had oppressed me. I
looked up again, and still met that sweet look of
hope and love. A longing for death seemed to
take possession of me ; or, if I could not die, to
assimilate life to death as much as possible.
All the busy concerns of daily existence were
utterly abhorrent to me. I loathed the sound of
others' voices — I hated to be mixed up with their
petty routine of ordinary cares ; here was an asy-
lum offered to me — here I might lay down all the
offices of humanity, and dwell beside that grave
whose rest was now my only desire.

" To-morrow I take the vows of La Trappe —

296 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

not in a vain belief that penance may efface the
past; — no, if years of desperate despair — of that
agony which lays prostrate body and mind — may
not avail, no form, no prayer, may, can have
greater power. I enter the gloomy abbey, because
its solitude offers me all that I seek. I desire no
communion with my fellow-men ; in the treasury
of my remembrance are garnered the few thoughts
that are precious, and they are sacred to niyself
alone. I do not need to speak of them — to me
language has long lost its sweetness and its privi-
lege. To live so mechanically that nothing in life
can break in upon my meditations — to gaze on that
most lovely and beloved face, and dream that even
so it will meet me beyond the grave — to be so
utterly by myself that no evil influence of mine
can extend to those still very dear — is all I ask
on this side the tomb.

" I feel calm — even content. The quiet of the
sacred walls is on me even now. I could deem
that they had power to sanctify my words ; and I
almost — yes, I do — dare to say, God bless you!
and farewell! « R. ARDEN."

Francesca's tears fell fast upon the scroll, and
some time elapsed before either could speak. Guido
was the first to break the silence.

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 297

" What a vain dream it is," exclaimed he,
" which we call life ! First comes the fever, and
then the exhaustion. We wear ourselves out with
hopes that, night after night, haunt a sleepless
pillow — with daily exertions whereof we reap not
the fruit. We love, and are unrequited — we be-
lieve, and are deceived ; and from first^o last, our
existence is a mockery — the fulfilled hope and the
realised desire the worst of all ; for then we find
how utterly worthless is that for which we craved,
and for which we have toiled even unto weari-
ness. We talk of our energies and of our will —
we are the mere playthings of subtle and malig-
nant chances."

" And yet," returned Francesca, " the secret
of Arden's sufferings seems to have been in him-
self. From earliest youth he indulged in vain
contrasts and repinings, and even his very love
was selfish and cruel. Think how much happiness
he lost by his perpetual exaggerations!"

" And from what did that exaggeration arise,
but from his morbid and sensitive temperament?
Could he help that ?"

Francesca felt instantly that Guido had made

the subject a personal one — that he was speaking

of Arden, but thinking of himself. It could do no

good to contradict one whom now it was her dearest

o2

298 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

wish to soothe ; and, by way of attracting his at-
tention, she said, — " Was it not you, Guido, who
were telling me of a young maiden, whose lover,
in some sudden passion of jealousy or despair, had
taken the vows at La Trappe, and who, disguising
her sex, followed him to his gloomy retreat, wore
the habit, observed the ordinances of that mournful
body, and preserved her secret till death ? Of all
the many instances of woman's strong and enduring
affection, none ever produced upon me an impres-
sion so forcible. Think of a young, beautiful, and
delicately nurtured female, giving up not only the
world, with its vanities and its pleasures, but all
comfort, all companionship, all feminine employ-
ment, not denied to the nun of the strictest order.
She renounced them all to live in seclusion, silence,
and perpetual dread ; for what but a cruel death
could have awaited her had her secret been dis-
covered save when dying. And this melancholy,
this isolated existence, was dragged on, unsup-
ported by any hope, for no change of circumstance
could affect her position ; and unsoothed by the
thought that her great devotion was held precious
by him for whom it was exercised. Not one of
the ordinary motives — the vanity or the selfish-
ness which people call by the name of love^ — •
actuated her through this long trial ; she had

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 299

every thing to fear, and nothing to expect. What
creation of the poet ever exceeded this terrible
reality of love sepulchred in this living tomb?
I often marvel to myself what were her feelings
when a shadow fell across the path, and she looked
upon one of those shrouded and flitting shapes,
and dared not ask if the cowl hid the face which
she most desired to see! — and yet this went on
for years !"

" Enough, my sister!'' exclaimed Guido ; " I
do not like to think of it. What is this story but
another instance of the cruel fate whose iron rule
is over our world. The love wasted in this pitiless
cloister would have made the happiness of a life."

300

CHAPTER XXIX.

" We know not half the mysteries of our being."

" LET it go down to the grave with me ; for there,
even as this silken curl will perish, in darkness and
decay, so will perish all the links that hind me to
Marie Mancini. Ah! how well I remember the
twilight, when she bade me choose amid the thou-
sand bright auburn ringlets that danced around
her brow ! It was such an evening as this. The
rich colours of the sunset had melted away into
the deep purple sky, whose only radiance was
where a silvery trembling on the ajr came from the
moon, shining as she is shining now over yonder
casement. We were very young then."

And youth it was that gave its own value to
that early pledge of vows never to be redeemed —
of faith plighted but to be broken. The fragile
chain, the braided hair, are the graceful tokens

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 301

of love's childhood — precious for the sake of the
many illusions in which we then held such devout
evidence. We grow too stern and too cold for
such trifles in after-life. The harsh grasp of reality
has been upon the most delicate feelings ; trifles
" light as air " have become important in their
results ; and where we do not fear, we now do not
care for them, unless it be to ridicule — ridicule,
that blight of all that is warm and true, but
which was so utterly to the fresh unknown world
of the yet undeveloped heart.

The day had been intensely hot, and, in Guide's
weal* state, it overpowered the little strength which
he had left ; but towards evening he grew even
more feverish, his senses wandered, and strong
spasms of pain alone seemed to recall him to his
actual existence. The recollection of that inter-
view with Marie Mancini haunted him. He
fancied she was coming, would start at the least
noise, and asked mournfully if he was to die with-
out seeing her.

Francesca sought every means to soothe him,
but in vain. Even her sweet and beloved voice fell
unheeded on his ear ; and it was late before, quite
worn out, he fell into a deep slumber.

There was a strange character of mournful
beauty flung over the scene passing in that chamber

302 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

of death — one that a painter would have chosen
when, disappointed with the world, and smitten
by some deep sorrow, he seeks refuge in the lovely
creations of his art, selecting a melancholy sub-
ject, and investing it with the gloom felt within.
At the far extremity of the room, placed on a little
round old-fashioned table, was a lamp, whose red
gleam made a small bright circle on the wall, as
if to enhance the- darkness which surrounded it.
Drawn towards the window was the bed whereon
Guido was laid. The curtains were all flung
back to admit the air, and the lattices were thrown
open to the utmost. The long tendrils and slender
leaves of the honeysuckle formed a dark outline,
just pencilled on the air, and swayed gently to
and fro ; for a soft wind agitated the boughs. The
moon, directly opposite, flung into the room a
long and tremulous line of light, which fell on
Guido's face, as he reclined on the pillows which
supported his head ; he needed the support, for a
feeling of suffocation was his constant complaint.
It was the face of a statue — so pure, so pale, with
the features transparent, like the delicate carving
of highly polished marble ; the long dark lash
resting on the cheek, and the thick curls upon the
brow, were the sole likeness to humanity. One
emaciated hand lay on the counterpane, the other

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 303

was held by Francesca, whose profile was seen,
like a gentle shadow, bending over him.

The moonlight became more and more clear
as the night advanced, and fell more immediately
on the countenance of the sleeper, which grew
wan even to ghastliness beneath that chill white
beam. She felt his hand cold as the tomb within
her own, but still it slackened nothing of its rigid
grasp. A nameless terror froze the blood at her
heart ; more than once the scream rose to her lip,
and was suppressed — but with what an internal
shudder, lest the sleeper might be disturbed !
The sleeper! — did he sleep?

Francesca trembled — the damp air seemed
difficult to breathe. She strove to pray — no pious
words came to her aid ; a vague sensation of horror
curdled her faculties. She gazed on the wan face,
and strove to look around. She could not — it
seemed as if to move would reveal some sight too
horrible for humanity; yet some extraordinary
fascination seemed to rivet her to the place.
Affection — watchfulness — sorrow, all were merged
in one vague and unutterable sensation of horror.

The moonbeam grew fainter — the corpse-like
features became indistinct. She knew her eyes
were fixed upon them, but they could not penetrate
the awful obscurity. A stupor stole over her ; she

304 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

was conscious, but paralysed ; and her eyelids
dropped, as if to shut out some fearful object. She
still felt that Guido's cold hand clasped her own,
and she remained motionless — the fear of disturb-
ing him paramount to every other fear.

She felt the grasp relax, and started at once
from the shuddering torpor which had oppressed
her. It had been upon her longer than she
deemed, for the chill white light of coming day-
break was glimmering through the lattice. Guido
was rousing, too, but he was convulsed with some
fierce agony ; his teeth were set, the veins rose upon
his temples, and the dews hung upon his brow.

Francesca raised his head tenderly, and endea-
voured to make him swallow a few drops of a
medicine that stood by. Her care was successful,
and at last he revived. His eyes opened, wide
and wandering, and filled with a strange, unna-
tural light ; while his features relaxed from their
ghastly contraction, but wore still a wild and un-
usual expression.

" I have seen her!" he muttered, in a faint
tone; "we shall never meet again. Farewell,
Marie, for ever !"

" Dearest Guido," whispered Francesca, " do
not agitate yourself. Your sleep seems to have
done you little good."

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 305

He drank from the cup which she put to his
lips, and sunk back on the pillow, pale and ex-
hausted, but so composed, that she allowed Lucy,
who just then entered the room, to watch by Guido
during her customary short absence.

We, too, will leave them, and, passing beyond
seas, record a strange scene that took place at the
Hotel de Soissons that night.

It was even later than usual when the Comtesse
quitted a brilliant reunion of all that was gayest
in the royal circle, elate with the glittering triumph
of gratified vanity, and reading in such success the
sure prognostic of more solidly successful ambition.
Restless and excited, she could not retire to sKep ;
but her hair once unbound from its knots of pearls,
and a loose wrapping dress thrown round her, she
dismissed her attendants, and, drawing a little
writing-table to her fauteuil, prepared to exhaust
some of her gaiety in letter-writing. She had a
thousand flattering and lively things to say, and
she was now in the mood for them.

This is a pleasant hour in human existence —
the hour after some unusually agreeable fete —
agreeable from its homage to yourself; just enough
fatigued for languor, but not for weariness — enough
to make you enjoy the loosened hair, the careless
robe, and the indolent arm chair ; while the spirits

•

306 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

are still in a state of excitement, the tones of the
music, or yet more musical words, still floating in
your ear ; your own light replies yet living on
the memory, and the fancy animated by their vivid
recollection.

In such a mood the Comtesse de Soissons drew
towards her the fragrant scrolls on which she
intended to record a thousand graceful flatteries,
all to forward the same object — her own interest.
" Nay ! " exclaimed she, flinging down the pen,
" that seems scarcely earnest enough ! Praise
should be given unguardedly and eagerly — rather
as it were a relief to express one's feeling —

The sentence died unfinished on her lips. She
started from her seat, for, directly opposite to her
stood Guido da Carrara, pale, sad, but with his
large dark eyes fixed upon her, with that deep
expression of tenderness, once so familiar to her
sight, but now wild and melancholy — ay, and
something fearful, in their gaze. Marie's cheek
blanched as she looked upon him. She strove to
scream, but in vain ; all her former love — the only
real feeling which she had ever known — beat
passionately within her heart ; a gush of unut-
terable tenderness, strangely mixed with vague
terror, arose upon her mind. Still he stood, pale,
sorrowful, and motionless, while Marie found

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 307

every other feeling gradually lost in terror. The
air grew chill around, and her knees trembled
beneath her weight.

" Guido !" she exclaimed, in a voice choked
with emotion, " for God's sake, speak !"

Still the figure moved not — spoke not — but
continued to fix upon her the same look of reproach
and love. All the gentle scenes of their youth
seemed to grow present before her ; she felt that
she had never loved but him, and that all other
hopes and ties were but as a vain dream.

" I care not if I die!" exclaimed she, impe-
tuously ; " let my head rest but once again on
that heart once so dearly mine ! "

Marie sprang forwards. She attempted to
clasp the hands of her visitor, but her hands closed
on the empty air. She staggered as with a blow ;
again she met that mournful face turned towards
her, but even as she looked it melted into air. She
glanced hurriedly round, but Guido was gone! —
yet the door remained closed. She shrieked his
name, but all was still as the grave. She threw
a searching glance round the chamber, but in the
effort sank senseless on the ground.

308

CHAPTER XXX.

" How soon
Our new-born light
Attains to full-aged noon !
And this, how soon to grey-haired night !
We spring, we bud, we blossom, and we blast,
Ere we can count our days — our days they flee so fast."

QUARLES.

FRANCESCA was not an hour absent from Guido's
room; but on her return, a deathlike sickness
came over her as she marked the great change
that had taken place in him. The face had sud-
denly fallen in, the temples were sunk, and the
blue and livid mouth seemed unwarmed by the
breath that still faintly struggled forth. His wasted
hands were stretched out, and worked with a quick
and convulsive motion, as if catching some small
substances which kept eluding their grasp ; while
his closed eyes ever and anon opened feebly, and
then shut again — they appeared to ask when they
should close for ever.

A slant ray of golden sunshine entered the
chamber ; it drew nearer and nearer as the hour
went by, till it fell on Guido's bed. The invalid

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 309

turned his head, and looked with a smile upon
that glad and glorious light. " It is a good omen !"
said he, in a very low but distinct voice ; and
continued to watch it till his eyes closed from
weariness. A moment after his teeth clenched, as
if with violent pain ; it was soon past, and he grew
calm again. Once or twice his lips moved, but
the sounds were inarticulate, and the pulse grew
more and more faint.

Francesca hung over him in breathless agony ;
she knew that life was slowly ebbing. Suddenly
he opened his eyes, and looked up at her with
an expression of strong affection. She* fancied,
too, that he whispered her name — it was his last
effort ! The sunbeam approached ; but when it
shone upon Guide's face, life had passed away to
return no more ! The radiant line illumined the
set features of the corse !

* * # *

Yes, the soul had departed from its mysterious
tenement, with which it was so strangely allied,
and so still more strangely suited — that long vari-
ance is now for aye at rest. The btfrning passion
will no more contend with the ethereal aspiring;
the two opposite principles of fevered existence
have ceased their conflict. Out of the body grew
all that was base, mean, and degraded, — that

310 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

rottenness at the core of our noblest hopes, that
weakness in the truest of our affections. Strange
that it should thus control the spiritual; but the
grave is opened, and there let it perish in dark-
ness and in corruption. Not so the soul, which
gave it imagination, intellect, affection, hope — all
that can redeem mortality ; in their very nature
these are imperishable, and out of them have
grown all good things on earth. The lasting
works of philosophy and poetry, the long -en-
during efforts that have been wrought in marble,
the pyramids whose age we know not, the statue
still a vision of beauty, the influence that indivi-
dual minds have exercised over their kind, — all
these are types of that immortality which gives
life to our present, and will give eternity to our
future. Faint, but glorious revealings of another
world !

A weary burden is our human life, from the
first even to the last. We talk of the happiness
of childhood ! — in what does it consist? — in the
denied delight, and in the enforced task ! Think
how the child must turn from the wearisome page,
whose future value it is impossible then to appre-
ciate— turn from its dry and intricate characters
to gaze upon the sun shining on the grass, and
grudge the hours that must pass before play-time !

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 311

Think, too, with what unkindness and what in-
justice they are often treated! How often must
the infant heart swell with the quick sense of
oppression, when the caprice of an angry moment
punishes the fault which has been often passed'
over, till impunity had appeared a right ! And
yet restraint is a necessity. Every indulgence from
the first exacts some bitter penalty ; and we dread
and curb the present, for the sake of the retribu-
tion which ever lies amid the shadows of the
future.

From the beginning of life to its close, we are
haunted by the dread of the to come. Now,
to childhood, taught by no painful experience,
how jrksome must this yoke appear ! They are
galled and checked, and must submit ; they know
not that all our actions, even the most trivial, are
followed by those sad and ghastly spectres — their
consequences; but they feel their iron oppression.
Or, to pass on to youth, with its warm feelings,
so sensitive to the return which they will not
meet, so sure in a few passing years to be crushed
and withered ; but at what expense of misery,
let each ask of the records from his own re-
membrance ! True, its hopes are sweet, and its
spirits buoyant ; but how soon are those hopes dis-
appointed, and those spirits broken down for ever !

312 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

How often, during that period of fervour and of
heart-burning, must we be forced to shrink within
ourselves with all the mortifying consciousness of
unreturned affection, of ill-placed confidence, of
'too kind, and hence erroneous, judgment. The
time while such ordeals are being passed, and such
lessons being learned, cannot be one of much
happiness.

Is its successor better off? Surely no. Look
at the arduous exertion required of middle life ;
the thronging anxieties that spring up for others
more than for ourselves ; the constant downfal of
our best-laid projects ; the disappointment attend-
ing on the result of those which had mocked us
with success ; the weariness which gradually steals
over the mind ; the daily increasing sense of the
worthlessness of every thing ; the mournful look-
ing back on the many friends who have parted
from our side, some gone down to the grave, but
more parted from us by the estrangement of cooled
attachments and jarring interest. We have lost,
too, all those fresh and beautiful emotions which,
if they could not make a world of their own,
at least flung their glory over the actual one.
These are departed, to return no more; and in
their places have come discontent, suspicion, in-
difference, and, worst of all, worldliness. Through

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 313

such rough paths do we travel on to old age ; and
has life there garnered up its treasures to the last ?
Ah, no-! The dust, to which we are so soon to
return, lies thick upon the heart ; the affections are
grown cold ; and all vivid emotions have ceased.
But the calm is that of monotony, not of content,
and is ruffled by the thousand small pettishnesses
of temper, — temper which grows stronger as all
other faculties weaken and decay. And yet,
throughout this busy and excited pilgrimage, whose
present would seem so engrossing, man is ever
looking beyond it ; he never loses the internal con-
sciousness of something undeveloped in his nature
— something spiritual and aspiring, which belongs
not to earth. That which is good within us seems
to claim a requital not of this world • that which
is bad trembles before some vague and awful anti-
cipation of judgment. Were it but for the sake
of justice, we must believe in a future state —
futurity, that only though hidden key to the in^
comprehensible now ! How plainly is vanity of
vanities written upon that glorious science, ay,
glorious even in its weakness, which once read the
history of the earth in the skies, which asked from
the stars the mysteries of their shining chronicles,
and bade them reveal the future, from the mighty
annals of nations and peoples down to the tender

VOL. II. P

314 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

secrets of one lonely and beating heart. And yet
how vain was such knowledge ! What could the
soothsayer foreshow that*we knew not before ? The
future is written in the past ; and if we prophesy,
it is with eyes that look behind. Let the prophet
tell us to the letter of the days to come — we have
lived them already; circumstances may mock us
with change of form, but the substance remains
the same. We shall go through the same rounds
of cares whose anxieties were wasted on what never
happened — of vain pleasures whose emptiness we
felt even while endeavouring to enjoy them — of
sorrows cured by forgetfulness — of envyings, ha-
treds, regrets, and weariness. What needs there
to repeat what we perfectly understood ? No : the
seer's knowledge, to be of aught avail, must pass
the boundary of our little existence — it must
pierce the shadows of the grave. Let him open
but one secret of that far and dark eternity, and
its purchase were well worth all life.

There have been those who on the scaffold
have bidden a bold welcome unto Death, as the
mighty revealer of the unknown. Such reliance
was, methinks, lightly founded. Who knows how
many links we may have to ascend in the vast
cycle of worlds around, ere we arrive at the one
which is knowledge — where we may look before,

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 315

and after, and judge of the whole ? How many
stages of probation may we yet have to pass !
But can any lot be more bitter than that which
was cast on earth? Will its memory endure?
Verily there is a deep voice in every heart which
answers — Yes. Worn, wasted, crushed, as they
are, how strong are the affections which bind us
to our world ! — they are too spiritual in their
nature for destruction. God of that Heaven to
whose justice we bow, and on whose mercy we
rely, surely those strong and dear feelings were
not given in vain ! Perhaps the gloomy barrier
of the cold and desolate tomb once passed, the
soul will be but more intensely conscious of that
love which shadowed forth its existence in this
life. Will those who have gone before await us
on the other side ? — and shall we be permitted to
watch the arrival of those whom to leave made
the only pang of death ? Will the hidden and un-
requited love be there acknowledged in earnest
gratitude for its long endurance? — will it be
allowed to breathe the free and happy air of
heaven ? How vain to inquire — and yet we inquire
on ! We ask of that which answers not. But
when we recall how feverish, how wretched, how
incomplete has been the life of mortality, we feel
that the present owes us a future.

316

CHAPTER XXXI.

" Droop not, sister, and thy weeping
For my fated end give o'er.

* * « *

Mourn not — dying is not dying
Unto those who love not life,
But a hope to the relying,

And a glad release from strife."

CORNELIUS WECBE.

FRANCESCA marked the beloved features grow
rigid even while she gazed, — she felt the deadly
chill of the hand which she clasped ; but still she
stood beside the corpse, when the old servant, who
had come in, whispered, " It is all over! — let me
bind up the head." The sense of her loss thus
brought before her was too overwhelming, and she
sank insensible on the bed. They carried her into
her own room, where it was long before she re-
covered ; and when at last she revived, it was in
a state of stupified exhaustion that ended in sleep —
the deep heavy sleep of those utterly worn out both
in body and mind. It was broad daylight the
next morning before she awoke ; she was roused

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 317

in a moment by the shadowy gleams glimmering
through the green branches of an old elm -tree
which almost hid her window. She started up —
her first thought was of Guido, and that she had
slept too long ; but a terrible consciousness rushed
over her, and" her head sank on her pillow, while
she closed her eyes, as if to shut out her fear. She
was still dizzy with sleep, and the many visions of
the night rose confusedly before her. For the mo-
ment she essayed to slumber again — suddenly the
very suspense she had sought became too dreadful.
She sprang out of bed, and ran to Guide's room ;
it was darkened — the curtains were closed around
him who had so loved the light and air. The truth
instantly flashed upon her, and she staggered
against the wall for support. How welcome was
the darkness, \vhich seemed to hide her even
from herself! For a few moments she stood as if
stunned, and then drew nigh towards the bed,
where lay the remains, insensible and cold, of him
who but yesterday was alive to her affection, and
anxious for her welfare. She could not look upon
him, but, flinging herself on her knees, hid her
face in the bed-clothes, and wept passionately.
All her early life crowded upon her memory — the
old palazzo, amid whose deserted chambers each
had a favourite haunt; their wandering rambles
p2

318 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

through the adjacent woods ; their unbroken con-
fidence ; their constant union of interests ; that
future which they always painted together, but now
so utterly separated. Not one word of unkindness,
nor even of coldness, had ever passed between
them ; there was not a single recollection un-
stamped by affection. Love, which so often rends
asunder the gentler ties of domestic attachment,
had only drawn theirs more closely ; each had had
such cause to value the deep and true sympathy of
the other. As these remembrances arose, Fran-
cesca's tears flowed the more bitterly ; and the
very consciousness that they flowed in vain — that
never tear nor prayer could bring back breath to
those beloved lips, or light to those once watchful
eyes, gave them but added agony.

The vanity of weeping, which in time works
out its own consolation, is at first but the aggra-
vation of sorrow. Still, grief exhausts its expres-
sion ; and Francesca at length raised her eyes, —
she would look once more upon her brother ; and
again the very thought — " Once more!" — sub-
dued her into a fresh burst of tears. It was long
before she could compose herself sufficiently to
gaze upon the face ; but when she did at length
command herself to turn towards the pillow, it
was strange how sorrow became merged in awe.

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 319

She felt that she dared not give way to human
emotion in the still and solemn presence of the
dead. She trembled to disturb the beautiful com-
posure— as if it could be disturbed !

It is wonderful how, for the day or two after
death, all that was lovely in life comes back to
the face; the pure marble whiteness of the skin,
the closed eyes, the features in such deep stillness,
like those of a statue wrought in the highest ideal
of art, but with that impressed upon them which
was never yet the work of mortal hand. Guide's
regular and classic features suited well with this
state of entire repose. The calm and sweet sere-
nity belonged to their nature. It was as if the
countenance were for a brief while allowed to wear
the likeness of the peaceful and spiritual world
whither the soul had departed.

Francesca remained watching him with an in-
expressible feeling of consolation. He brought to
her mind those glorious works of art which they
had witnessed together. His dream of their grace
and noble beauty was realised in himself; and yet
there was something too sad and too tender for
marble. The cheek and lip were white, and the
hair shewed the only vestige of colour — the hair,
which retains its gloss and flexibility to the last,
when all else is faded and rigid — how much of

320 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

humanity did it still impart ! The rich black curls
lay in profusion round the graceful head, and the
long dark lash yet rested on the pallid cheek, and
gave a semblance of life to the statue-like form.

Many have a horror of looking upon the dead
— they are wrong ; futurity and peace are written
on the composed and beautiful countenance ; it
suggests the idea of an intellectual slumber. The
sleep of the living is feverish and agitated — the
passion and the sorrow are on the flushed cheek
and the tremulous lip — but that of death is the
sleep of the soul. No one can gaze upon the dead,
and not feel, indeed, that they are gone to a land
where " the wicked cease from troubling, and the
weary are at rest."

Still, that is a dreadful week which elapses
before the burial. We defer too long the return-
ing of earth to earth ; the loathsome work of cor-
ruption should begin in the dust. The darkened
house, the stealing steps, the subdued voices, and
the haunting consciousness that there is that under
the same roof with yourself which is not of this
world, all combine to keep the mind in a state of
terrible excitement. And yet, with this vague
atmosphere of dread around you, how strangely
is the ludicrous mingled ! The mocking and the
absurd is stamped upon the funeral preparations.

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 321

The matter-of-fact solemnity, the careless gravity,
of those whose employment it is to furnish the coffin,
&c. — the customary compliment of " Such a fine
corse ! " as if the appearance of the dead were
their own doing — the importance attached to the
trimmings of the shroud and the nails on the lid —
the professional pleasantries, ay, pleasantries !
handed down from time immemorial — the utter
indifference of their proceedings — all natural
enough when we think how familiar the spectacle
is to them at which our own blood grows cold;
but all which is absolute torture to the eye and
ear of the survivor.

Francesca took her last look at the muffled
figure in the long and narrow coffin, the death-
clothes hiding the head, and only allowing the
mouth, nose, and brow, to be seen, on which
were now impressed the ghastly tints of livid
decay ; and then left the room, sick and shudder-
ing. Yet again she yearned to see that beloved
face, even though changed and loathsome. Good
God ! how dreadful a penalty exacted of mortality,
to think that we must turn with unconquerable
disgust from all that was once so dear, and with
that affection strong in our hearts as ever! And
yet, the revolting triumphs over the spiritual and
the tender feeling. With a hasty step she re-

322 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

entered the chamber. A sound of most jarring
cheerfulness struck upon her ear — a glare of un-
welcome light poured upon her eyes — and in the
very act of fitting on the lid to the coffin stood
a man, singing one of the popular political songs
of the time ; having previously unclosed the shut-
ters, that he might see to do his work ! Hurriedly
she retreated to her own room, the careless singing
of the workman smiting her with a bitter sense
of desolation.

In the first exaggeration of sorrow, it seemed
as if every thing must sympathise with her great
grief; and in the equal exaggeration of disap-
pointment, it now seemed as if there was no sym-
pathy in the world. She paced the room in a
passionate burst of weeping, from which she was
first recalled by the quiet entrance of Lucy, who,
marking her agitation, took her hand kindly,
and, leading her to the window seat, sought to
soothe her by the most gentle tenderness. Ah!
the magic of a few kind words ! how unutterably
dear they are! Francesca felt their full value;
and her tears flowed less bitterly in the presence
of her affectionate and kind companion.

323

CHAPTER XXXI.

" And now must the body return to earth —
The spirit to God, who gave it."

BERNARD BARTON.

AT last — and how long, yet so short, did the time
appear! — the day arrived that had been fixed for
Guide's funeral. Francesca had resolved that she
would follow him to the grave. It is a strange
refinement in our modern times, that we should
leave it to the hired mourner (mourner! what a
mockery!) to pay that last tender office, the last
sign of care for their remains that can be given
on earth, to those whom we have loved — dear,
ay, dearer than ourselves. Few but have known
the wretchedness of such a morning — but have
listened to the noise of strangers in a chamber so
long silent as the grave. The moving of the coffin,
the carrying it down stairs, the heavy steps, the
creaking stairs, the opening doors, are a terrible
contrast to the deep stillness that had before
reigned throughout the house.

Francesca listened in agony. She seemed as
if she had never felt her utter separation from

324 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

Guide till now. A sudden bustle, followed by an
entire quiet, announced that the coffin had been
carried across the threshold, and that the funeral
procession was on its way. She rose from her
seat, but the room appeared to flit before her
eyes ; and she was scarcely conscious of her own
purpose, till Lucy entered, and silently offered to
help her on with her cloak. She took her arm,
thanked her by a gentle pressure, arid together
they proceeded on their melancholy duty.

All who have long been shut up in -doors
know the almost intoxication of their first walk
in the free wind and glad sunshine — the common
expressions of " you do not feel your feet," or
" you seem to tread on air," so completely ex-
press the sensation. Francesca, as they wound
along the meadow path, beside a hedge crowded
with brier roses, and the fragrance yet lingering
of the recently mown hay, while the sunshine and
shadows chased each other rapidly over the green
field, felt the exhilarating influence; but it was
as suddenly checked by the remembrance that it
was a solitary enjoyment. She looked with a
grudging eye on this waste of life and beauty —
there was none for him ; and the sight of the
coffin, with its deep black pall borne slowly along
the glancing path, was a contrast of unutterable

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 325

misery. It was a relief to change the cheerful
meadow for the dark umbrage of the forest which
they now entered. She could not but note what
a deeper shade was flung round since last she
passed. Then the verdure was tender, and many
a bough wore only the promise of its future luxu-
riance; now every branch was heavy with the
weight of foliage, and every leaf was at its utmost
growth, and wore its darkest green. The narrow
road, too, along which they wound, penetrated one
of the most secluded glades ; and the gloom and
stillness accorded well with the silent and melan-
choly train. Again they emerged into the open
country, and at a few paces down a rural lane were
the steps that led to the churchyard; they went
through the little gate, and Francesca's eye glanced
rapidly around. Intuitively it rested on the ob-
ject which it sought, yet dreaded to find, and
caught in an instant the fresh heap of earth which
indicated the new-made home. Lucy felt her
companion writhe in agony; but Francesca re-
gained her composure, for the service commenced,
and the clergyman led the way to the grave.
Sublime and consoling are the blessed words with
which earth is restored to earth; and Francesca
heard them like soothing but indistinct music —
she felt their influence, although unconsciously.

VOL. II. Q

326 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

The time came for the coffin to be consigned
to the ground; she saw them lay aside the pall
and prepare the ropes ; she sprang forward, but
her strength failed her, and she was forced to lean
against a tombstone for support. They lowered
the body into that damp, dark pit, and involun-
tarily she hid her face in her hands, to shut out
the whole scene. What now remained for her to
look upon ! She was roused by the sound — that
most dreadful of all sounds that ever sank the
heart to hear — the gravel rattling on the coffin !
To the last day of her life that noise haunted her.
Often in the still midnight it came distinct on her
ear — a terrible and eternal farewell! Gradually
the quick, hard fall ceased — the mould had attained
some depth; but the silence was even worse — it
told how nearly all was over.

Francesca looked up, — they were trampling
down the clay. It was as if they were treading
on her own heart. She sunk, half fainting, but
still conscious, on the tomb where she had leant.
Lucy gently put back the hood from her face, and
the fresh air revived her.

It was now over, and Francesca felt for a
moment as if all passing around were a dream !
She remained still and breathless; to move, to look,
might make it reality, — she dared not ascertain

FRANCESCA CARRARA. 327

that she was waking. The silence recalled her to
her actual wretchedness. Yes, Guido — the only
friend, the only relative that she had on earth —
lay there, in a foreign grave ; and a vain but bitter
regret passed through her mind, as she remem-
bered the deep blue skies and the fertile soil of
their own and lovely land. Perhaps he might have
lived had he never left its genial soil, its dreaming
atmosphere, for the colder clime and harsh realities
which they had found in other countries. Strange
that she took comfort in the knowledge, that the
germ of disease was with him from his birth — no
circumstances could have altered, no care could
have checked the hereditary tendency to consump-
tion ! Alas! it was best that he left so little to
regret: — happy love and prosperous fortunes are
hard to part with ! One by one the charms of life
had faded: he was sad and weary; — to Guido,
death was a release !

" Will you not come home?" said Lucy, who,
together with her father, was waiting beside.

" Dear Lucy!" exclaimed Francesca," leave
me to follow you ; I am best by myself."

Her companion, whose own deepest thoughts
were always indulged in solitude, understood Fran-
cesca's feelings, and drew her father away.

The young Italian listened to their departing

328 FRANCESCA CARRARA.

steps, till the beating of her own heart was the
only sound that broke the deep solitude ; but
theirs being an up-hill path, she could see them
a long way off, arm-in-arm, and Lawrence Aylmer
looking into the sweet face of his child. The sight
of their affectionate familiarity recalled Francesca
to the full sense of her desolation. She was in a
strange country, without an acknowledged tie of
kindred — no friends — and with a future full of
uncertainty and anxiety — she started to her feet,
and wrung her hands, as one painful thought
crowded on another. She looked towards the
new-made grave. There lay all that was dear to
her on earth, — never more would that kindly voice
fall in music on her ear — never more would the
soul look through those eyes now closed for ever !
She felt how irrevocable and how entire was the
loss, while the abandoned and desolate future
seemed already present ; and, in a sudden burst of
grief, she flung herself down on the grave, — one
murmur upon her pale lips, — " Alone ! — ay, ut-
terly alone ! "

END OF VOL. II.

LONDON:

J. MOVES, CASTLE STEEET, LEICESTER SQUARE.

IYWV

PR Land on, Letitia Elizabeth

4865 Francesca Carrara

L5F7

1834

v.2

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