Francesca Carrara/Chapter 2
CHAPTER II.
"Farewell!
For in that word—that fatal word—howe'er,
We promise, hope, believe—there breathes despair."
Byron.
The history of a minute—why, it would give a bird's-eye view of every possible variety in human existence. Wonderful the many events that are happening together—life and death—joy and sorrow; the great and the mean; the common and the rare; good and evil; are all in the record of that brief segment of time.
We left the moonlight shining on the bright eye and the crimsoning blush—we proceed to where it fell on the glittering lash and the pale and tearful cheek. There was something cheerful in the scene which we have just left—the window opening into the garden-room filled with many gladdening signs of daily amusement and occupation, and the silence broken by the light laugh and mirthful tones of the children who were watching the birds. But here all was mournful and desolate—for nothing is more mournful than man's work and man's skill going to ruin for want of man's care—and nothing is more desolate than the moss and the green weed choking the fountain, and half hiding the fallen column.
The silver waters of the spring had long since disappeared, but there still were left a few of the Corinthian pillars, some stretched on the ground and overgrown with creeping-plants, while two or three yet remained erect, and showed how graceful the whole must have been. There was a fragment, too, of broken wall, on which were seated Francesca and the young cavalier, one whose long fair hair and clear blue eye spoke of a more northern clime than her own.
"Let my father once see you," urged the youth, "and I am sure of his consent; we will then return hither, where you will be the dearer for your brief absence; your grandfather will renounce his strange antipathy to my country in witnessing your happiness—and—for the stars shine as brightly on Evelyn Abbey as they do on yonder old tower—who knows but the philosopher's stone may be discovered in England?"
Francesca let him speak on; she was happy at least while she listened; but silence was no answer, for here, at least, it gave no consent.
"You forget the other side," said she; "what if Sir Robert Evelyn refuse to receive for his daughter the unknown and portionless Italian; how shall I brook to be the first cause of difference between a father and son, to whom the averted look and the harsh word have been hitherto unknown?"
The young Englishman gazed for a moment tenderly on her beautiful face.
"The averted look, the harsh word, such are not for you, Francesca!"
"Methinks," returned the Italian, "they would he but my fitting reward. How could your father expect a daughter's love from one who had left her own in his old age; left him, too, without his blessing; nay, without his knowledge; his solitude embittered by anxiety for one who had no pity on his age, no memory for his care. I have heard, Evelyn, and have often read, in the tales of my own land, how, for her strange and sudden passion, a maiden has left home and parents, forgetting how her infancy was watched and her youth cherished. So could not I. Few and feeble are the steps which my father must measure towards the grave; but during those few, I must be at his side, Evelyn. How holy the claim, when age asks from youth but a little time, and a little tendance to smooth the passage to the tomb!"
Both were silent—a pause which was broken by the convent-clock striking nine.
"It is late!" exclaimed Francesca, forcing a smile. "I must not stay here talking of duty—and all my household ones awaiting me; you do not know what an important person I am at home!" but the effort was too much, and dropping her head on Evelyn's arm, she gave way to a burst of weeping.
"Look up, love," at length said her companion; "I would fain link the memory of our parting with something less earthly than word or gift. Do you see yonder large clear star near the moon,—it shines here as I have seen it shine a thousand times in my own island—let it be a token between us. When, dim and cloudy, its place is not seen in the sky—we will be sorrowful, and think even so are we far away and hidden from each other; but when it looks forth rejoicing and glorious, it shall be unto us as a sign and as a hope, and we will believe in a bright future and a fair destiny."
"I shall watch it to-morrow night," whispered Francesca.
A few more hurried words—blessings scarce noted at the time, but dearly remembered afterwards, and they parted. The ilex boughs closed behind the light form of the maiden, while the young Englishman sprang rapidly down the narrow path leading to the inn whence he was to start on the morrow by daybreak.
It matters little to trace the rapidity of the land journey, or the monotony of the sea voyage—alike unmarked by adventure. Robert Evelyn landed at Southampton, and immediately procured horses for himself and two servants; for his father's house lay some twenty miles inland.
"I would have you look to your pistols, young gentleman," said the landlord. Robert stared at such advice in England; but the many suspicious-looking individuals and groups that he passed, made him rejoice at having followed it. It was obvious that their bold and prepared bearing kept more than one party at bay.
Well known as every inch of the country was to Evelyn, he paused more than once to gaze upon its unfamiliar appearance. Fields which he remembered yellow with the waving corn lay fallow, though the month was June; and one or two that bore signs of a luxuriant crop were trampled down, and the wheat was rotting on the ground. The hedges were full of gaps, made in the most reckless manner; and the meadows, which had evidently not been mown, were either quite bare, or covered with irregular patches of rank, coarse grass, whose vegetation was exhausting itself. Many of the cottages were deserted, and the thatch blackening with neglect and damp; the lattices gone from their frames, the pear-trees loosened from the walls, and their branches, grey with moss, and heavy with leaves, not fruit, trailing upon the grass-grown walks, told that the desolation was no work of yesterday. A few dwellings of the very lowest order were yet inhabited, but at the riders' approach the doors were hastily closed, and not a creature could be seen, even at the windows. "And yet this is market-day!" and the traveller remembered what a cheerful scene the road used to present—from the substantial yeoman on his good brown cob, to the peasant girls, with baskets and red cloaks, whose voices and laughter were heard long before themselves were seen. Now the chief occupiers of the path were a few meagre cows, picking up a scanty subsistence.
A sudden turn in the road brought them opposite a spot where Robert had passed many a happy day. Involuntarily he drew his horse to a stand, and remained gazing with speechless dismay on the scene before him. The house had been burned to the ground: the mouldering walls of the lower floor, and huge heaps of ashes, from which the weeds were beginning to spring up, were all that remained of the former hospitable dwelling. The garden, which sloped down to the highway, was utterly destroyed, and the skeletons of two large trees stood charred and blackened from the effects of fire. Robert was roused from his trance by a hand rudely laid on his bridle-rein, while a hoarse voice exclaimed,
"So, my young cavalier,—regaling yourself with a sight of the ruin you and yours have wrought. Speak—your name, and business here?"
Evelyn had been so lost in contemplation of the melancholy scene before him, that he had not observed the approach of a detachment of cavalry, by whom he and his attendants were now surrounded. He looked upon the officer, whose hand was yet upon his rein; but the idea which presented itself was too improbable. "The son of Sir Robert Evelyn," said he, after a moment, "I cannot be an intruder in these parts!"
"Sir Robert Evelyn is a good man and true: his son is welcome—let him pass!"
The voice—harsh, changed as it was— confirmed Robert's first suspicion; though he might well hesitate to recognise the cheerful, cordial friend of yore, in the cold, pale, and stern-looking horseman before him. "Surely you will not let me pass," said the youth, "without some token of remembrance, Mr. Johnstone?"
"Call me not," exclaimed the officer fiercely, "by the appellations of the ungodly! My name is now, 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord: I will repay!' and am not I His instrument on earth? Ride on, ride on, young man—spare neither whip nor spur; for the aged is even now in the valley of the shadow of death. Robert Evelyn," added he, in a softened and kinder tone, "must he sorely changed, if he speed not, that his father may bless him ere he die."
Evelyn waited no answer, but rode on; and the clang of heavy horse-tramp was faint in the distance before his companion recovered from his surprise. "My father ill!" thought he,—"he hinted not at this in his letter:—ah, he knew the wish he expressed for my return was enough, and he was fain to spare my anxiety. Ill—dying, and I not there!"
His horse was urged to its utmost speed, and in one hour arrived, covered with foam, at the abbey gate. It was barred, and he could hear within the measured step of the sentinel; his challenge was, however, instantly answered, and the courtyard was filled with domestics, all eager with words of welcome.
"My father?" exclaimed he.
"Better—much better," was the steward's reply.
Robert's eyes swam with tears; and he could only wave with his hand an answer to the many greetings around. He ran forwards to the library, and in another moment was in his father's arms.