Francesca Carrara/Chapter 23
CHAPTER XXIII.
"That early love that longest haunts the heart,
Bringing back youth and home!"
The glittering bracelet, every precious stone on its golden circle lighted with the morning sunshine, was the first thing that caught Francesca's sight when she awoke. Up she sprang; for at once the remembrance of its destination flashed upon her mind. She dressed hastily, as she wished to be at home again before Madame de Mercœur had risen.
Once she fastened the beautiful toy on her arm in a passing touch of feminine vanity, equally momentary and pardonable; but not for an instant did she think of appropriating it to her own gratification. Her education, it is true, had preserved her from much of the ignorant belief of her country; but, whatever the head may be, the heart is always superstitious. The more unexpected the arrival of the prize, the more it seemed given for the fulfilment of her original purpose. Indeed, so paramount was Guido in her thoughts, that it may be questioned whether it had even the merit of a sacrifice.
Closely drawing her cardinal round her, she descended into the park, at whose extremity was the little chapel where she intended to make her offering. She soon arrived there, and found the aged priest in attendance. The gem was given, and a blessing received; and many and fervent were the prayers which she uttered at the foot of the altar, for the safety and the welfare of her be loved brother. She returned homewards more slowly; for the lovely morning was so bright, and so quiet, that a sense of enjoyment and security unconsciously stole into her heart. The glorious sunshine, the clear blue heaven, somewhat reminded her of Italy. She felt the gladdening influences, and walked slowly on in one of those pleasant reveries which so rarely last beyond our childhood; and when by chance they do revive, they bring with them the freshness of that early and happy time.
The, path which she pursued overlooked the high road, and, though little exposed to view, it commanded all that was passing. Suddenly, she saw Evelyn advancing slowly along, quite alone, and seemingly lost in deep meditation. Francesca was on the very point of beckoning to him, when she checked herself; she had already learned that leading lesson of society, namely, that of curbing your first impulses. She was unwilling to have it said that her early rising had been to meet him; and still more unwilling, when she recalled his wish to avoid any suspicion of his intercourse with the English Queen,—it was impossible to say how it might be excited, and she therefore resolved to pass on, without communicating the successful delivery of the letter. But, as he came nearer, she was startled to perceive his pale and haggard appearance. His dress was neglected, like one who had watched through the night, and cared not for the coming daylight. His lip and cheek were white; and his step was uncertain and agitated.
Every kind feeling in Francesca's heart rose to the surface; and she was just about to lean forward and speak, when a servant on horseback, leading another horse, rode up. Evelyn snatched the bridle hastily, flung himself on the steed, which pranced as if as impatient as himself, plunged the spurs in its side, and darted off like a man who strives to fly even from his very thoughts; while Francesca watched the rapidly receding figure in mute amazement.
There is something peculiarly attractive to a woman in any display of strong emotion, though she has herself no part in it. Evelyn's pale countenance and disturbed manner awakened in Francesca the most tender interest. Involuntarily, she recurred to the period of their earliest acquaintance—their first meeting, when each felt attracted to the other, they knew not wherefore; how shyness deepened into timidity, and how that gradually melted away before the sweet confidence of mutual affection. She remembered how, one long summer day, they had, together with Guido, wandered amid the ruins of ancient Rome; and how, while Guido dwelt on the poetry of the present, Evelyn rather turned to the history of the past,—and with what a noble enthusiasm! How many true and generous feelings had found all unconscious vent in words! "Beloved Evelyn," exclaimed she; "I am infected with the worldly atmosphere around. I do you less than justice, because necessity forces you to conform to the false and frivolous spirit which here seems the very soul of existence,—I forget what your higher nature really is; rather ought I to blame my own judgment, which looks not behind the mask."
Francesca pursued her way, calling up every better attribute of her lover with all the aids which imagination is ever so ready to offer on such occasions, and, like most generous tempers, exaggerating the right to efface the wrong.
On her return, she hastened to Madame de Mercœur's apartment, who was already risen.
"Do not hate me," said the Duchesse, "for my news; but a new commission of my uncle's has taken your brother on to Rome."
"Ah! he will visit our old home," exclaimed Francesca, her eyes filling with tears.
"Why is it," asked Madame de Mercœur, "that you turn with, a more tender feeling than I can to your former home, and former life? I candidly confess, that they never come into my head,—at least, of their own accord. But, do you know, I deem it one of my faults to live as much as I do in the present. I never think of what I do not see; unless, as you must bear me witness, an old friend now and then," passing her arm affectionately round Francesca.
Just then a page announced, that the Princess Henriette of England desired to be admitted.
"Ah," cried Madame de Mercœur, "there is another instance of my forgetfulness. I promised the dear child to show her the caskets of that curiously wrought tortoise-shell—a gift of my Uncle's; and she is forced to recall my promise by a visit."
There was something singularly interesting in the youthful Princess, who now entered. Her figure was very childish, and so were her small and delicate features;—not so their expression; for there was a degree of thought, mournful in one so young; and her large blue eyes bad that melancholy which is almost always prophetic. It was strange, that while gazing on that fair child, images of misfortune, early death, and all life's saddest accidents, rose uppermost in the mind;—it was like spring with the association of autumn.
Henriette approached, and, with a remarkably sweet voice, addressed Madame de Mercœur—blushing, as it were, at the sound of her own voice; "You see, Madame, what it is to promise a pleasure;—am I too bold in reminding you of your caskets? Remember, if I intrude, the fault began in your own kindness."
Madame de Mercœur was all delight and courtesy, and the caskets were immediately produced. "I must make a merit of a fault," added she, "And hope my candour will excuse my forgetfulness. It is curious, that just as your highness entered, I was lamenting my utter want of memory."
"I am glad," replied Henriette, "that in future I shall have your example to plead. Indeed, I never remember anything but kindness." And Francesca was conscious that the glance which she caught was directed towards her; their eyes met, and the Princess withdrew her's with a smile, which said, "we understand each other."
No person is much in any particular room without having a favourite seat in it; and Francesca was in the large window. Here she was a little withdrawn from the circle, and yet able both to see and hear; timidity and curiosity being each satisfied.
The progress of Madame de Mercœur's toilette went on; and while her woman was exhausting her ingenuity and attention in arranging the front hair, Henriette exclaimed, "Ah, how beautiful the veins of the tortoise-shell are, with the light coming through, just like painted glass;" and raising one in her hand, she approached the window. Francesca, of course, offered to hold it; and while thus employed, the Princess said, in the lowest possible tone, "Tell Mr. Evelyn, his note was just in time;" and then added, in a higher tone, "I really must thank the Signora Carrara; she holds the box so that the light comes through quite beautifully!" and turned away with another of her sweet and intelligent smiles. The carriage, with the lady in waiting, being announced, Henriette departed, leaving Madame de Mercœur charmed with her grace, and her admiration of the favourite caskets.
But though Francesca strove to repress the idea, as harsh and unkind, she could not repress the feeling, that this grace was but the perfection of art. How must the natural emotions have been checked—the wild, warm impulses of childhood subdued; how much of dissimulation taught as a study, before a child could be so guarded, and so ready in resource! "'Tis a weary apprenticeship to serve," thought the; "And, after all, is not this perfection of manner a thing rather to be admired than loved?—love asks reality."
Visitor after visitor filled up the morning; and late in the day, to Francesca's utter astonishment, Evelyn was among the number, looking equally well in health and gay in spirits. He came into the room accompanied by the Chevalier De Joinville; and they were discussing, with much animation, whether blue and amber, or green and scarlet, were the best mixture of colours.
"Give me scarlet and green," said the Chevalier De Joinville; "they are magnificently barbaric. The one so warlike; the other so sacred to all true believers. Why, I should feel like the Sublime Porte himself."
"Give me," replied Evelyn, "blue—
'The sunny azure in my lady's eye,'
and amber—
'The amber tresses of her drooping hair.'
I appeal to Madame de Mercœur—"
"Who gives it in your favour, were it but for the gallantry which brings but feminine instances to support its taste. Out on the Chevalier's barbarous references."
"Theory and practice do not always accord," observed De Joinville, as he watched Evelyn take a seat beside Francesca.
"I am impatient," exclaimed she, "to tell you about your note;" and she proceeded to detail her anxieties and safe accomplishment of her undertaking. "I was very near stopping you this morning: but tell me," and her voice took an unusual tone of interest, "what had just affected you so seriously?"
Evelyn absolutely coloured to the forehead as he asked, in a hesitating voice, where she had seen him.
"As you mounted in the high road this morning, and spurred that unfortunate horse of your's as if life and death had been in his speed."
"I cannot allow myself to be cross questioned," replied Evelyn, with a smile obviously forced.
Francesca felt her interest flung back again;—nothing is more painful than to have a kindly anxiety treated as curiosity. Involuntarily, her manner became constrained; and the conversation, which had begun with so much animation, died away into an awkward silence, which Evelyn was the first to break.
"I have heard nothing talked of this morning," said he, "but the King's gallantry and your beautiful bracelet. Do show it to me."
"I offered it this morning to the Madonna. It was in returning from the chapel through the park that I saw you."
"You have made an offering of your bracelet! What could tempt you to do any thing half so absurd? Were you afraid it would haunt you with too brilliant hopes?"
"I pray you," returned Francesca, coldly, "not to make my belief a subject of ridicule."
"But I must know what deep sin it was intended to expiate."
"None," replied Francesca; "it only accompanied my prayers for my brother's safety—"
"As if," continued he, "His safety were endangered by that pretty arm being worthily clasped."
"At all events," replied Francesca, "it could not be better bestowed, than as an offering, however unworthy, for his sake who is nearest and dearest to me in the world."
"I thank you for the implied compliment," returned Evelyn, in a tone of pique. But all further intercourse was suspended, by Madame de Mercœur's rising, as it was near the hour of her attendance upon the Queen.
Again Francesca felt dispirited and discontented. "It is in vain," thought she, "to deceive myself: there is, there can be, no sympathy between us. He excludes me from his confidence—he takes no interest in my feelings. Ah! I see now that love is the delusion which the sage and the grave say it is. Perhaps I should be thankful that my eyes have so soon been opened to its vanity." Yet she did not feel very grateful. 'Tis pity for those whose standard of love is high and ideal; for them are prepared the downfall and the disappointment. The heart is the true sensitive plant—revolting at a touch.