Francesca Carrara/Chapter 39
CHAPTER XII.
"Loved with that deep love which only the miserable can feel."
Maginn.
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 armchair, 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, condemned 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 wainscotings dimly shown 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 expression 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 careworn 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 unconsciously 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.
RICHARD ARDEN'S STORY.
"Myself and an only sister were left orphans at an early age. My father fell lighting 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 victims of a blind and terrible fatality; and circumstances, over which they themselves have no control, work out, unshunned and unsought, the wrong whereof they perish. The annals of many an ancient race testily 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. '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 pointing 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 Emmeline. Lady Avonleigh, who 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 Lady Emmeline, 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 engrossment 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 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 been 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 showed 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 be loved 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 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 bitterness; 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 demise, 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. 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 mule 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 different. 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 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 happiest—the only happy part of my existence.
"This course of life led to my acquaintance with your grandfather, then among the most celebrated 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 acquired 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 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 greyhound, 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 resoluteness 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 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 predilection. 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 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 delighted 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 insupportable.
"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 wretchedness you may somewhat soften my guilt.
"One evening, a discussion with Carrara had detained me unusually late, and Beatrice had 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 atmosphere, now redolent of the rich carnation, now of the voluptuous spirit of the drooping rose! There was neither cloud nor star 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. 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 me. 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 believed 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. Suddenly a shadow darkened the lattice—it moved—she was not sleeping, then; perhaps, as with me, slumber was banished by a delicious unrest; perhaps she might look forth, and ask for sympathy 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 unfrequented 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 deliberation. My soul was given over to the evil one; I did but what that power suggested. One suspicion 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, mingled, too, with a painful shame lest he should reproach me as a spy. I could not have spoken— 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 he the first scrape out of which you have helped me.'
"I gasped for breath; the ground reeled beneath 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 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 occurred 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 association—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 exercise sway. Thus, strong in all adventitious advantages, 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 showed 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, who had just brought in a fresh supply. 'And now, Arden, why the devil don't you ask why I brought you here?'
"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 continued, ' I have had a letter from my uncle, entreating my return; he has lost his eldest son, and Madeline is sole heiress of his splendid fortune. 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 that you do. I thought all you gay cavaliers had a thousand of these pleasant adventures, each dismissed more easily than the other.'
"'But I tell you I have been crazy enough to marry her.'
"'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 suppose they follow me to England?'
"'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 his 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 existence by yourself? I am much mistaken if the pretty Beatrice will be left quite destitute of consolation. You flatter yourself.'
"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 inflicting 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 yon 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, collecting 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 what 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 circumstances—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 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 knew 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 childlike, would she weep as a child? Or would 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 everything? 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 suddenly 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. 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 convulsively, and the slender frame trembling with emotion; her strength was exhausted in endurance—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 my veins as that ghastly and bewildered countenance: 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!
"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 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 momentary 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 rank 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. '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 steadfastness; I felt nothing but a sudden fear of Avonleigh's remorse. 'Does he know it?' I asked. Beatrice shook her head; but the words were inaudible. 'Perhaps,' I continued, 'the truth is best told at once: Lord Avonleigh, before he came hither, was wedded to his cousin; and I do believe, 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 glad hopeful letter, full of his English 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 attendant 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 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 Carrara not expect me, as business would engage my whole evening. It so happened, that I found myself 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 evening 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 exquisitely 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 thin—so thin that, but for its delicacy, the outline 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 pleasure, the future no hope; you were linked indelibly 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 him a tenderness she could not bestow on her own child. But this state was too intolerable to endure: 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 together, and not speak of our mutual circumstances. '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 chivalric poets—dies in his first battle, and leaves me encumbered with his orphan boy, whose only heritage 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, 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 dejection, and the past half forgotten, or recalled but as a painful dream! Carrara entered into my plans with even more earnestness than I had expected. 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 garden 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, the eye could see far around: for the branches were bare, and the distant roofs, no longer concealed by the green leaves in summer, were visible. The cold moonlight gave no cheerfulness; and even that was often obscured by heavy musses of cloud which swept over the pale chill disk. All was dreary—all was emblematic of that change and barrenness which passes away from nature, but never from the heart;—and yet Beatrice was at her window! I saw her head drooped upon her hand; her whole attitude expressing that profound depression, 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 approach! 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 happiness 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 my own haggard appearance! it was not the face of youth, but that of a wan, hollow-eyed conspirator, 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 implanted 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 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 evaporated 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 affection; 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 exclaimed; '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 signor's room.' Here is the scroll!" cried Arden, rising from his seat and taking it from his bosom; "for years these 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 extended 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 himself was the first who broke silence; but his hollow and altered voice sounded strangely in their ears.
"And, now, what have 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; 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 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 sympathy. He prayed by me; I could not pray myself,—I never have, since that fair corpse was carried 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 entertained no wishes; my existence was purely mechanical—dragged on, like a weary chain, from which I lacked resolution to free myself. Yet my health amended; and no longer an object for charity 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 accompanied 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!
"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 companion joined in the hymns raised by the pilgrims; 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 mountains; 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 predominated. The blue of the overspreading sky was rendered yet deeper by the masses of vapour which the heat of the 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 decaying 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 all things reached even to me. Methought in that quiet hour I might lift up my voice in supplication, 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 pale and reproachful face; while moonbeams glittered on the water that yet dripped from the long black hair. There she stood, wan and motionless, till I sprung from my knee: and I saw the shape melt gradually away—the large dull eyes fixed upon me to 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 beside a well, where a party of robbers sought refreshment 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 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 where withal to realise some dream of their youth, and return happy in some favourite project, in whose execution 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 unconsciously, Can she be so young? They told me of Lord Avonleigh. His had been a life of constant 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 with one only boy; and report more than hinted that he was about 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 hjs 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 shadowless form glide along the sunny grass,—that pale and mournful countenance turned as ever upon me. I rushed away, but the image was still before 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 recovery in the convent I had been told that 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 suddenly taken pity on me, I met Guido. The likeness 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 Francesca, soothingly; "you have exerted yourself beyond your strength: your cheek burns, your lip is parched. I pray you now 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.