Francesca Carrara/Chapter 43
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 complaining 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 accustomed to the quiet of a lonely chamber. Monotonous, 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 dark eyes that looked kindly on them were the familiar and flashing glances of their own countrymen; 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 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 their 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 was ever present; his brow never relaxed, 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; 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 observed 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 thus watched him, she could not but mark the insidious 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, contrasting 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 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 outline was in shadow; on the other, the green and undulating shores of the Isle of Wight, whose verdant 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, softening as they receded from the round orb that now seemed to rest on the waters; the light became 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 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 darkness; 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 anchored by the quay.
Arden, who had stood by them unperceived, now approached, and, taking Francesca's hand, said, 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."