Francesca Carrara/Chapter 45
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 kindness 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.
The weather had changed suddenly, and instead 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 influence 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 authority of another, and that one a perfect stranger to her. Bound by no affections that had grown up 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 Avonleigh 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 questionings 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 beautiful!" 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 preoccupied by their thoughts, that beyond their first 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 gemmed them; while the gossamer threads, like strung and worked pearls, 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.
"'Tis a world of sculpture!" exclaimed Guido, catching hold, as he passed, of a long garland covered with the most delicate frost-work, something like those which you see carved on the ancient marble of some 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 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 emotions—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 singularly 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, shows 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 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 evidently 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 obviously 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 consciousness 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. Behind came a concourse of vassals and spectators; 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.