Francesca Carrara/Chapter 46
CHAPTER XIX.
"O, youth, thou hast a wealth beyond
What careful men do spend their souls to gain."
Mary Howitt.
"Whose funeral has just passed?" asked Arden, who little suspected that his companions were already informed.
"Sir Robert Evelyn's," answered the lingering follower whom he questioned. It is a sore loss to the whole country; for a kinder master never existed. But his son is like him, God bless him!"
"That," continued Arden, "was the pale fair young man who rode after the coffin?"
"Yes; that was Mr. Evelyn. And, sad though the task be, he may lay his father in peace in the grave; for he never hastened him into it by care or sorrow of his causing; and he watched him like a girl during Sir Robert's last illness."
Arden turned to the Carraras, when Guido, who guessed that Francesca would little wish to hear all this repeated, began to tell him that they had slightly known Mr. Evelyn; and proposed, as they were chilled with their pause beneath the beech, to ride on a little briskly.
Francesca's eyes were too full of tears even to look her thanks for his watchfulness; but she rode on, glad to be distracted by the rapid pace, which demanded all her attention; for, unaccustomed to ride, she was a timid horsewoman. But the moment they slackened their pace, she reverted to the scene which had just passed. Only to have seen him again was enough for agitation; but to see him engaged in an office so holy and so touching, and to hear his praises, made every pulse in her heart beat even to pain. His pale, mournful countenance rose before her; and, as it had ever happened when aught occurred to soften her feelings towards him, she went back to those first and happy days in Italy, when she loved him so entirely, so confidingly, and he seemed so worthy of her utmost devotion! But again that last scene at Compiegne rose visibly before her; not only his falsehood to her, but his slander of her, came to mind. It seemed as if she had never felt their full heinousness till now—now that with shame she owned that for a moment she had relented in his favour. With shame—for resentment was a justice she owed to herself. There are some offences which it is an unworthy weakness to forget.
She put back her hood, and allowed the fresh air to blow upon her face. She forced herself to mark the beautiful and radiant hues that the noon-rays flung over every melting icicle; and in a short while was able to speak to her brother, and turned the conversation on what sort of a home they should find in the English farm-house to which they were going.
They had not much time for fancying or guessing. They left the forest; and, after passing through a narrow lane, from whose warm and southern aspect the frost had almost disappeared, they arrived at a large low dwelling, to which Arden welcomed them as to that of his brother-in-law. A rosy child opened the gate which looked upon the yard, at whose entrance was a pond, where a flock of ducks were catching the sunshine upon their brown-and-white wings, while their throats took a still richer shade of green. The buildings formed a square. Opposite the house was a roomy barn, whose open doors shewed a thresher hard at work, and the sound of his flail resounded on every side. Then came a range of stables, with a shed filled with carts; and the right was occupied by a cow-house, whose tenants were being milked, and whose fragrant breath was sweet even in the distance. In the middle was a large dunghill covered with poultry; while one very fine hen, with a brood of half-grown speckled chickens, started off with her fluttering company beneath the very horses' feet, who apparently were too used to the confusion to mind it.
Lawrence Aylmer came to the door and helped Francesca to dismount. A spacious porch opened into what was at once kitchen and sitting-room. An immense hearth filled up one end of the apartment; two small square windows were on each side the chimney-place, too high to serve any purpose of observation, but their light shewed the curious carving of the mantle-shelf; a matchlock, and a cross-bow suspended above. The floor was of red brick; the walls were whitewashed, though but little of them could be seen, from the delf and pewter which crowded the shelves; and here it was obvious, that, unlike those of the Sun, no mistress's eye rejoiced in their splendour, for though perfectly clean, there was little attempt at display. At the other extremity was a large window, which, from the white sprays that hung before the glass, seemed to look into a garden. The table, which was spread for dinner, was drawn towards its recess, thus leaving an ample space for the culinary preparations, which were now proceeding with full vigour.
As we have but little to say of the master of the house, that little may as well be said here, where he has at least the importance of being host. Lawrence Aylmer had but one pursuit; for that he rose early, and late lay down to rest—for that he toiled and speculated—for that grudged even the common expenses of his living. We need scarcely add, that this pursuit was gain; and this passion—for such it was, with all the strength, the endurance, the hope, the imagination of passion—this craving for wealth, rose from some of the tenderest, the purest, the saddest feelings in our nature; so strangely do the emotions of the human mind originate their opposites!
Lawrence Aylmer loved his wife with the poetry born of her own sweet face—of the green meadow with its early wildflowers—of the long starry walk through the dim shadows of the old forest, wherewith that image was associated. He felt, while he loved, her superiority; his eye might grow gentle beneath hers, and his voice low when meant for her ear. Yet these were not his habits; he was rude in comparison with Lucy. Every hour passed beneath his roof made him more deeply conscious that his was not the home for his drooping and delicate flower; and when she died—died of that insidious disease which so mocks with the semblance of hope when hope there is none—he forgot that the breath of consumption also fades the cheek that sleeps beneath the purple, and that the highest and noblest have to deplore over their loveliest and best. With that proneness to accuse our own peculiar lot of whatever may be its sorrow, he blamed the circumstances in which he was placed, and said, "If I had been wealthy, Lucy had not died." And when—the very image of her over the headstone of whose grave the moss was growing grey—another Lucy grew up to dwell within his home, how did he delight in lavishing on her every luxury! and said within himself, "Shew me a lady in the land that has her heart's wish more than my child; and her dower—there are few amid the ruined gentry around but would be thankful for a tithe of the broad pieces, or a few roods of the broad lands, that will be hers."
And yet Lucy thought her father neglected her—at least, that he took no pleasure in her society; and, naturally shy, she often shrunk from offering those thousand little acts of affection which make the enjoyment of daily life, and which, indeed, would have made the happiness of theirs. The truth is, they had lived too much apart—apart at the time when tastes, more than opinions, are formed, and when the memory treasures up pleasures and sorrows, hopes and disappointments, which, whether good or bad, are such perpetual and grateful subjects of familiar discourse afterwards. They had nothing in common, and this led to constant restraint; their conversation was always brief and confined, because neither ever spoke of the things which really interested them—and confidence is the soul of domestic affection.
Years passed by, and Lawrence Aylmer was surprised at the riches which he had accumulated; yet he could not deceive himself into the belief that they added to his enjoyment. His thoughts went continually back to her who was cold in the unconscious grave. Ah! his wealth might have added to her happiness; but, like most good things in this world, it came too late.