Francesca Carrara/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V.
"And Love, that leaves where'er he lights
A burned or broken heart behind."
Moore.
Both the brothers were early risers, for Robert longed to wander through the old familiar scenes, and Francis had so many plans to carry into execution, that it was impossible to begin them too soon. Breakfast was hurried over, for the day was too bright for in-doors discourse; the elastic spirits born of the glad clear atmosphere required motion, and the look wandered after the sunshine. At first they walked rapidly; the glorious morning caused, as it were, its own neglect—they rather felt than saw the beauty around them; but the buoyant step, the breath drawn lightly, and the freshness of eye and colour, showed its influences were upon them.
It was now the first week in June, and a late spring had kept its beauty till all but merged in summer. The steep and narrow path which they were threading wound down the side of a sloping heath, covered with the furze, now in full blossom—a sea of gold, with wave-like shadows, as the wind bent them to and fro. The golden expanse was only varied by knots of the green snake-grass, with its slender and feathery leaves—the most graceful of herbs. A peculiar perfume—for the scent of the furze, when first in bloom,
"Might vie
With fabled sweets from purple Araby,"—
was on the air; while every now and then the yellow butterflies rose upon the wing, till then confounded with the glittering buds on which they rested. The silence would have been profound, had it not been broken by a low but perpetual murmur, like rippling water, which told that the fragrant artisans of summer, the bees, were busy gathering in their honey-harvest—at once labourers and manufacturers. Far in the distance lay the mighty forest, gloomy and solid, as if some dark mountain girdling in the valley. The sunshine went sweeping rapidly from the foreground to the utmost extent of the horizon; the shadow coiled up before it; gradually the breaks among the wood became distinct, the dense blackness vanished, and the green woods shone out in the transparent atmosphere. The furze now became broken with patches of grass, and with occasional trees, and clumps of firs, whose sombre and wiry foliage had nothing in common with the cheerful aspect of their companions.
I cannot love evergreens—they are the misanthropes of nature. To them the spring brings no promise, the autumn no decline; they are cut off from the sweetest of all ties with their kind—sympathy. They have no hopes in common, but stand apart—very emblems for the fortunate and worldly man, whose harsh temper has been unsoftened by participating in general suffering, existing alone in his unshared and sullen prosperity. I will have no evergreens in my garden; when the inevitable winter comes, every beloved plant and favourite tree shall droop together—no solitary fir left to triumph over the companionship of decay.
Far as the boundaries of the forest spread on either side, it yet lay just below the heath; a few more windings of the little path brought them directly into one of its glades. The first indication was a change of the perfumed air; the furze-blossom was merged in the delicious breath of the may, now in full bloom—the most aromatic of English flowers. The extreme stillness, relieved rather than interrupted by the bees plying their sounding wings, existed no longer. Every branch was musical with birds, whose perpetual chirpings served as chorus to the rich and prolonged cadences of the blackbird; while the least stir not of their own making filled the air with fluttering pinions, which let in a shower of sunshine through the leaves.
One characteristic of the New Forest is its freedom from underwood; hence the height of the stately trees is undiminished, and the sweep of the open place unbroken. Architecture, the first of sciences, took, in our northern world, its earlier lessons in the forest—the Gothic aisle and arch were found amid the beech and oak. The foliage was in the utmost variety of expanded spring; the leaves of the beech, though destined to a deeper shade, wore already their polished green; but the oak had yet put forth little more than those pale primrose-tinted buds, the faint promise of its future spreading shade. Here and there a shining holly reared its fairy "clump of spears," and round many a leafless trunk the slender English ivy twined its graceful wreaths in such profusion as to mimic the tree on whose life it had fed. But the beauty of the glades was the hawthorn, in full luxuriance. The slightest motion brought down a shower of white blossoms, and the sweet air grew yet sweeter as the brothers approached the more sequestered parts. The deer gazed on them for a moment with their large, tremulous eyes, and then bounded off, gradually slackening their graceful speed when a tree or a growth of fern served as a barrier; while here and there a pair of antlers were tossed up, glancing like ivory in the sun.
"Everything here is the very same as the morning I went away," said Robert Evelyn; "but, good heavens, the change in the country around! The house deserted, the field uncultivated, the peasant starting with a look of fear at the sound of your horse's hoofs, have little in common with the England which I left. But here I feel at home again; I could almost dream that not a flower had faded, and not a leaf fallen these three years."
"Now," returned Francis, "begin to moralise according to your mood. Rob Cowley of some quaint phrase touching the mutability of man, and the immutability of nature. But here, where these old oaks look too respectable to enact the part of eavesdroppers, I shall rather say, Out on the fanatic knaves that brought the country to this pass, with their seeing of visions, and dreaming of dreams! By the eyes of our beautiful Queen, I hate to look on their serge cloaks and close-cropped crowns."
"And yet, methinks," answered the other, "I could as ill have brooked the hypocrisy and the oppression more delicately clad in cloth of silver and embroidery of gold."
"Why, one would suppose you thought my father was listening," interrupted his brother. "Loyalty may well be an old song in England, when a young cavalier like yourself wears a sheathed rapier and a grave brow, and talks sagely of oppression!"
"I have lived long enough in Italy to loathe the tyranny of old prescription. What, there, is the result of the exclusive privilege of one class, and the hereditary bondage of another, and the ignorance of both—what but cruelty, indolence, and debasing superstition? I stayed at Venice, and even in that gay city my blood ran cold to retrace the crime and craft which are the staple of her annals. And yet her people were once free and bold, winning adventurous wealth from the sea, which they mastered. Now, to what a state of crippled slavery are they reduced! and by what, but the depression of a gradual and secret despotism? Ah! my brother, we do well to watch our birthright jealously; the least invasion on the meanest peasant, the slightest encroachment of the powerful, are not matters to be neglected—such are the first steps of tyranny. Woe betide the people who allow such invasion on their freedom to gain courage from endurance, or strength from time!"
"Out, out upon this oration, or homily I should rather call it, to suit the spirit of the time! I have heard too much of the blessings of liberty not to hate their very name. I own to you I cannot force myself to care for the fancied rights of low-born churls whom I despise. Mankind have, from all antiquity, been divided into two classes—the ruling and the ruled; why should we attempt to set all experience at defiance? I see no cause for reversing the good old plan, provided I can manage to be one of the rulers. I will leave you a few noble sentiments (I hope you like the phrase) for our worthy father's especial service; but trust your practice will suit more with my own."
"I should, if you please, rather prefer my practice and my theory going together."
"Mere matter of taste. But surely I know that solid iron-grey horse, and its still more solid rider, Major Johnstone! take his entertainment on yourself."
"Nay!" exclaimed Robert, detaining him; "it will not task your courtesy much, for we can leave him in a few minutes—and I have so much to say to you."
"Why, to tell the truth," resumed Francis, "I have my own reasons for wishing to avoid an encounter with yonder sullen fanatic. As ill luck would have it, I was with Goring's dragoons the night his house was burnt. Do not look so reproachfully; we did but enter his hall for the joke of forcing the old Presbyterian into hospitality, when his refusal to drink the king's health led to high words, and thence to hard blows. I did not draw till Edward Stukeley was killed by my side. I then cut down his opponent, who was Johnstone's only son—I myself received a wound"—pointing to a slight scar on the temple—"from his father. We were then separated; but I hear he vows eternal vengeance against me. Now I care for his threats as little as I care for his anger; but, come down as I am on my good behaviour, a broil is the last thing in the world that I desire—so I shall judiciously retreat. We shall meet again, if you will go home, whither I shall direct my steps."
So saying, he turned into a narrow path, and soon left the stern horseman and his brother far behind.
Suddenly the way terminated in a little lonely glade, through which a small clear brook ran with a sweet low song, a perpetual and musical murmur, as the waves rippled over the white and blue pebbles which lay glittering below. On either side spread the moss thick and soft, and starred with a thousand coloured particles, red, gold, and purple, Nature's own delicate broidery. There was nothing of that luxuriance of blossom which had hitherto clothed the wood, for there were no hawthorns; but the bog-myrtle imparted its tender fragrance, and the caressing honeysuckle wound round many an ancient trunk, odours exhaling from every fairy-like tube—fit trumpets for the heralds of Titania.
Bending down beside the brook, from whose bank she was gathering the moss, the slender outline of her form mirrored darkly on the stream, was a girl, lovely enough even for the lovely scene around. The grey stuff dress, the white cap, whose border was drawn close round the face, were such as a peasant would wear; but there was about her not only that grace which nature and beauty give, but that softness and refinement which belong, if not to gentle blood, yet to gentle breeding. The pure white of her skin had known no exposure to the weather, and the fair and delicate hands had obviously known no ruder task than their present employment. She did not look above eighteen, and yet the first bloom of youth was past; it was the complexion to which colour would naturally belong, and yet her cheek was pale, and the deep blue eyes had an expression of melancholy, fixed, but still not seeming to be their native expression.
Francis gazed for a moment on the exquisite profile, which was all he could see, and hesitated; it was an interview he had half resolved not to seek—but Lucy Aylmer looked more lovely than ever; and he sprang across the brook.
"Are you gathering moss for the linnet's cage?" asked he, aware that the bird had been his own gift.
Lucy started from her bending attitude—a flush of beautiful delight upon her face. In a moment that most beloved voice went to her heart; her head sunk on his shoulder; and for a few minutes she had no thought, no feeling, but the intense happiness of seeing him again. Could he, could any one, be insensible to tenderness so guileless and yet so deep? Perhaps, too, the very consciousness of how little it was deserved, quickened affection with remorse; and at that instant Francis felt the love which had been weakened by absence, and forgotten in change, spring up again with all the fervour of a new impulse.
Lucy Aylmer was the only child of a favourite attendant of Lady Evelyn's, and left an orphan when but three years' old. Lady Evelyn had always wished for a daughter, and she adopted as her own the beautiful little girl, whose docility and affection more than repaid the debt of gratitude for what, alas! was not kindness. Poor Lucy was only accustomed, not elevated to another sphere. Refinement of feeling belongs equally to every station, but refinement of taste must be matter of education. Every year, when she went to pay her annual visit to her father and grandmother, she found more and more how wide was the gulf between them. They had not a habit or an idea in common; their pleasures were not her pleasures, and their hopes were not her hopes.
But it was not till Francis Evelyn came home that she felt the full wretchedness of her position. Robert, brought up under the same roof, was, as a brother, associated in her mind only with the pains and pleasures of childhood. Not so the young and handsome cavalier, who had for two years entirely resided with the distant relative, who died, bequeathing to him the wreck of a once princely fortune. Sir Robert bitterly reproached himself for having consigned his child to another, when he saw the effect of too early initiation into profligacy, or, as Francis called it, knowledge of the world.
Frankness and confidence belong to youth; and where experience comes too soon, it brings but half knowledge. The conviction of much evil in the heart should be learned at a later period, when we shall be aware also of much good. The worldly wisdom of the young is always of a harsh and bitter nature, making no allowance, and forgiving nothing—ever ready to attribute the ill motive, and holding suspicion to be penetration. Moreover, he was pained to perceive that the youth had no higher rule of action than worldly honour—honour which makes so many exceptions in favour of its pleasures. Principle was in his eyes but prejudice—and where he could not reason the right away, he ridiculed it.
Still he was so handsome, so graceful, so lively, that Sir Robert, making more excuses than he could well justify to himself, believed in the improvement he wished, and hoped everything from the future.
And what was the impression produced on the innocent Lucy?—only that Francis Evelyn was the realisation of those dreams which had of late cast a deeper tenderness over the page of the poet, and given a keener interest to the creation of the romance. Her creed of love was taken from Sir Philip Sydney's "Arcadia," and its real life grew out of the gentle tenderness native to her naturally melancholy temper—the result, perhaps, of a very solitary existence, and of health uncertain, if not positively weak.
Francis at first sought only amusement, and made love to her as he would to any other pretty girl, for he belonged to a school who considered gallantry as something between a relaxation and a science. It was, however, impossible for his feelings not to become interested—something of the truth and poetry of her nature communicated themselves to his own. Not that he was prepared to make one sacrifice for her sake, but then she expected none; her presence was a delight, and he left the future to chance. And Lucy, she too was happy; she hoped for nothing—she wished for nothing. To see him every day, to listen to him, to dwell with trembling joy on the slightest instance of preference, was enough to fill up the circle of her charmed existence.
But Lady Evelyn soon penetrated into her heart, and with a sorrow allied to anger. Alas for the weakness of human pride! Lady Evelyn was a just, ay, and a kind woman; yet she would sooner have seen the lovely and gentle creature—who had grown up at her knees, whose watchful love had been for years the daily solace of a life broken by sickness—in the grave, than the bride of her son. She spoke to her, and harshly, while Lucy only wept, and felt the most guilty thing in the wide world. From that hour, love to the one seemed ingratitude to the other; the disparity of their conditions haunted her perpetually. She was wretched and restless when Francis was away, but still more wretched when with him; for the thought of his mother haunted her with all the bitterness of remorse.
Francis was enraged at the interference, and opposition made him more in earnest; but just at this time, the civil war, which had hitherto left their part of the country comparatively quiet, arose with great virulence in their immediate vicinity. Early friends, and the superior gaiety of their camp, soon led the younger Evelyn to join the royalists; and the burning of Major Johnstone's house compelled him to leave the neighbourhood. Perhaps, as bitter medicines strengthen the weakened system, it would have given force to Lucy's efforts at resignation could she have known how seldom did her image arise in her lover's memory. His indifference was the only sorrow which her anxious fancy never conjured up. She felt more for what she believed must be his regret than for her own.
Lady Evelyn's death led to her leaving the hall for a home more than ever distasteful; true, she was independent, even rich, for her station; but for it she was utterly unfit. She was too gentle, too unselfish, not to be beloved; and though her father sometimes wished that she were more active, and her grandmother that she were less sad, still they were both proud and fond of her. They soon would have sorely missed the fairy hand whose birds and flowers gave a new cheerfulness to the house, and the sweet voice ever ready to sing their favourite old songs, or to read the sacred page, which, to use the poor old woman's words, "she did like an angel." But for herself the hope of life was gone. Every hour that she could, she passed in solitude, dreary, unoccupied, mournful solitude;—what wonder was it that the colour left a cheek so often washed with tears?
But the crimson just now was radiant enough. Recovering from the first almost shock of delight, she clasped her hands in mute thankfulness to Heaven. She, whose timid eyes drooped at his least look, now gazed on his countenance as if she feared to lose that most beloved face, nor did she turn for one moment away. Scarcely could she believe in the reality.
"You are lovelier than ever, my Lucy," said Francis.
He was about to have added, that he had come forth on purpose to seek her, but the flattering falsehood died on his lips—for his life he could not at that moment have deceived her even in a trifle.
"Ah, Francis! your mother!" exclaimed she, turning pale; "I must leave you."
This was easy to say; but where the heart is reluctant, the steps linger. What needs it to repeat that gentle discourse which all can either imagine or remember? Their interview was, however, brief; for Francis was little desirous of a discovery, and he knew he was expected by both father and brother. It was long before Lucy left that little lonely dell; and when she did, it was with a sensation of passionate happiness beating at her heart which no fear for the future, no consciousness of disparity, could restrain. Ah, how little suffices to make earth a paradise in the young and eager eyes of early and unsuspicious love!
Francis was met by his brother just at the entrance of the wood; for Robert was too full of enjoyment in visiting all his early haunts not to desire a companion who would at least listen to the buoyant overflow of pleasant remembrances.
Whenever the scene of a narrative changes, it has been a custom, venerable from its antiquity, to leave the hero in some danger or dilemma. With all our respect for good old rules, we must here reverse the practice, and leave ours both in content and security, while we return to Italy and Francesca, whom we left to that drear absence whose passive loneliness is ever the lot of woman.