Francesca Carrara/Chapter 59
CHAPTER XXXI.
"And now must the body return to earth—
The spirit to God, who gave it."
Bernard Barton..
At last—and how long, yet so short, did the time appear!—the day arrived that had been fixed for Guido's funeral. Francesca had resolved that she would follow him to the grave. It is a strange refinement in our modern times, that we should leave it to the hired mourner (mourner! what a mockery!) to pay that last tender office, the last sign of care for their remains that can be given on earth, to those whom we have loved—dear, ay, dearer than ourselves. Few but have known the wretchedness of such a morning—but have listened to the noise of strangers in a chamber so long silent as the grave. The moving of the coffin, the carrying it downstairs, the heavy steps, the creaking stairs, the opening doors, are a terrible contrast to the deep stillness that had before reigned throughout the house.
Francesca listened in agony. She seemed as if she had never felt her utter separation from Guido till now. A sudden bustle, followed by an entire quiet, announced that the coffin had been carried across the threshold, and that the funeral procession was on its way. She rose from her seat, but the room appeared to flit before her eyes; and she was scarcely conscious of her own purpose, till Lucy entered, and silently offered to help her on with her cloak. She took her arm, thanked her by a gentle pressure, and together they proceeded on their melancholy duty.
All who have long been shut up in-doors know the almost intoxication of their first walk in the free wind and glad sunshine—the common expression of "you do not feel your feet," or "you seem to tread on air," so completely express the sensation. Francesca, as they wound along the meadow path, beside a hedge crowded with brier roses, and the fragrance yet lingering of the recently mown hay, while the sunshine and shadows chased each other rapidly over the green field, felt the exhilarating influence; but it was as suddenly checked by the remembrance that it was a solitary enjoyment. She looked with a grudging eye on this waste of life and beauty—there was none for him; and the sight of the coffin, with its deep black pall borne slowly along the glancing path, was a contrast of unutterable misery. It was a relief to change the cheerful meadow for the dark umbrage of the forest which they now entered. She could not but note what a deeper shade was flung round since last she passed. Then the verdure was tender, and many a bough wore only the promise of its future luxuriance; now every branch was heavy with the weight of foliage, and every leaf was at its utmost growth, and wore its darkest green. The narrow road, too, along which they wound, penetrated one of the most secluded glades; and the gloom and stillness accorded well with the silent and melancholy train. Again they emerged into the open country, and at a few paces down a rural lane were the steps that led to the churchyard; they went through the little gate, and Francesca's eye glanced rapidly around. Intuitively it rested on the object which it sought, yet dreaded to find, and caught in an instant, the fresh heap of earth which indicated the new-made home. Lucy felt her companion writhe in agony; but Francesca regained her composure, for the service commenced, and the clergyman led the way to the grave. Sublime and consoling are the blessed words with which earth is restored to earth; and Francesca heard them like soothing but indistinct music—she felt their influence, although unconsciously.
The time came for the coffin to be consigned to the ground; she saw them lay aside the pall and prepare the ropes; she sprang forward, but her strength failed her, and she was forced to lean against a tombstone for support. They lowered the body into that damp, dark pit, and involuntarily she hid her face in her hands, to shut out the whole scene. What now remained for her to look upon! She was roused by the sound—that most dreadful of all sounds that ever sank the heart to hear—the gravel rattling on the coffin! To the last day of her life that noise haunted her. Often in the still midnight it came distinct on her ear—a terrible and eternal farewell! Gradually the quick, hard fall ceased—the mould had attained some depth; but the silence was even worse—it told how nearly all was over.
Francesca looked up,—they were trampling down the clay. It was as if they were treading on her own heart. She sank, half fainting, hut still conscious, on the tomb where she had leant. Lucy gently put back the hood from her face, and the fresh air revived her.
It was now over, and Francesca felt for a moment as if all passing around were a dream! She remained still and breathless; to move, to look, might make it reality,—she dared not ascertain that she was waking. The silence recalled her to her actual wretchedness. Yes, Guido—the only friend, the only relative that she had on earth—lay there, in a foreign grave; and a vain but bitter regret passed through her mind, as she remembered the deep blue skies and the fertile soil of their own and lovely land. Perhaps he might have lived had he never left its genial soil, its dreaming atmosphere, for the colder clime and harsh realities which they had found in other countries. Strange that she took comfort in the knowledge, that the germ of the disease was with him from his birth—no circumstances could have altered, no care could have checked the hereditary tendency to consumption! Alas! it was best that he left so little to regret:—happy love and prosperous fortunes are hard to part with! One by one the charms of life had faded: he was sad and weary;—to Guido death was a release!
"Will you not come home?" said Lucy, who, together with her father was waiting beside.
"Dear Lucy!" exclaimed Francesca, "leave me to follow you; I am best by myself."
Her companion, whose own deepest thoughts were always indulged in solitude, understood Francesca's feelings, and drew her father away.
The young Italian listened to their departing steps, till the beating of her own heart was the only sound that broke the deep solitude; but theirs being an up-hill path, she could see them a long way off, arm-in-arm, and Lawrence Aylmer looking into the sweet face of his child. The sight of their affectionate familiarity recalled Francesca to the full sense of her desolation. She was in a strange country, without an acknowledged tie of kindred—no friends—and with a future full of uncertainty and anxiety—she started to her feet, and wrung her hands, as one painful thought crowded on another. She looked towards the new-made grave. There lay all that was dear to her on earth,—never more would that kindly voice fall in music on her ear—never more would the soul look through those eyes now closed for ever! She felt how irrevocable and how entire was the loss while the abandoned and desolate future seemed already present; and, in a sudden burst of grief, she flung herself down on the grave,—one murmur upon her pale lips,—"Alone!—ay, utterly alone!"
END OF VOL. II.
LONDON:
J. MOYES, CASTLE STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE.