Francesca Carrara/Chapter 66
CHAPTER VII.
"Look to your prisoner, there!"
"And now, my dearest Lucy, collect yourself, for all depends upon our own resources." Such were the whispered exclamations with which Francesca cheered her trembling companion, whose courage was not heightened by the darkness and stillness around them as they proceeded on their hazardous enterprise.
We have before mentioned that Lawrence Aylmer's dwelling had been in former times a monastery, and abounded in small rooms and long passages, while a large portion was entirely uninhabited. The chamber in which Evelyn was confined was one only employed in drying herbs, and was situated at the end of a long gallery. With this their rooms communicated, though by a back staircase never used.
There is something very catching in fear; and as they passed through gloomy passages, whose only tapestry was the spider's web, and whose boards creaked at every step, while their lantern threw around fantastic shadows, and scarcely light enough to enable them to find their way, Lucy clung to her companion’s arm, and with difficulty suppressed the scream which some sudden darkness or unusual noise forced to her lips. Even Francesca felt her heart die within her, so contagious was Lucy's terror. And, truly, strong nerves are required to steal at midnight through a lonely suite of rooms, haunted by vague imaginings, and all the terrible superstitions and records accumulated on the past. Connected with the dark and narrow rooms, the cells of former days, through which they had to find their way, was one of those ghastly legends belonging to far-off time—they are too horrible to be believed of the present.
There are some human beings who seemed marked out for misfortune—an evil influence attends them till laid in that early grave to which it has hastened their progress; and such a history was remembered of the luckless nun, whose first forced and then broken vows were awfully punished by a living sepulchre. It was a story to be told on a winter evening, till the curdled blood of the hearers made them ready for that fear which follows close upon horror; and it was said that a dark spectre flitted along that lonely gallery, and that the November wind had more than once brought wailings not of this world. The tradition rose to Lucy's scared fancy; and supernatural terror was added to real, till at length, if less frightened, Francesca became almost as agitated as herself; and, in spite of every firmer resolve, started as the air came harshly through the many crevices, and as the uncertain shadows swayed to and fro. Much as they dreaded encountering the sentinel, when they arrived in the gallery it was a relief to hear his measured step, and have their alarm take that tangible shape which required exertion. In an instant the quick eye of the practised soldier caught their shrouded lamp, and "Who goes there?" rang upon their startled ears—startled as much as if they had not expected such challenge.
Lucy at once recognised the man's face. He had been a servant about the farm, and indebted to her for many a little act of kindness to himself and his family. Her courage rose with the idea of not having to address a stranger. "We are friends, Irvine," said she; "And fortunate do I consider myself in having to address a friend in you. We desire to see your prisoner, and a stranger might have refused even that slight request; but I can rely on your good-nature." So saying, she attempted to pass.
"No, no, young lady," exclaimed the sentinel, standing immovable before the door. "I honour your father and his daughter too much to let you in on any such errand. What but the exchange of some vain love-token can lead you to seek the presence of that gay and noble cavalier? I know the ready falsehood of such, where one so fair as yourself is the object. Maiden, I will not aid you to lay up sorrow for the future."
Lucy shrunk back, utterly abashed by this unexpected repulse. Involuntarily she held out the purse which had been destined as a bribe, but the words which would have proffered its contents died on her lips. Francesca, too, remained silent for a moment; but Evelyn's life was at stake, and she roused herself. "It is for me," said she, advancing, and throwing up her veil, "that Lucy Aylmer desires admission to Mr. Evelyn; she is but my companion, for I desire not an unwitnessed interview. But I do implore you, as you hope for mercy at your extremest need, to let us pass. I do not talk of recompense, though I have gold in abundance; but I entreat of your humanity to let us enter. Would you spend your own last hours in dreary solitude, uncheered by a single farewell to those the dearest to your heart? Would you die, if far away from them, without sending them one remembrance or one blessing?"
There was something in Francesca's look and manner that availed her even more than words: command seemed so much her right, that it was scarcely possible not to yield.
"Pass on," said the soldier, opening the door of the apartment, and gazing earnestly on the pale, beautiful, and foreign-looking face."
"Nay, my friend, no refusal—it is no bribe, for it won you not to grant my prayer: but I have now no other way of shewing my gratitude."
Drawing her veil closely around her, and taking Lucy's arm, though it was her own that gave the support, she entered the room, and closed the door; when, listening for a moment, she heard the monotonous and heavy tread of the soldier echoing through the passage.
"He sleeps," exclaimed Lucy, bending tenderly over Evelyn—loath, even in that extremity, to waken him.
"You must rouse him, dearest—every minute is precious."
Perceiving that Lucy still hesitated, she approached the sleeper, and with some effort removed the arm which supported his head, at the same time calling him by name. Evelyn started to his feet in a moment, and his hand mechanically sought his sword—the discovery that he was unarmed seemed to recall his recollection instantaneously—he paused just to take breath, folded his arms, and turned fiercely round to face his supposed enemy. His glance fell upon Lucy Aylmer. "My sweetest Lucy!" exclaimed he, "this is being in company with an angel sooner than I expected."
Her only answer was a burst of tears, and a gesture towards Francesca, entreating her to speak, which drew Evelyn's attention to her companion. Pale and agitated, the young Italian felt herself incapable of utterance; and Evelyn stood fixed to the ground when he recognised his visitor. "The Signora de Carrara!" he ejaculated; and then paused, half surprise and half embarrassment.
Francesca was the first to recover her self-possession; and coldly and calmly approaching the prisoner, said, with a voice to which pride gave firmness, "Mr. Evelyn, time is now too valuable to be wasted in idle explanations; I have only to say that Lucy Aylmer and myself have arranged a plan which will, we think, insure your escape. You must pass for me—the dress I wear will be sufficient disguise—and I will remain in your place till the arrival of Major Johnstone,"—Evelyn started at the name,—"who can have no motive in detaining me prisoner."
Without waiting for a reply, she unbound the veil from her head, and took off the loose black novice's robe, which she had put over a gray stuff dress similar to that worn by Lucy. "I have," added she, in a saddened tone, "worn this costume for weeks. I think, on my first arrival, the very man who keeps the door saw me in it; it can therefore excite no suspicion, and its wide folds afford ample concealment."
"Good God!" said Evelyn, "And do you think so basely of me as to suppose that I would leave you in my place, exposed both to danger and insult?"
"I apprehend neither," she replied; "the bitterest fanatic of them all would scarcely stain his hands with a woman's blood; and as to insult, the grave and severe character of the officer expected is my best security. But make haste—there is a faint glimmer already in the east; and if the day once breaks, you are lost."
Without awaiting further reply, she began to arrange the cumbrous drapery.
"Dearest Evelyn," whispered Lucy, in so tremulous a voice that even his ear could scarcely catch the words, "for my sake, do not refuse."
A firm determination usually effects its purpose, and the young cavalier at length allowed Francesca to proceed to the execution of her purpose. The disguise was complete—the novice's garb entirely shrouded his figure, and the long veil equally concealed his face.
"Now, take Lucy's arm—and remember," continued she, "that you are overcome with emotion. Ah! one thing we had nearly forgotten—those riding-boots will lead to instant detection. I had put on the slippers of"—she could not articulate the name of Guido—"over my own; you must substitute them for your rougher array."
Evelyn obeyed, and then, turning hastily towards her, exclaimed, "Lady, you cannot dream how unworthy I am of your heroic kindness; but the ill I have done I may yet repair, and, little as you may now suspect it, your own future happiness is one great inducement for my thus attempting an escape."
"Mine!" murmured Francesca with a bitter and scornful smile; when, seeing that Lucy was employed in fresh-trimming the lantern, she whispered, "think rather of that gentle creature yonder—so young, so good, so innocent, let her not be a sacrifice."
"Ah! I love her," said he in the same whispering tone. "If not my wife, she will never be more to me than the loveliest dream of my existence."
"A dream," thought Francesca, "which, alas! will cost her happiness."
But there was no time for further parley. Francesca threw round her Evelyn's cloak, put on his plumed hat, drew his glove on one hand, and leaning her head upon it, might well, to a casual glance, have seemed the cavalier.
Evelyn and Lucy opened the door of the chamber. They passed on, and the sentinel looked in, and saw, as he thought, his prisoner. "I must wish you good night for my friend and myself—poor thing!" said Lucy, in a low voice.
The man touched his cap respectfully, and with slow steps they proceeded along the gallery. How distinctly could Evelyn feel the heart of the terrified girl beat against his arm! At last they reached the extremity—the heavy door swung to after them. Lucy tried to draw the bolt, but her hand trembled too much, and her companion was obliged to perform the task. "Quick!" whispered she, and rapidly they threaded the deserted rooms. "You can throw off your cumbersome disguise here," said Lucy, though the words could scarcely be distinguished, from her excessive agitation, Evelyn hastily caught up a cloak and cap laid ready for him, and a few minutes brought them into the sitting-room. "This window opens on the garden—go straight along yon shadowy walk—the mound at its end will enable you to mount the wall—you can spring down, and then your path lies direct to the forest. Oh, make haste—God bless you!"
He clasped her tenderly to his heart, and was gone. She watched him through the walk, for there was just a faint light that outlined his figure on the still dusky air. Almost before she drew her suspended breath, he was lost among the trees. She raised her hands with a mute gesture of gratitude to Heaven, and sank on the window seat.