Francesca Carrara/Chapter 92
CHAPTER XXXIII.
"There is a nobler glory, which survives
Until our being fades."
Shelley.
The body and the soul are not friends, but enemies. The one curbs and confines, the other wears and shatters. Perpetual is the terrible struggle, till death parts the mortal and the immortal; and life, the riddle, is lost in the deeper secrets of eternity. And yet, though constant has been the warfare, how fearful is the parting!—what unutterable visions—what awful revealings—what dark knowledge, haunt the final hour! Long vigils—fastings that wore away the strength of day—prayers that banished sleep from night—hoarded vengeance, that, like a fire, consumed its abode—affections crushed to the very earth—a memory whose love was with the grave,—a faith that had coloured itself with mortal passion,—all these had pressed too heavily on the springs of life and thought; and that stern fanatic and republican had long stood upon the verge of insanity and death. He had been chosen as leader of the emigrants about to cross the wide Atlantic; and his energy had been the stimulus and the bond of their union. He felt the chill of that earth with which he was so soon to mingle creeping over him. His hands stiffened as he extended them; but his purpose was still strong within him.
"Mourn not," he exclaimed, "that ye are about to quit the green fields and the pleasant gardens in which your eye delighted—mourn not for the homes wherein ye have dwelt from infancy. Let the porch be deserted, and let the stranger sit by your hearth. Never more will ye hear the bells on a Sabbath morning, breaking the sacred calm that rests on the quiet valleys, and calling ye to pray where your fathers have prayed, and awakening all old memories of love and reverence, as ye pass the graves where the green grass and the wild flowers are undisturbed as the sleep which they make beautiful. All these must ye leave behind; all that ye have held sacred, all that is most precious, must now be as the things of yesterday. Your path is across the stormy waters—your home in the primeval forest. The wild beast will howl around your resting-place, and the fierce Indian will track your way; the voice of the torrent and the tempest will be familiar as the singing brook and the April shower; the fruits of the earth will be strange to your taste, and its herbage strange to your eye; the redbreast will never more stand by your threshold, but the bird of prey will darken the sunshine, and the snake cross your daily vision. Danger, and toil, and long suffering, are before ye, but faint not on the way which it is appointed ye shall go. The Lord is with you, and be not cast down, though ye suffer for conscience' sake. The mighty wilderness will hear the voice of your prayers. Ye will build yourselves houses beneath its ancient trees; your fields will reward your toil, and your cities arise fair and strong; and though ye now abandon the graves of your fathers, your children will dwell in faith and hope around your own. Go! in the name and for the dear sake of that Saviour whose name ye will not hear outraged, and whose altar it is yours to keep free from a stain."
Suddenly the speaker paused, his whole frame agitated by a convulsive motion; his face shook with yet more deadly whiteness, and his eyes, wild and dilated, fixed on Robert Evelyn, who, in the interest of listening, had stepped beyond the shade of the boughs, while the moonlight fell full on his uncovered head.
The excited imagination of Major Johnstone was impressed with but one image—that of the young cavalier whom he had sentenced to death. He believed that the tomb had sent back its prey, to mock his hopes and rise up in judgment against him. Strange, he had never felt regret—he had held his act but the execution of a righteous judgment. Now, like still waters chafed by a sudden tempest, a flood of remorse rushed at once upon his soul.
"Come ye in warning or in mockery?" muttered he, in a half-choked voice. "Francis Evelyn, I adjure ye, speak!" and he sank back senseless in the arms of those beside him.
All gathered round; but when it was perceived that he was slowly recovering, many approached Evelyn with words of welcome and of wonder.
"He mistook you for your brother," said an old man, who was rubbing the rigid hands he held in his own. "It was a harsh judgment that sentenced that young and brave cavalier to die like a dog. He might have been spared, had it been but for his father's sake."
It was some time before Johnstone recovered the full use of his faculties; his eyes unclosed but to stare fixedly upon the bank, which, however, was now unoccupied. He then remained for some moments in silence and inward prayer; when the same old man who had spoken before, said, "Here is a young friend of yours asking for you; he used to be a favourite,—Robert Evelyn."
"I did not spare his brother for his sake, nor yet for the sake of his father—mine own and familiar friend!" and again he relapsed into moody silence.
He was roused by Evelyn's approach, who could have no feeling but pity for the worn-out and dying being. He asked some questions respecting the proposed emigration; and again the haggard countenance before him kindled with the heart's strong purpose.
"It is the will of Heaven!" exclaimed Johnstone in a tone of strong excitement. "I know that at this moment I stand on the threshold of eternity! I have looked on that which none can see and live. I shall sleep in the green earth of England. Robert Evelyn, in the name of your God and of your father, I commission you in my stead. Lead ye this remnant of true believers across the unfathomable ocean; guide them amid the gloomy forests of that other world: may their safety be required at your hands, and may power and judgment be given unto you! You are young, but brave and thoughtful beyond your years. Do ye accept him as your leader?" said he, addressing those around. A low but impressive murmur came from every lip; and the speaker, turning to Evelyn, bade him kneel that he might bless him.
Evelyn knelt upon the ground, and bowed his head. Involuntarily he started at the touch of the icy hand which pressed down his hair. Major Johnstone strove to speak, but the words died in an inarticulate gurgle low in his throat; and Evelyn had only time to start from his knee, and save the dying man from falling to the earth.
They spread a cloak upon the grass, and laid him there, while Evelyn supported his head. His features grew black and rigid, and his eyes seemed to refuse to close—as if conscious that, were they once to yield, they would be dark for ever.
Suddenly he raised himself, and whispered, "I have a letter for you."
With a strong effort, he took a scroll from his bosom; it was that written by Francis Evelyn previous to his execution. "I would the heavens were not red with that young blood,—it darkens, darkens!"
The words expired on his lips—his mouth fell—his head sank upon Evelyn's shoulder,—the others gathered round, and gazed upon the dead!