Francesca Carrara/Chapter 96
CHAPTER XXXVII.
"Farewell, farewell! if ever prayer
For other's weal availed on high,
Mine will not all be lost on air,
But waft thy name beyond the sky."
Byron.
Francesca made no attempt to leave the solitude of her own chamber that evening. It were indeed a vain show to play the hostess, whose reign of courtesy was drawing so rapidly to a close. She needed to compose her thoughts—to still her excited nerves; but she strove, without avail, to shake off the profound depression which hung over her. She sat lost in a gloomy reverie, from which she was roused by observing that the sand had run from the hour-glass, which she had turned mechanically when she first took her seat. Hastily she rose, and drew the table towards her. She had resolved on writing to her father, but it was an irksome task; still it needed to be done. "This," thought she, "is the second letter which I have addressed to him. With what different feelings did I write the first! Alas, the folly of hope—the certain disappointment which awaits on all earthly expectation!"
For a few minutes she could not see to write for her blinding tears; but the emotion was subdued, and the hurried scroll once began was soon written; for when she came to give expression to her feelings, the sense of injustice steadied her hand, and dried up her tears. The letter contained the following words:—
"Before these lines meet your eye I shall bear another name, and own another duty than yours. I do not implore for pardon; the child who forgets a parent's love in a new and less sacred affection may well kneel in the very dust for forgiveness; but such forgetfulness is not mine. You do not—you never did love me; you will not miss me, and anger in your mind will be utterly unsoftened by regret. I cannot help this. I complain only of my adverse fortune. Had I grown up beside your hearth, a thousand endearing recollections would have bound me to your care. But I was forced upon you. I came connected with a thousand unwelcome associations; and the unfortunate death of my brother turned every thought of me into pain. The kind word, and kinder look, have been to me unknown. I go; but I leave no void behind. I feel that I owe to Robert Evelyn a dearer debt than to yourself. As he would have shared his prosperity with me, so will I share his adversity with him. I believed myself to be a poor and friendless orphan when I pledged that faith which I will not retract as your rich and titled daughter. There were no truth in the world if I could depart from mine. The wide ocean will soon roll between us—let it wash away all unkind thoughts. I shall think of you, pray for you; and if in after years one gentle feeling, one mournful remembrance, should arise, I implore you to dwell upon them. They will be dear in that after world where alone we may hope to meet again. God bless you, my father!—you cannot dream how at this moment my heart yearns towards you. When the first anger is over, you will believe in the sorrow which dictates these last words of farewell. Again, God bless you!
"Francesca."
She folded the scroll, and her tears fell fast upon it, and her hand trembled so that the name of Lord Avonleigh was almost illegible. She then placed it in the casket where it was destined to remain for the present, and prepared to leave her chamber. She looked at her mourning dress, and for an instant felt tempted to change it. "What folly!" exclaimed she; "what matters the outward sign? The custom is but a chance;—no colour was predestined by nature to be type of mourning."
She retrimmed the lamp, which was to be her companion, and, drawing her cloak round her, prepared to set forth. The outer door of her chamber was fastened; but from her oratory was a winding staircase which communicated with the chapel, and she had in her possession the key of the small side-door which opened into the garden. Through that she meant to pass. It was in vain that she called all her resolution to her aid on entering the chapel. The cold damp air sent a chill through her whole frame. The dark vaults below had given to the heavy atmosphere the frozen breath of the sepulchre. The sculptured figures glared strangely upon her—she almost fancied that the rigid features frowned on this intrusion into their still domain. Her lamp could not penetrate the darkness around, and one by one those pale statues came within its little circle of light, and each wore a more ghastly hue, and a more lowering brow, than its predecessor. The wan countenance of Albert, as she last saw him—the colours of life gone from his cheek, and the red tide welling slowly from his forehead—rose upon the gloom. She put her hand before her eyes, but in vain—the faces wore but stronger semblance to humanity. Her imagination only repeated the phantom shapes, and more awful likeness. At last she reached the door, unlocked it, and sprang into the open garden.
Terror dwells amid the works of man, not amid the works of nature. We tremble beside the tomb—we shrink from the icy vapour of the charnel-house—the foot walks unsteadily over the stones placed above the dead; but the green grass and dewy flowers create no fear. Francesca felt mournful, not timid, as she watched the uncertain moonlight break from the huge black clouds which sailed across the heavens. With slow and reluctant step she forced herself to return into the chapel; for in her hurry she had brought her lamp with her, whose assistance she no longer needed. She entered, and with a tremulous hand placed it behind one of the monuments, so that its light would not be visible from the windows, while it would be in readiness for her when she came back. There was a skull carved on the stone, and on that the flame glared as the draught from the open door swept by. The death's head seemed to start from the marble with an awful reality;—was its meaning, half mockery half menace, addressed to her! She rushed away, and, pale and gasping, again reached the garden. She paused for an instant, and leant against the trunk of an old hawthorn, which,, placed in a southern aspect, had already a few sweet blossoms on the sunny side; their fragrance revived her, and ashamed of the childish fear to which she had yielded, when time was so precious, she hurried along the path which led to the forest. Still and dark were the glades which she had to pass, and a low moaning wind complained amid the branches: it was the great voice of Nature breathing in articulate murmurs that sorrow which is the universal soul of all existing things. And yet the air was soft and warm, and filled with that aromatic sweetness which belongs to early spring.
Francesca let her cloak fall from her head, to enjoy the pleasure of breathing the fragrance unimpeded; as the cool breeze came so refreshingly to her fevered temples. How beautiful she looked as the moon light fell around her; its pale and subduing light suiting so well with those sculptured features, and glittering in the depths of those large and radiant eyes! And yet there was a deep and sad expression on that brow, too thoughtful for one so young; and the smile on that lip was sweet, but never glad. Every look bore testimony to the inward and profound melancholy born of that long suffering which dares not trust itself with joy, and originating, too, in a temperament sad and sensitive by nature. We look on such, even in their happiest moments, and fear for them. Destiny has its favourites; but such are not of the number.
Francesca did not meet a creature in the forest; the wind was the only sound, and her own thoughts her sole companions: one was uppermost in her mind. The path she now followed to meet the living had hitherto been only traced when she had sought to commune with the dead—it led to Guido's grave.