# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 44

CHAPTER XVII.
"What are you in such a bustle about? inquired her husband." Mrs. S. C. Hall.
The reputation of an inn for cheerfulness must, like "merry England's" reputation for gaiety, have been acquired long ago. The traveller—shewn into his solitary apartment, with the Sporting Magazine, some two years old, the sole volume—a small narrow street for his observation—his time upon his hands, "no nothing to do," and the evening before him,—will surely not find the prospect very animated. So much for the occupant of the britscha, who waits, as all the horses are out at a ball or a scrutiny. Neither is the wanderer of lower degree placed in a more enlivening position: true, in the common room he has companions; but to every man is allotted his own table, his own candle, and his own thoughts. Silence and suspicion are the order of the day; and civility is the surest sign of a swindler. But in the good old ​times (though perhaps their great goodness may be debatable ground) the inn kitchen was a cheerful place; and guests of every rank took a contented seat on the oaken settles by its blazing hearth, and did not relish the savoury mess, on which mine hostess piqued herself, at all the less because they had witnessed somewhat of its preparation. The degrees of society were more strongly marked; but then there was less fear of confusion. After all, the English hostel owes much of its charms to Chaucer; our associations are of his haunting pictures—his delicate Lady Prioress, his comely young squire, with their pleasant interchange of tale and legend, rise upon the mind's eye in all the fascination of his vivid delineations.
But these days were past at the time of which we write; a severe and staid, if not sober, spirit was abroad. And though the annals of the period do not show us that there was less ale drawn, or less canary called for; men got dry with the heat of polemical discussion, and drunk with a text, not the fag end of a ballad, in their mouths; and people made a sort of morality of straight hair, long faces, and sad-coloured garments. Yet, as the Carraras approached the inn where Arden had decided that ​they should pass the night, it seemed very cheerful. The windows were ruddy with the light within; and when the door opened, it discovered a large warm chamber, and an immense wood fire was reflected from walls lined with pewter plates and dishes, and ranged with a degree of display, which shewed that the preacher's asseveration of "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity," had not sunk very deeply into the landlady's heart.
Mine hostess herself was a pretty-looking woman, who, whether her age approximated most to thirty or forty, would have puzzled even the curious in these matters. She was dressed, according to the universal fashion, in a dark coloured boddice and skirt, and a white linen cap, whose closely plaited border covered her hair, except a narrow braid. It may be doubted whether this scrupulously plain attire at all suited the taste of the wearer; or whether she did not turn with a longing eye to the days when she rejoiced in a scarlet petticoat, and a cap gay with knots of pink riband.
The host himself was one of those very quiet men whom we usually see linked to the most active helpmates. Whether Nature, in the first instance, pointed out the necessity of a supply from another ​of that quality in which each was most deficient, and thus the match originated—or whether the state of quietude comes on after marriage, exertion on both sides being discovered to be a superfluity,—is really too profound an investigation; but the fact is certain, that the keen-tongued, quick-witted, bustling wife is always united to the slow, silent, and quiet husband.
This proper order of things was duly observed at the Sun—the Crown it had been, but this was too loyal an emblem now that England was under a Protector, instead of a King; and the sign had accordingly been taken down. The host proposed divers puritanical fancies—nay, once hinted at a head of Cromwell himself; but the hostess overruled all these proposals, and stood firm by the Sun.
"Nobody," as she justly observed, "Has any particular right to the sun, and it can therefore offend nobody; and though your cavaliers now-a-days don't wear their loyalty like a feather in their cap, seeing that few wear feathers; still there are many of our customers, and good ones too, who would scruple even at canary, if Cromwell stood at the door to bid them welcome."
These reasons convinced the landlord, and, indeed, he would have been convinced without ​them; but reasons are proofs given as much for our own satisfaction as for that of others. And, in truth, the worthy host had every cause to be satisfied with his wife's management. Their bacon was a credit even in Hampshire; their ale worthy of washing it down; their accounts well kept, and most promising at the year's end. The worst faults that could be alleged against her were, that she sometimes continued her admonitions and explanations in an ear too drowsy to receive them, and that she would smile too readily when a young cavalier chanced to praise her white teeth; but that, as she observed, was in the way of business.
There were already many other guests when the Italians entered; but there was that in their appearance which attracted immediate attention. The hostess's quick eye glanced from one to the other, and pronouncing them to be brother and sister, she felt inclined to favour one for the other's sake, namely, the sake of a singularly handsome youth. Be as philosophical as we can on the subject, fortify the mind with as many old proverbs as we will,—how that beauty is a flower of the field that perisheth, and that "Handsome is that handsome does,"—yet there will always be something in beauty that attracts and interests us​—we know not how. Such homage is a sort of natural religion of the heart, or rather superstition, that the good must be inherent in the lovely. But Guido had a claim far beyond his classical and perfect features, illumined, as they were, by his large dark eyes,—a claim, too, scarcely ever without avail on feminine compassion; he looked so evidently an invalid. The day's fatigue had been too much; and with ready thankfulness he took the proffered seat by the hearth; while Francesca, seeing that Arden remained in his usually moody silence, ventured, though with some trepidation, on a few English words.
"My brother is not well, and the cold night affects him; but he will enjoy such a fire."
Her accent was foreign, but her smile was a universal language all the world over; and though one supper had just been despatched, active preparations were commenced for another.
"Those foreigners," thought the female potentate of the Sun, "won't know what to order; but I'll show them what a good supper is." And with a rapidity quite new to the strangers, satisfactory even to their hunger, a little table was placed in the warmest nook of the chimney-corner, spread with the cleanest of cloths, and soon covered with a dish of fried ham, eggs with the purest of curdlike ​white and the clearest of yellow; facing was one of venison steaks, from whose brown crispness exhaled a little cloud of most fragrant smoke; in the middle was a square cut from a pasty; and the intermediate spaces were filled up with condiments and a large newly baked loaf.
Francesca marked with delight the eager manner in which Guido began his meal, and almost forgot her own hunger in the amusement of watching him eat so ravenously; he, however, soon recalled her attention to herself, by inquiries of—"Why she did not join them?" and her supper did as much credit to the cookery as Guido's. All on "hospitable cares intent," especially when those cares are also profitable ones, know how pleasant the appearance of enjoyment is; and the strangers increased their first favourable impression by the appetite and the relish with which they despatched the dishes set before them. The request afterwards for a flask of her best wine completed it;—in spite of her husband's advice, who interrupted her even at the very moment when the steaks were taking their last shade of brown, to remark that the new arrivals were obviously foreigners—perhaps papists, and it might be spies; and he got what he deserved, an angry "Hold your tongue!" for his pains.
​ Neither Francesca nor Guido were sufficiently familiar with the English tongue to understand the conversation that was going on around them; but one name rivetted Arden's attention, as soon did the dialogue in which that name was mentioned. Francesca, too, observed his change of countenance, which led her to mark the group on which his eye rested; and if not able to comprehend the whole, she yet understood a considerable part—enough to guess the rest. The speakers were three men, rather beyond middle life. One was pale and cadaverous, as if every feature gave testimony to the length of his vigils and the rigour of his fasts, while straight black hair hanging down on each side his face added to his wild and neglected appearance. His sombre dress was threadbare, and more than one rent was visible in his cloak; and yet any who noted proceedings might have observed that he had taken care to help himself to the best and the hottest, while the nearly empty stoup beside exhaled the odour of some spirit more potent than merely that of grace—it was the best French brandy. Hezekiah Pray-Unceasingly-to-the-Lord was a fit specimen of the times, half hypocrite, half fanatic; so far just in his deception, that sometimes he deceived others, and sometimes himself. Near ​him was seated his very opposite; a man whose warm, comfortable dress, good-humoured but inexpressive face, though not wanting in a certain sort of good sense, together with an inactivity of body, bespoke the city burgher, well to do in the world. One always prepared to conform, having had long practice that way in the whims of his customers; whose whole terror of the late commotions was centred in the fact, that one day, in consequence of a riot, he had to shut his shop at noon; and who carried his idea of their results no farther than that the present grave fashion led to a great demand for sober colours. At his side was a thin, restless-looking man, whose embrowned skin bore testimony to foreign travel—one of those adventurers who deem their fortune never lies at home, and encounter great risks for the sake, not so much of their gains, as for themselves,—human birds of passage, who make life one perpetual journey in search of wealth, but who never die rich.
"But are you sure Lord Avonleigh has been arrested and sent to London?"
"Am I sure," said the other, looking with a smile at the hostess, "that the ale which we are drinking is good?"
"I saw the ungodly flourishing like a bay-​tree; I passed, and lo! his place knew him no more," muttered he of the rent cloak.
"I know it to my cost," pursued the former speaker, disregarding the interruption. "Who now will buy the gallant falcon I have brought with so much cost and care from Norway for Lord Stukeley?"
"Why," ejaculated the mercer, "they cannot lay treason to the charge of such a youth!"
"Yes, he is sent off to the Tower with his father."
"And did you hear from the servants if any hope was entertained for them?"
"Hope!—why, there is very little fear. It is the talk of the place, that he has been arrested to keep him out of mischief. There have been rumours of a conspiracy on foot in the neighbourhood; and Sir Robert Evelyn's death"—Francesca could not repress a start—"Has left him too powerful. So Cromwell has very wisely taken him out of the way of temptation."
I wish I had sent in my bill for those embroidered gloves which the young Lord Albert ordered; he told me so to do, but I thought them such safe customers; and it seemed more handsome to wait," said the burgher, with a face of dismay.
"Pshaw!" exclaimed the owner of the falcon; ​"if it was handsome to wait then, it is handsome to wait now. A brief imprisonment and a fine is the worst that Lord Avonleigh has to expect. You will be paid when he comes back; and a trifle added to the next fancy of Lord Albert's will make up the interest on your money. I am the only person to be pitied—What am I to do with my falcon?"
Guido and Francesca exchanged looks; for the attention with which both had listened had enabled them to comprehend with tolerable accuracy the preceding dialogue.
"I have scarce enough English to make a bargain," said Guido; "but we must buy this falcon."
Francesca thanked him with a smile; and thought within herself, whether her new relatives would have such ready sympathy with her wishes. Guido beckoned to the hostess, and by an ingenious mixture of words, looks, and signs, made her fully understand his desire of purchasing the bird. In the meantime, their pallid companion was overwhelming the sellers of the embroidered gloves and the falcon with denunciations of the vain follies to which they ministered, mixed with prophesyings of the vengeance awaiting them. The mercer, who knew such men had ​often mischief in their power, composed his features, and listened with apparent attention; not so the other, who leant back on the bench, and began whistling some air he had picked up on his travels. The volunteer homilist was stopping for lack of breath, when the hostess stepped forward, and, addressing the owner of the falcon, observed,—
"You will find your bird a sore cumbrance; for the noble sport is little kept up in our parts."
"I know that," said the man, as he looked with a sorrowful sigh at the cage, which he had covered with his cloak.
"Well, now, what would you say if I could help you to a purchaser? There are many bird-fanciers in the town of Southampton—"
"I have a starling myself that can ask what time o' the day it is, just like a Christian," interrupted the mercer; who could never hear a question of buying and selling raised without putting in a word.
"Pshaw, man!" exclaimed the other; "do you think my noble falcon is a fitting companion for your blackbirds and linnets, to be put in a wicker cage, and fed on chickweed?"
"I think," added the hostess, "you had better listen to me. I tell you I know of a purchaser."
​ "Let me know who he is," asked the man; "my falcon shall perch on no hand whose veins run not with gentle blood."
"Of that you may judge yourself," answered she, indicating the intended purchaser by a slight turn of her head.
The stranger looked at Guido from head to foot; apparently his survey was quite satisfactory, for he crossed the room, and said,—
"I am right loath to part with the brave bird that has been my companion these two months; but poverty has no choice. Few words drive a bargain with Peter Eskett. I never abate one farthing of my price; but then that price never asks more than a fair profit. The bird sleeps now; but to-morrow, so please you, it shall take a fair flight, and it is then yours at the price for which it was promised to Lord Stukeley."
Guido agreed at once to the sum; but added, "I doubt our being much the wiser for the trial, as, I tell you frankly, I know nothing of the sport. My desire to possess the bird has another origin."
The man looked his discontent, when Francesca, who began to fear a refusal from his expression, said, "But we shall take your directions as to the management of our prize; and I can ​assure you not one word of the instructions will be neglected."
A sweet smile and a soft word have usually their desired effect; and so they had on the owner of the falcon, and fixing the following morning to conclude their bargain, he withdrew.
Arden, who had for the last few minutes been sitting in a gloomy reverie, now approached them, and said,—
"This sudden arrest has completely altered my plan; selfish that I am, to feel it a relief, this delay in meeting with your father! But to-morrow I will ride over, learn more accurate tidings, and see if there be accommodation for you at my brother's. There best may you await Lord Avonleigh's release."
No possible objection could be raised to this scheme; and the party retired to rest. Wearied out, Francesca at once fell asleep—a slumber which would have been broken by anxiety, could she have known the feverish restlessness which kept Guido wakeful on his unquiet pillow, listening—and dreary it was to listen through the night—to the distant dash of the waves, as they rose beneath the loud and sweeping wind.