# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 40

CHAPTER XIII.
——"And are we English born?" "Art thou the England famed in song?" S. C. Hall.
"Your father a rich and powerful noble, dear Francesca! your future station will be worthy of you!" exclaimed Guido, as they drew their seats closer to the hearth, too much excited to retire to their usual rest.
"I cannot rejoice," replied she; "I feel strangely oppressed, and am for once tempted to indulge those mournful presentiments which I reprove in you. What have I done that fate should deal more gently with me than with my mother? I seem to believe with Arden, that there may be houses with whom ill fortune abides as an heir-loom. I tremble in thinking what humanity may be called upon to endure. Amid this vast and common misery, how dare we hope to escape!"
​ "There are exceptions, dearest, and such I hope is for thee. You have known early care, and soon-coming sorrow. As a very child you were the stay of our little household; and how, in our late worldly experience, your own kind and true heart has led you aright! You look meekly forward—you exert yourself for others—your affections are hard to be chilled—and your belief in good, paramount. Fate forms its predestined wretches of other materials."
"I now understand," continued Francesca, "the reason of our grandfather's dislike to Englishmen. How I ought to rejoice that some, I will venture to say, providence enabled me to overrule the weak tenderness which urged me to be Robert Evelyn's companion! His real nature would soon have shewn its baseness; and, holy Madonna! to have made such discovery as his wife!"
"Had your mother so refused to participate in Lord Avonleigh's concealment, how much misery would have been spared! Do you remember that line in the English poet—whom we now keep for his own sake, no longer for that of his donor—where that loving and sweet Viola says,—
'Deceit, I see thou art a wickedness!'
"How little," exclaimed Francesca, "can I comprehend such a love as Arden's—so cruel, so unrelenting! Methinks the happiness of the beloved one is dearer, a thousand times dearer, than our own. How could he help confirming Lord Avonleigh's wavering faith?—how could he endure to purchase Beatrice's self with Beatrice's sorrow?"
"I know not that," replied Guido; "there is something so bitter in a rival. I could sooner bear my mistress's hate than her indifference."
"What fearful penalty," continued Francesca, "Has his exaggerating spirit exacted!—his love and his remorse are alike terrible."
"What a change will this disclosure make in our plans! Oh! the vain folly of deciding on the morrow! Who," asked Guido, "would have thought of our going to England?—for thither will I accompany you. What a weight from my inmost heart will it take to see you loved and acknowledged in your father's house! Let what will happen there, I care not."
"My beloved Guido, unless it be for you also, there is no home for me. What new tie of duty or affection can be so near and dear as that which ​has been cherished from the first? Whatever be our future lots, they are cast together."
The next morning—the excitement of the foregoing midnight being past—they talked the strange history more calmly over. "I should like to know," remarked Francesca, "whether Mr. Arden has aught of proof to support his story."
"Oh! the truth is marked in every word. I would stake my life on Arden's veracity."
"Lord Avonleigh will require something more than the assertion of one whose reason is obviously disordered."
"I wish to Heaven that my grandfather had been more communicative. Beyond a vague idea of the gone-by glories of the house of Carrara, we know nothing about ourselves."
This conversation was interrupted by Arden's entrance, who, worn and dejected, seemed scarcely to know how to address his young companions, as if he feared some sudden change in their manner. Both greeted him kindly; for his suffering was more present to them than his faults. They hesitated to renew the subject, but his mind was too full to allow of his speaking on indifferent topics; and, after a few words alluding to the disclosure, he asked, "Was there any obstacle to their immediate departure for England?"
​ "None. But," said Francesca, hesitatingly, "will not Lord Avonleigh need some warrant for the truth of this history?"
"You have all necessary proofs in your possession, though you may not be aware of their existence," replied Arden; "will you allow me to open yonder box?"
"There is nothing in that," said Guido, "but a genealogy of the Carraras, drawn up by my grandfather. We have kept this little ebony coffer for the sake of its curious carving. The marriage of Cana is beautifully wrought on its lid."
"I know the box well—it was once mine. I gave it Beatrice on the day of her fête. How little then did I dream to what purpose it would be applied! You are not aware that here are hidden drawers."
He raised the cover, and, pressing one of the figures, a lid flew up, and discovered a secret place, whose existence they had never suspected. There lay a picture, a small packet of letters, and a little roll of papers.
"These," continued Arden, "Are the certificate of the marriage, and the register of your birth. Though deeming them useless, Beatrice, poor Beatrice, always carefully treasured them; and this is the likeness of your father."
​ It was one of those faces which win their way through the eye to the heart all the world over—so frank, and so full of youth. The rich auburn hair hung down in long curls, as if natural beauty were indeed a sign of gentle blood, and fully displayed the white and broad Saxon brow; the complexion was fair, with a high colour; and the clear hazel eyes ware full of eagerness, hope, and mirth. It was a style of face, with its light yet rich colours, to which the young Italians were not accustomed. Both were equally charmed, but the same feeling made them hesitate. Neither wondered in their hearts that the gay and brilliant noble had obtained the preference over the wan and gloomy student; for they only pictured Arden as he stood before them—they forgot that he had ever been young.
He read their thoughts, and, taking the picture, gazed upon it mournfully; then added, "He is almost as handsome still!"
Guido, by way of diverting the embarrassment which seemed to infect them all, began to unfasten the packet of letters. A faint yet sweet perfume exhaled from the folds, and some withered rose and violet leaves fell upon the table; shape and colour had long passed away, but a mournful ​fragrance remained—mournful as the memory of departed happiness.
He was about to open one of the scrolls, when Francesca took them from his hand. "Nay, Guido, we will not read them: there are some letters never meant but for one eye, and such are these. This packet shall be given untouched into Lord Avonleigh's"—she corrected her words—"into my father's own hands."