# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 98

CHAPTER XXXIX.
"Have we not loved as none have ever loved?
Shall we not part as none have ever parted?” Maturin.
Between the future and the soul there is some mysterious sympathy—imperfect and broken in our present state of existence. With fitful gleams of light such foreknowledge had rested on Francesca, when, conscious of coming ill, she knelt, pale and cold, before the altar. But the actual found her more resolved than the fantasy. In the surprise she had sunk again to her knee on Guido's grave. A woman's first impulse is always supplication. She felt, however, that it was in vain; and the blood of her high race, at the approach of danger, mantled in every vein to meet it. A cavalier stepped forward, offering her his hand to rise, and the moonlight fell full on the face of the Duke of Buckingham. His habitual sarcasm found its way. "Had I been aware," ​said he, with an obvious mixture of forced gaiety and real chagrin, "that I was disturbing a lady, I fear that my gallantry would have interfered with my loyalty."
Francesca's only answer was the rejection of his proffered aid; and she sprang to her feet alone. Passing the Duke as if she did not even see him, she approached Evelyn, on whose wrists the shackles already placed precluded any attempt at escape, and, putting her hand through his arm, stood quietly by his side.
"Leave him!" exclaimed Lord Avonleigh, who now started forward breathless with anger. "Foolish and obstinate girl! How dare you hold communication with an outlaw and a traitor?"
"I am his wife!" said Francesca—while her calm dark eyes met those of her father unshrinkingly, as if to confirm her words—"I am his wife!”
This brief phrase fell like a thunderbolt on all around. Buckingham looked livid with rage;—here ended his hopes of uniting the estates of Avonleigh and Evelyn. A barrier, impassable as the tomb, was now between him and Francesca: his rival might perish—but there he was, a stumbling-block in his path for ever. And, with that mixture of good and evil blended in all natures, ​but in most striking contrast in his own, he remained for an interval touched only by the devotion and courage which in the beautiful Italian took a yet higher tone, when shame and death might have bade a weaker temper shrink from the avowal. But there she stood, her cheek flushed even in the moonlight with generous earnestness, her brow wearing a sad but strong resolve, and her delicate hand just touching his arm, as if to mark by how dear a claim she drew to his side. It was but momentary; and revenge—revenge born of pique and avarice—became the Duke's paramount sensation.
As to Lord Avonleigh, the common phrase of "he was in a rage" precisely expresses his emotion. What he intended to do was not very clear even to himself, but it was to be something very dreadful. He snatched Francesca's arm from her lover's, and his hasty order of "Away with him!" was instantly obeyed; and Evelyn was conveyed at once to a lonely apartment in the Castle, where he was left to pass the night in sleep or thought, as best he might—the first glance round the chamber showing the utter hopelessness of escape.
"I am sorry, madam," said Lord Avonleigh, "to propose a step so disagreeable as a return to the home which you have deemed unworthy the ​honour of your presence; but I suppose you do not wish to remain in the churchyard?" Francesca followed where he led, without uttering a word. "I have been somewhat remiss in courtesy," said he, suddenly; "doubtless, Mr. Evetyn has bidden guests to his bridal festivities? It is hard that there should be neither bridegroom nor bride to receive them. Perhaps you would wish to make his apologies? There is no lack of deer-stalkers in these glades to assemble a goodly company in honour of an outlaw's wedding."
Still she walked by his side, unanswering. Now, he had expected her to weep, and was quite angry that she did not. He had prepared divers little speeches about women and crocodiles' tears, and it was very provoking to have them wasted. However, he continued. Talking is to some the relief that crying is to others; and taunts and reproaches brought them midway into the forest. Had the reproaches been more biting, or the taunts more keen, Buckingham might have been amused by them; but, such as they were, they proved exceedingly tiresome; and weariness took the form of pity for Francesca. "He will certainly talk the poor girl to death," thought he; and he looked sympathisingly on her pale and melancholy countenance. "Lady Francesca," he said at length, ​with that kind yet simple manner he knew well how to assume, "do let me assist you.—and from me you shall at least have the benefit of silence."
How unutterably do the wretched feel the least expression of kindness! He saw, as he gave his arm, that her eyes were filled with tears. She was thankful both for the support and for the silence; but how long, how very long, did it seem before they reached the Castle!
As they approached, Francesca turned to her father. The moon was just sinking behind the little chapel, and the complete darkness of the casement shewed a dim ray from the lamp within. "For pity's sake," said she, "spare me to-night the gaze of the household—I cannot bear it. May I return through the chapel, and so regain my chamber?"
"That will be the least painful to all parties," replied Buckingham; and leaving her to pass in at the door, he remained on the threshold, to make due explanation to Lord Avonleigh. The kindness here had its reasons. He knew that female tears and prayers were what Charles rarely resisted, and did not desire in this instance that he should be exposed to them; for, with all the Duke's pity for Francesca, he never relented towards Evelyn for one moment.
​ Lord Avonleigh, at a hint from his companion, followed his daughter into the chapel, and said—"If, madam, I permit you, however unworthy, to return to your chamber, there I expect you to remain. I shall plead indisposition as the cause of your absence."
Francesca bent her head in token of acquiescence, and hastened towards the little winding staircase. As she ascended, she heard her father lock the door at the foot. "Alas!" thought she, "how useless the precaution! All that my heart holds dear is now in the Castle."
She had scarcely been in the chamber ten minutes, and had not moved from the seat on which she had sunk, exhausted and dizzy, when the door opened, and Lord Avonleigh appeared. "I just wished to inform you," said he coldly, "that even your very hope of my pardon depends on your not interfering with my plans. I have given orders that no one, excepting your own attendant, approaches your chamber. I advise obedience, for your own sake; it is your own good that I have in view." And without waiting for a reply, he withdrew, and Francesca heard him lock the door and take out the key.
"I am indeed a prisoner," exclaimed she, as she sank back hopeless in her chair, more alive ​to Evelyn's situation than her own. She paced the room in agony; for, unacquainted with English laws, she even exaggerated his danger. Accustomed to the tragic histories of her own country, the midnight dagger of the assassin was uppermost in her thoughts. Every noise made her start; and the wind, as it howled round the battlements, seemed in every gust to bring the low groan of the murdered.
Lord Avonleigh certainly meant to punish his daughter; but the penalty was far beyond what he had dreamed. He had no designs on Robert Evelyn's life. To have him exiled again, and the marriage with Francesca cancelled and concealed, was the plan that floated before him. The envy he had felt towards the house of Evelyn was appeased, and some remembrance of early friendship and former ties arose within him. But he was provoked; the marriage of the banished heir with his daughter was like a triumph over himself; he could not endure it.
Lord Avonleigh was an angry rather than a vindictive man. Vindictiveness requires more energy of character than he possessed. Indeed, it may be questioned whether he would of himself have taken the violent measures of the preceding evening. The truth is, Francesca did not ​know how to manage him; flattery it never entered her head to use. Moreover, he required to be entreated and persuaded. Had she, from the very first, urged her attachment to Robert Evelyn, by this time he would have become accustomed to it—nay, perhaps have exerted himself in its favour for the mere sake of showing his power. But, shy and reserved, Francesca shrank from dwelling on her feelings to one who appeared so careless of them. Father and daughter had nothing in common; and the familiarity of domestic life, instead of drawing them more closely together, only served to make the distance more apparent.
But, in the present case, Lord Avonleigh was a tool in the hands of Buckingham, who, having come down prepared to woo and win the beautiful heiress, could not brook disappointment. Indifference—and Francesca's was obvious—in a woman to himself could be accounted for but by one cause, a preference to another. To discover that rival, and revenge himself on him when found, were things of course. With that attention to trifles which constitutes so large a part of the genius for intrigue, he had noted slight signs of an altered bearing in Francesca during the last two days: there must be some reason—either she had seen ​or heard from her lover. He coupled this with her absence on plea of indisposition, and at once drew the inference that they had met. Here chance befriended him. One of his attendants had found no little favour in the eyes of Alice, who expressed her suspicions that her mistress had some secret correspondence, for two reasons; first, to satisfy a naturally communicative temper—all common people are communicative: and secondly, in hopes of gaining such assistance as might ultimately gratify her own curiosity, now most uncomfortably excited.
A thread will guide through a labyrinth, and Buckingham soon discovered that his rival was one whose pretensions militated alike against his interest and his love. The fair manors of Evelyn were now his own, and so they should remain; and if those of Avonleigh could be added to them, they should not be lost for want of exertion on his part. The lady herself went for something; he decidedly preferred her to Lord Fairfax's daughter. The wealth which might pass as quite a minor consideration with the one would be needed as the only excuse for the other. He learnt that Major Johnstone's funeral was to take place that night, and that Robert Evelyn would undoubtedly be there, he accordingly applied to Lord Avonleigh, ​talked about loyalty and public duty, and demanded that, as a magistrate, he should issue a warrant for Evelyn's apprehension. This was granted with a readiness and yet an embarrassment that at once excited the Duke's suspicions that his future father-in-law knew more of Francesca's attachment than he liked to confess. Both decided on seeing the warrant executed; and the discovery to which it led took both by surprise.
Francesca's avowal of her marriage put hope out of the question, but memory remained; and the Duke considered revenge as a duty he owed to himself. Evelyn had dared to cross his path—let him perish! it was at once a good example and a satisfaction—a good example, which means warning to others, and a satisfaction to himself. "I have been," muttered he, "dramatising the last week: as it cannot be a comedy, and end with a marriage, let it be a tragedy, and end with a death. I can be the tyrant—Evelyn the lover ordered to execution. Lord Avonleigh has a double part to sustain—the cruel father, and the minister of my vengeance; while Francesca can go mad in white satin."
It is a curious fact, but a fact it is, that your witty people are the most hard-hearted in the ​world. The truth is, fancy destroys feeling. The quick eye to the ridiculous turns every thing to the absurd side; and the neat sentence, the lively allusion, and the odd simile, invest what they touch with something of their own buoyant nature. Humour is of the heart, and has its tears; but wit is of the head, and has only smiles—and the majority of those are bitter.
Buckingham's plan was settled as Lord Avonleigh led his daughter away. There must be no womanish supplications to the King. Charles was to leave the Castle the following day; Francesca could be confined in her chamber till after his departure; and Evelyn, once given over to the common course of law, would meet with little mercy now the tide ran so strongly against the Roundheads and Puritans. Some slight fear he entertained of the Comtesse de Soissons; but, could he contrive to prevent an interview between her and Francesca till too late—and it would be too late after Charles was once gone—the Duke knew him well enough to fear no written petition. All was arranged. Under pretence of avoiding any discussion that might affect the loyalty or compromise the dignity of a noble house, he managed to insinuate all his own suggestions so cunningly, ​that Lord Avonleigh mistook them for his own, and was quite delighted—perhaps a little amazed—at his own ingenuity, and actually ended by hoping that the Duke would oblige him by following his advice.