# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 103

CHAPTER XLIV.
"Of winds and waves the strangely mingled sounds
Ride heavily, the night wind's hollow sweep,
Mocking the sounds of human lamentation." Bertram.
"The be all, and the end all here." Shakespeare.
Two hours had passed, the fierce crimson of the west had burnt itself away, and the huge black clouds had gathered in darker array, broken by gleams of meteoric light. The moon had risen, but with a dim haze around her troubled circle, and her face was only seen at intervals, so rapidly did the hurrying vapours sweep by. The fresh sea-breeze had sunk to rest, yet the billows heaved; and every now and then a warm gust, unnatural and brief, stirred the sails, and at each return with increased strength. Most of its inmates were sleeping in that ship, worn out with the toils of the day, and still more with the sorrow of parting, dreaming of that roof which would never shelter their hours of rest again. But some of the seamen watched the lowering heaven with unquiet eyes; and their captain knew that for him there was no ​sleep that night. There was silence on the deck, and gravity on the faces usually careless as that of a child; but each one was now mutely preparing for the coming hour of peril.
Two only in that vessel had neither sought the rest of the passengers nor shared the anxiety of the seamen. Evelyn had never moved from the ship's side, but leant there, one arm encircling Francesca, while he drew her attention to many a familiar object, and many a recollection of his youth. His heart had gone back to the past, but it had drawn hers along with it. At length, not even his watchful eye could discern the shadowy line that rested on the far horizon,—a cloud passed over the moon,—he had looked his last on England. Not till that moment did he know what it was to part from a country that had been, that was, so precious in his sight. He stood silent, and hid his face; while Francesca marked her sympathy by silence as deep as his own. Suddenly he turned towards her, and exclaimed,—
"Francesca, do you ever think of Italy?"
"Yes," said she tenderly, "As the place where we first met."
"Pardon me, dearest," whispered he, drawing her closer to his heart, "that one thought can wander from my present and perfect happiness; ​but I leave the best hopes of a life behind me in quitting England. Henceforth my father's house will be desolate. Two nights ago I visited those noble halls for the last time. I heard that the court minion into whose hands they have passed had given orders that they should be pulled down. Heaven knows where those stately portraits will be displayed on which I have so often gazed, some legend of knightly faith attached to each!—to what base uses will those time-honoured arches, those windows of coloured light, those panels of carved oak, be applied! Francesca, this must seem strange weakness to you; but there is not a stone in those old walls, about to be levelled with the ground, which has not some association of gone-by hope and lingering memory that wind round the heart, despite of every effort to forget them."
"And why forget?" replied Francesca. "We shall love to talk of England in the far country to which we are hastening."
The conversation was here interrupted by a burst of thunder above their heads, and a huge wave dashing over the deck, while the vessel reeled beneath the shock.
"Better take the lady below," said a sailor.
Francesca cast an imploring look upon Evelyn. "Let me stay by your side—I am not afraid!"
​ Evelyn hesitated, when the captain again urged her descent,—"You can only be in the way, lady."
She contested the point no longer, but allowed herself to be conducted to the cabin. It was a scene of strange confusion. The shock which sent the ship rolling amid the waters had roused the passengers from their short rest, and they crowded together with pale faces of anxiety and terror. The storm which had long been gathering, swept at last over sea and sky. More than night rested on the waters,—darkness made yet more deep by the fiery blaze which ever and anon kindled the horizon. And when that died away, the black cloud and blacker wave were mocked by a phosphoric sparkle, like the meteors which in some damp church yard gleam from the grave. The seamen, with every eye fixed, and every hand strained, were the fortunate; but wo for the wretches cooped in the cabin below, surrounded by an unaccustomed danger,—and fear is most terrible when strange. They were home-bred people, who had never dreamt but of dying quietly in their beds,—who had lived amid green fields, and in small and pleasant villages,—and who, alter they had thoughts of death, had softened the image of old age by prayer breathed from lips beloved ​in the last extremity, and tears that soothed the pillow on which they fell. But now death came sudden, dreadful, and strange. The wind howled around their prison-house, the waves clamoured aloud for their prey, and every peal of thunder seemed the signal of destruction. Some tried to pray, but their thoughts were confused, the old familiar words had passed from their mind; some wept hysterical and unnatural tears, that fell for themselves; and some sat on the floor stupid with terror. One, an old man, so old that his shadow rested even on his grave, raved aloud, and reproached the Lord, who had thus deserted his people in their time of need. Near him was another, who held an almost empty flask, and was humming a joyous song, which, from his now serious and staid character, must have been forgotten for many a year; and between the two lay a child fast asleep, the little rosy cheek pillowed upon the arm, half lost in the curls of fair hair. The shocks, which laid the ship almost under the sea, grew less frequent; the thunder, heard at long intervals, now threatened in the atmosphere afar off; when Francesca rose from her knee, and resolved to seek the deck again. The oppression of the cabin was stifling, and Evelyn had left her; she could not bear his absence, and ​she followed him. The pale, chill glimmering of earliest morning was faint in the east, from which the clouds were slowly breaking; there was just light enough to enable her to find her way. At once her eye fell upon Evelyn, speaking to the captain, who stood with folded arms, and a resolute, but desperate air, while he answered with obvious reluctance;—she caught the last few words,—"I know the channel well; and where yonder gleam of red light rests upon the water are rocks, and on those rocks we strike before another quarter of an hour is over!"—and the seaman walked away, as if unwilling to be further questioned. Evelyn felt a slight touch upon his arm—it was Francesca. Again, in silence, they approached the side of the ship, and Evelyn averted his face; he could not bear to look on the beautiful and the devoted—the bride whom he had won but to lose. He shuddered as he pored on the dark and heaving waves, so soon to close over them.
"God of Heaven!" exclaimed he aloud; "And it is for my sake that she is here!"
"Yes, Evelyn!" said Francesca, in a voice of touching sweetness, but calm—not one accent changed. "Yes: and here I am happy. Whatever be the world of which yonder dark sea is the portal, we shall seek it together. It has been ​upon me from my earliest childhood, a longing for another sphere. I knew that this earth was not my home—that here hopes and affections were to be blighted and to die. Heaven has restored us to each other; it wills that our future be eternal. A deep and a sweet repose is in my heart at this moment, and I wait, as at an altar, that fate which is not of this life."
He gazed on her large bright eyes, raised for one moment to the sky, whose light was within them. They were uplifted but for that moment, and then turned upon him; from his face they moved no more. Suddenly they were flung with violence against the side where they leant. The vessel shivered like a living thing, and planks and joints flew asunder with a sound which echoed far across the waters. One wild shriek, the cry of many voices, arose to heaven; but in vain! Again the panting waves lifted the shattered vessel on high; again it was dashed on the hidden rock;—this time it rose no more, and the last of life's agony was lost beneath the unfathomable sea!
Let the waves sweep over them! Better the dark, silent, and fated waves of ocean, than the troubled waves of life. There are some whose sojourn on this earth is brief as it is bitter. For ​such the world keeps the wasted affection, the hope destroyed, the energy that preys upon itself, the kindly feeling unrequited, and the love that asks for happiness and finds despair or death. The lots in this existence are unequal. Some pass along a path predestined to weariness and tears. Such a destiny have I here recorded; and ere its truth be denied, I pray those who may turn these pages to think of those they have known, and their memory will witness for me. The kindest, the loveliest, the best, whom they can remember—has not life for them poured forth from its darkest cup?—have not they known the broken heart and the early grave? Such natures belong not to our soil—they are of another sphere; and it is mercy when Heaven recalls its own.
THE END.
LONDON: J. MOYES, CASTEL STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE.