# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 49

CHAPTER XXII.
"The mighty conqueror of conquerors—Death!"
But while the common run of ordinary circumstances were going their little round of influence,—small pebbles flung in the great stream of time, whose motion extends not beyond their own narrow eddy,—one of those mighty events was on the wheel of fate which shake the nations with the sound thereof.
The generality of individuals perish and are forgotten before the wild flowers have sprung up in the grass sods that cover them. Their home is desolate for a time, and, perchance, missing their care may force their children to grieve for their loss; perhaps, too, some faithful heart may feel that its life of life has gone from it for ever. But, take the majority of deaths—how little are they felt—how little do they matter! Strange mystery of human existence, that its most awful occurrence ​is often its least important! Death is ever around us, and yet we think not of it; its terrible presence is made manifest, and then forgotten. The most passing interests of life occupy more of our thoughts than its end.
But the Destroyer had now struck down the mightiest in England—one of the great ones, whose destiny is that of many—one of those daring spirits whose history includes that of thousands;—Cromwell was dead! The hand that held the bond of so many jarring interests lay powerless beneath the pall. The perils of war had been about him, and the midnight assassin had watched his path; yet he died quietly in his bed. No part of his fate seemed to fulfil the prophecy of what went before. Who could have believed it? was the motto of his whole life.
There was not a hearth in England where the death of Cromwell was not the sole discourse; and, resembling all other events, each drew that inference from its consequences that best pleased them. Royalist and Republican were equally fervent in their hope, and strong in their belief. Our part, however, lies only with those of our own narrative; and to express their feelings on the occasion, we must claim our privilege of changing the scene.
​ One red gleam of a winter sunset broke the heavy vapours that had collected on the air—a single bright spot, but rapidly disappearing, for the thick atmosphere rolled like the turbid waves of some dark sea. That crimson light passed through the murky gratings of a high and narrow window in the Tower, and, falling direct on the hearth, almost extinguished the decaying brands, whose fire was lost in the white and smouldering ashes. There was something peculiarly dreary in the aspect of the room; the lofty walls and ceiling were discoloured with smoke and time, and the smooth wainscot had no other ornament than initial letters and names, rudely carved by some unpractised hands: each was a record of the weary hour and of the hope deferred—the languid task set by imprisonment to itself, glad to waste the time which has no employment save melancholy thought, and finding even in this trivial labour a resource.
Two chairs, a deal table, and a worn footstool, were the sole furniture of the comfortless chamber; and yet there were indulgences which told that the prisoners had command of that universal talisman, gold. Glasses, whose slender stems seemed endangered by the touch, and carved with the delicate tracery of Venice—flowers just breathed ​on the clear crystal—stood upon the table; and the half-finished flask exhaled the delicious odour of Burgundy.
The elder cavalier was seated beside the hearth, half asleep; and sleep, which so shows the face in its truth, unbrlghtened by expression—which o little conceals the ravages of years—marked how little time had wrought upon Lord Avonleigh. The brow was smooth and fair; no deep thought, born of deep feeling, had grown there—those indelible lines which stamp even youth with age. True, the fiery eagerness of former days was past, and in its place was the quiet, self-concentrated look of habitual indulgence. His dress was rich; the finest lace formed his ruff, and his curious gold chain was rather elegant than massive; while an attention to the disposition of the whole, together with the intentional grace of the attitude, bespoke the still remaining consciousness of personal attraction.
His son, the companion of his imprisonment, was very like him; but, strange that the young face possessed already stronger lines than its prototype! Scorn seemed habitual to the curved lip; and the starting veins in the middle of the forehead were the unerring indication of a violent temper.
​ Lord Stukeley had been for some time watching the small portion of the Thames which could be caught from the barred casement. There was but little to interest in the carpenter's yard opposite, or the few boats that were floating slowly down the river. He turned away listlessly, and at first, with the sole idea of its own enjoyment ever uppermost with a spoiled child, was about to rouse his father, when his natural kindliness of temper prevailed, and he desisted, though obviously not knowing what to do with himself. He then opened a drawer in the table, and took from it a pack of cards. "I can't play by myself," exclaimed he, discontentedly. Suddenly his face brightened, he drew his seat forwards, and began building houses. One after another the parti-coloured fragments of each fragile fabric were strewed over the table, till gradually his hand became accustomed and steady—wall and roofs were properly balanced, and the mimic Babels mounted high in air,—fittest symbols of all the graver plans and trials that agitate human existence. Scarcely is one scheme overthrown ere another is raised out of its ruins, but destined, like its predecessor, to destruction; and yet, it would seem, the more we know the chances against our efforts—how a breath may demolish, ​nay, what our own weariness will soon destroy,—the more earnestly do we pursue them to the end.
Albert was too young to moralise thus, and he pursued his employment. At length he raised a tower whose merits really deserved to be appreciated, and Lord Avonleigh was awakened by a loud and sudden demand on his admiration. "It reaches above my head!" exclaimed Albert eagerly. But eagerness in this case, as in most others, annihilated its own delight; down came the tottering height, while the disappointed builder found relief for his sorrow in anger—sorrow's best remedy after all. "It is your fault," exclaimed he, turning pettishly to his father, "shaking the table so!"
"Why, you see, Albert, the consequences of awakening me," replied the indulgent parent; "but if you will build it up again, I will promise to admire as much as you please, and at the most respectful distance."
Lord Stukeley was not to be easily soothed; his father's commiseration only made him think that he had been really aggrieved; so he leant over the cards sullenly enough, but without attempting to renew his former occupation.
"We shall soon be in the dark," said Lord Avonleigh, who, like most indolent people, ​preferred not to remark the mood which he lacked energy to reprimand. And so he began to nurse the small remains of fire yet lurking in the smouldering wood-ashes, which revived as the red sunbeams were lost in the masses of black clouds now gathered in piles upon the west. A pale clear flame had just coloured the thick white smoke, when Lord Avonleigh started up into a listening attitude of intense attention, exclaiming, "St. Paul's bell is tolling!"
He was right. Heavily and gloomily the mighty sound swept along the Thames, and was answered, as one church after another repeated the melancholy peal. Dull, loud, and monotonous, stroke after stroke fell like a weight upon the ear: the whole atmosphere seemed oppressed with the invisible but conscious presence of Death. "They are tolling," ejaculated Lord Avonleigh, in a subdued voice, "for the death of Cromwell."
"For Cromwell's death?" cried Albert, his eyes flashing, and his cheek colouring, like a young gladiator in the first flush of his ferocious triumph—"for Cromwell's death? Why it is the bravest peal that ever rang from the steeples of London. Out upon their dastardly tolling! Why don't they ring the bells merrily, and cry, 'Long live King Charles the Second!'"
​ "Hush: hush!" said his cautious companion. But the injunction was not needed, for a burst of thunder directly above their heads completely overpowered both their voices. An instant after, a vivid sheet of lightning filled the chamber. They involuntarily approached the window; the opposite side of the river was hidden in a dense black vapour, and the huge dark clouds were piled upon the sky like the waves of some vast and stormy sea, just marked by thin meteor-like lines of faint crimson, illuminated almost every minute by the white glare of the forked flash, while the old and massive walls of the Tower seemed to rock as each tremendous clap of thunder followed fast upon another.
"Hurrah!" cried Albert, as one roll more violent than the rest, made the solid floor vibrate under their feet. "Hurrah! the devil is taking his own in fine style."
This storm, which devastated all England, was felt in Hampshire before news arrived of the death which it was supposed to attend. The depths of its old forest reverberated to the echoing thunder, and many a stately tree stood scorched and blackening, to whose withered boughs spring would now return in vain.
The ensuing noon, Francesca and Guido were ​watching from the window the destruction that had been wrought in the garden, whose paths were like running brooks, on which floated the smaller branches torn off by yesterday's fury, while the larger ones crushed the slighter shrubs on which they lay. Several trees had been blown down, one of which was a fine old laurel just opposite the casement.
"It was not for nothing," said Lawrence Aylmer, entering the room, "that the storm came—it arose round the death-bed of Cromwell."
"Is Cromwell dead?" was the exclamation from all.
There was no party spirit, no political hopes or fears, in that little chamber; so that the news was received in the silence of awe and dread. But the general rarely triumphs long over the individual feeling; and the young Italians naturally reverted to the probability of Lord Avonleigh's immediate release. Such anticipation was, however, to be disappointed, as the council of Richard exacted pledges which his lordship was unwilling to give; for, already calculating on the return of the royal family, he determined to take no steps that might then be recorded against him.
No such change in affairs as was expected, ​however, took place. The truth is, that people in general are stupified by any great event. The awe of Cromwell rested like a dead weight on men's minds, and the shock and pause were mistaken for security.