# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 51

CHAPTER XXIV.
———"Death's A fearful thing, when we must count its steps. ***** And was this, then, the end of those sweet dreams Of home, and happiness, and quiet years?" L. E. L.
It was an early and a warm spring; but, for the first time in their lives, the Carraras watched it with a divided heart. Guido dwelt on its beauty with a deeper love than he had ever before known. We turn from no object, even the most common and the most trivial, for the last time, knowing it to be the last, without a touch of sad thoughtfulness. What then must be the feeling with which we look on this glorious and beautiful world, and know that such looks are our last?—when we know that, in a few fleeting weeks, of the green leaves we now see putting forth, such as are doomed to perish early, like ourselves, will fall upon the earth, in whose dark bosom we are laid in our long rest?—that the flowers, colouring branches which droop beneath their luxury of ​bloom, will only expand in time to form our funeral garland? It is even more solemn than mournful to gaze upon the far blue sky, and feel, in the dimness of the soon-wearied sight, how, pass but a little while, and the whole will have faded from our view—its beauty never more to be heightened by the tender associations of earth, and its rain and shine shedding vain fertility on our grave.
The mysteries of this wonderful universe rise more palpable upon the departing spirit, so soon to mingle with their marvels. A voice is on the air, and a music on the wind, inaudible to other ears, but full of strange prophecies to the ear of the dying:—he stands on the threshold of existence, and already looks beyond it; his thoughts are on things not of this life; his affections are now the only links that bind him to the earth, but never was their power so infinite,—all other feelings have passed away. Ambition has gone down to the dust, from which it so vainly rose; wealth is known to be the veriest dross of which chains were ever formed to glitter and to gall; hope has resigned the thousand rainbows which once gave beauty and promise to the gloomiest hour;—all desires, expectations, and emotions are vanished—excepting love, which grows the stronger as it ​approaches the source whence it came, and becomes more heavenly as it draws nigh to its birth-place—heaven.
With an earnest and fearful fondness Guido thought of his sister. Ah! Death had still his sting and his victory, when such a parting would be his work. Guido, which is not usual in his most insidious disease, was aware of his danger; perhaps the wish gave rise to the belief, for he wished to die—but not when he thought of Francesca. How often in the silence of the midnight hour, when he turned upon the feverish bed of his unrest, and watched the stars shine through the lattice, while he longed to mingle with their rays, and casting away the wearied and painful body, be free and spiritual as the pure element which they lighted—how often, even then, would Francesca's pale and sorrowful face rise before him, and create the vain desire to live a little longer for her sake! Could he have only seen her safe in her father's home, and have known her prized and loved as she deserved to be, he could have died content, ay, thankful; but to leave her so desolate, so lonely, was a thought that cast its darkness on the very face of heaven.
But the buds now putting forth on every branch would not more surely open into flower ​and leaf, than he would perish. Day by day he grew weaker. The luxuriant hair relaxed with the damps that rose on the white forehead, as if the moisture of the grave were already there. The blue veins shone on the temples with unnatural clearness; and often, when Francesca's lips were pressed to them in affectionate but vain endeavour to soothe their burning pain, she started at the loud and rapid beating of their feverish pulses. His hand was wan and slender as a woman's, with the same delicate pink inside: and the like feminine fairness extended over his face, and rendered more striking the terrible yet lovely red that burnt its small circle on his cheek—the death-rose of consumption. Formerly his large black eyes were wild and restless; now, larger and clearer than ever, there was a calm and settled brightness, like the luminous aspect of some still summer star, whose light is poetry—poetry, which is the faint echo of the mysteries of the universe—the beautifier and the unraveller! All the stormier passions had died away, like the winds on the blue surface of some unruffled lake. Their deep calm orbs had no anger, no envy, no discontent, to convey—no vain repinings, and yet vainer longings. The shadow of mortality ​had disappeared before the awakenings of the spiritual life, which is dulled and distracted by the daily cares and fretfulness of ordinary existence. Sometimes a mist arose upon their placid brightness—while yet here, the soul must be troubled; and when he met Francesca's sad and anxious look, all the tenderness of our struggling life returned upon him—and with tenderness ever comes bitterness. He had no tears for himself—he had them only for her. Yet, as he approached the grave, he looked beyond it; there they met again, and to part no more. What were a few brief years to one whose hope was in eternity?
But Francesca, in whom life was too warm and active to feel that calm which is ever the herald of gradually coming death, could only dwell on their separation—the reunion was too far off for comfort—the great and present grief darkened the distant hope. The approach of the fragrant and verdant spring was torture to her. The whole atmosphere seemed instinct with life—the thickets, golden with furze, were all musical with the melodious plying of the bees' industrious wings; the forest was alive with birds, scattering the sunshine as they fluttered through the leaves; the grass swarmed with myriads of insects; shoals of bright-scaled fish rose like rainbows to the ​surface of the river;—the slender shrub, the stately tree, the seed bursting from the ground—all renewed their vigorous animation. The bough that over-night had but the swelling germ, displayed a full-formed leaf, or an opened flower, to the noontide sun.
Amid all this luxuriance of life, was there none for Guido?—was he to be the only one to whom the spring brought no hope, no renewal of breath and bloom? She turned away sickening from the joyous face of nature; she could not see a rose unfold without envying its beautiful renovation.
Guido was still equal to occasional exercise; and he delighted to wander with Francesca and Lucy through the quiet glades of the forest. He revelled in the fragrance of the warm air, and was never weary of admiring the hawthorn, drooping beneath the transitory wealth of its most aromatic blossoms. There appeared to be a thousand harmonies in nature unnoticed till now; his soul had laid aside all meaner cares, and was in unison with them. A subtle and tender sympathy seemed to reveal to him secrets before unknown—secrets whose key was love,—love, which, though tried, thwarted, and turned aside from its perfectness in the wayfaring below, is still the animating spirit of the universe.