# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 65

CHAPTER VI.
"You shall know all to-morrow." Rookwood.
Francesca and Lucy had both passed the day in that most uncomfortable state of each desiring to make her inward thoughts known to the other, and yet neither having the resolution to begin. Like all persons who have suffered much, there was something of languor about Francesca. She dreaded either feeling or inflicting pain; she shrunk from emotion; and though a dozen times, despite of her settled plan of non-interference, she resolved on speaking to her companion; yet, when the opportunity arrived, she involuntarily put it off till some other more favourable occasion, which never came. Lucy's was only a natural timidity, a girlish shame of owning that she had a lover. The ice once broken, she would have taken the usual pleasure in talking ​about him; but to begin was so very difficult. On her return home from meeting Evelyn, it was impossible for one so little versed in duplicity, so little accustomed to self-restraint, to conceal her anxiety and depression. She sat in the window, seemingly occupied in watching the moonlight touching with pale hues the crimson of the few late roses that clustered round the casement; but the large tears fell upon the flowers, and the deep-drawn breath betrayed the scarcely checked sob.
Francesca, who, since Guido's death, had shrunk from the contemplation of natural loveliness, was seated in a large arm-chair, which stood in the darkest corner of the room, silent, sad, but less abstracted than usual; for her thoughts were busy with her companion. She marked the colourless cheek, the mournful attitude; and, rising from her place, approached Lucy, took the other half of the window-seat, and bending kindly towards her, said, "You are weeping, dear Lucy; what is the matter?—can I do anything for you?"
There are moments when a kind word or look goes direct to the heart: these did so with Lucy, who, throwing her arms round her friend's neck, gave way to a violent burst of tears.
"Poor child!" exclaimed Francesca, soothing her with a sister’s affection. "Lucy, love, do not ​mind me—I think I know much of what you can tell me."
Lucy raised her face, carnationed with the most vivid blush, but hid it again. She strove to speak, but an inarticulate murmur was all that her tremulous lips could produce. Before Francesca could speak words of encouragement, fit answer to that mute but imploring look, their whole attention was aroused by the trampling of horses in the yard, a loud knocking at the door, and voices harsh and authoritative.
Lucy's own knowledge filled her with fears. "For God's sake," exclaimed she, "let us go and see what is the matter!" Her strength was unequal to the effort, and she sank back; while Francesca, who was quite ignorant of her secret cause for apprehension, attributed her alarm to her feverish state of excitement, so susceptible of sudden fears; and sprinkling the dewy leaves in her face, awaited her restoration with a tender calmness, soon to be destroyed.
"I was afraid you would be frightened," said Lawrence Aylmer, opening the door abruptly. "We do live in sad, troubled times. A party of the Commonwealth's troops have just demanded shelter for the night, and they have brought a prisoner with them. I do not at all like my ​house being turned into a jail. Perhaps you had better not leave this chamber till you go to bed."
Francesca felt Lucy tremble from head to foot; she could scarcely support her; and—for with strange rapidity does the truth flash upon the mind—a terrible belief had taken possession of herself. She strove to ask the question, but her voice failed her. Lawrence Aylmer was too hurried to notice the singular silence with which his communication was received, and turned to leave the room. The agony of anticipated suspense rose in all its horrors before Francesca: "Best to know the worst—" She gasped for breath; but the effort succeeded—"Who is the prisoner?" asked she, in a forced, unnatural voice.
"Mr. Evelyn. He is brought here to await Major Johnstone's arrival, when, they say, he will instantly be shot."
The door closed after him lightly; and yet it was like a peal of thunder. It was followed by a sudden fall—she turned, and saw Lucy stretched insensible on the ground.
Francesca felt at first as if she had no power to succour her. Evelyn so near—a prisoner, and about to die—might well absorb every other thought. She wrung her hands in utter ​hopelessness; but one glance at the wan and inanimate form before her recalled her in a measure to herself. She raised Lucy's head on a stool near; and recollecting that in one of the cabinets there were still some drops which were wont to revive Guido, she hastened to procure them, and succeeded in pouring some down Lucy's throat, who awoke first to life, and then to life's fearful consciousness. All concealment, all restraint was over; she flung herself at Francesca's feet, and franticly implored her to save him. It was the despair of a child, who believes there is no bounds to any power but its own.
The exertion necessary to soothe and subdue Lucy's passionate sorrow was the best composer to Francesca's own agitation. One idea took possession of her imagination. "Was it not possible to contrive his escape?" To effect this, the utmost presence of mind was needful; they required calmness and deliberation. But the first hint of such a plan so overwhelmed Lucy with a paroxysm of joy, as uncontrollable as her previous alarm, that at first it seemed almost hopeless to expect assistance, or even obedience, from her. Gradually, she became more collected, and at last they were able to consult together as to the best measures for communicating with the prisoner, and evading ​the watchfulness of his guards. Francesca slightly mentioned that she had known him in France, reserving the particulars till some later period; and Lucy was too engrossed in the present to have one word to say of either past or future.