# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 79

CHAPTER XX.
"He who commands me to mine own content,
Commands me to the thing I cannot find." Shakespeare.
We must entreat our readers to suppose that the following few winter months glided away in all the unmarked monotony of usual existence. How little does what we wished fulfil, when realised, what we expected. But a brief period passed, and Francesca would have held that her present position was all that could be dreamed—all that could be desired. Acknowledged child of a noble house—heiress to its name, and to its wealth—young and beautiful—it was as if some good fairy had stood godmother to her fortune. So much for the outward seeming. But whoso had paused here had left the story but half told. Young she was, but the buoyancy of youth had departed from her for ever—her spirits were broken by care, sorrow, and the frequent presence of death; beautiful, but she was not vain,—and what recked she ​of the fair face on which one beloved eye seemed never fated to rest again? Rank she had; but he to whom it equalled her was now an exile; and wealth—but what of that, unless it could be shared with Robert Evelyn? Alas, how little chance did there seem to be of their ever meeting! He had been excepted by name from the general amnesty—would never, in all human probability, hear of his brother's treachery—and could look upon her in no other light than as ungrateful and inconstant. She had not the poor comfort of thinking that he dwelt upon her memory,—even in heart they were separated.
Drearily did the winter exhaust itself, equally without interest and without occupation. It was obvious that Lord Avonleigh considered the past entirely expiated by his tardy acknowledgment; he had given justice, but his daughter also asked affection—that he gave not, and indeed had it not to give. He associated her in idea with his lost son, and, by a strange and unjust connexion, in a degree reproached her as the cause of his bereavement. Common minds always blame some one or other for every misfortune that happens; complaint relieves them, and their style of complaint is always personal. And yet it was wonderful how he got over the loss; he soon fell into his ordinary round of ​employments and amusements, spoke of going to Whitehall in the spring, and dwelt with increasing animation on his hopes of a marquisate. When he talked of Albert, it was rather talking at Francesca, as if she were to be made responsible for the death of her brother. Ah, that talking at!—only those who have suffered from it can understand its wearing and petty misery, especially when placed in circumstances which forbid reply.
We are eloquent about oppression on a large scale,—we deprecate the tyranny of government, which, after all, extends but to few; and yet how little pity is bestowed upon those who suffer from that worst of tyranny in daily practice in daily life. What grievances would not most family histories disclose!—how much comfort is put aside—how much kindly feeling wasted, by the arbitrary cruelties of temper! I say cruelties; for what torture of rack or wheel can equal that of words? Take the annals of the majority of hearths for a twelvemonth, and we should be amazed at the quantity of wretchedness that would be writ in them, if writ truly.
Francesca felt every hour more keenly the pain of her unappreciated affection, of her unvalued existence. All the higher faculties of her mind lay utterly dormant. No one entered into ​her emotions, no one took note of her thoughts. The atmosphere of indifference clipped her round like a prison, but from which there was no escape. No imagination could defy the dull monotony in which days upon days wore away. It was some relief to go and see Lucy, who was practising domestic felicity as it is practised at first. It is not in the deep passion, the keen feeling, the thoughtful mind, that are sown the seeds of earthly enjoyments. They are flowers that take root best in the light soil.
Lucy was the beau ideal of simple content—delighted with her husband, delighted with her house, finding a little accession of dignity in the idea of being married, and having already discovered that servants were a great trouble, it being scarcely possible to get good ones—a complaint which, we believe, is the usual after-dinner talk of all married ladies even in own time.
Francesca thought Charles Aubyn a little more wearisome in his capacity of husband than he had been in that of lover; perhaps because he addressed more of his discourse to herself. He had now to do the honours of his house; and he conceived that he supported the dignity of the clerical character by long statements of his own opinions, exaggerated and confused enough, but listened to ​by his pretty wife with a face of charmed attention.
Well, nature makes some wise provisions, it must be confessed. We should be envious of others' happiness if, in nine cases out of ten, we did not despise it. Francesca felt Lucy's pleasant lot; but felt, also, that such would not have suited herself.
In the meantime, Lord Avonleigh found a wonderful resource in being loyal; he attended county meetings, denounced the Puritans, discouraged conventicles, discountenanced long graces or long sermons, and was seized with a sudden veneration for the church as established by law, which led to fines and imprisonment on all absentees from worship as ordained by law. Hitherto the commanding influence of Sir Robert Evelyn's character had sunk his own into insignificance—now he had no "rival near the throne," alias the bench of county magistrates. It was amazing how much more discontent, however, accrued under the management of the good-natured Lord Avonleigh, than under the resolved, nay, somewhat stern Sir Robert Evelyn. The truth is, the one never swerved one inch from what he held to be the right; while the other had a thousand whims, favourites, prejudices, and interests, all to be ​gratified or conciliated. Complaints became of daily recurrence, and it was said that a great portion of the tenants on the Evelyn estate contemplated emigration on a large scale. But the castle was not destined to remain long in its present quietude.
One morning Lord Avonleigh received a packet from London, whose contents filled him with joy, which he could not communicate in too great haste. It contained a letter from the King himself, craving hospitality for a few days, as his mother was about to visit England, and to take up with Lord Avonleigh her residence at the Castle. A slight incognito would be preserved, and as little form and ceremony expected as was possible. Language was quite inadequate to express the Earl's feelings on the occasion; he was a marquess already in idea, and the Castle itself was soon in as great confusion as his own thoughts, for no preparations seemed to be sufficient. Hitherto the recent death of Lord Stukeley had rendered seclusion necessary; but the now comforted parent was not sorry to have a decent pretext for enlivening a solitude very uncongenial to his taste. Among other names on their list of visitors was that of the Comtesse de Soissons. How many recollections were connected with that name! However unkindly neglected by that early ​friend, still her image was associated with all that had been most interesting in Francesca's life; and so little had she now to love, that she looked forward, not only with forgiveness of the past, but even with pleasure to a renewal of their former feelings. Ah! the past is the true source of confidence. We must recollect together before we can confide.