# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 94

CHAPTER XXXV.
"One freeman more, America, to thee!" Byron.
The meeting in the forest had completely changed Evelyn's position. A band of fifty individuals, to many of whom he was bound by former ties of service, and with whom he was linked by the strong bond of mutual belief and opinion, now looked up to him as their leader. He felt the responsibility in which he was so suddenly involved, but he did not shrink from it. A channel was now opened for the efforts which it had hitherto seemed so fruitless to make, and for the energy which, during months past, had wasted itself in dreams of the impossible. The wild savannah and the dense forest rose vividly before his imagination. The one would soon grow golden with its summer harvest, and the other soon ring with the axe, the first sound of coming civilisation. There might be danger, there would certainly be difficulties; but what danger has not human ​courage braved—and what difficulty has not human patience surmounted?
America was then, as now, the Utopia where both the religious and political enthusiast saw visions and dreamed dreams. Little could they anticipate the wonderful and practical fulfilment of their wildest expectations of liberty and prosperity. Little could Evelyn foresee, when he but hoped that those deep woods would afford a shelter from persecution, and a home to a little band of persecuted exiles—how a few (few when we think what they have accomplished) passing years would level multitudes of those giant trees, fling open to the sun those secluded glades, and in the haunt of the wild pigeon and the woodpecker build up stately and vast cities, whose destiny is but now beginning. When Robert Evelyn pictured to himself the lonely canoe destined to bear himself and his small and adventurous bands down the silver stream of some river unconscious of the white man's skill, how little did he deem that the hour was on its way when a thousand vessels would cleave the rapid tide, bodiless air working as their servant, and the banks would swarm with multitudes busy in all the various toils of daily subsistence, ministering to a commerce whose home is the world.
Child of the Earth's old age, America is the ​favourite on whom a double portion has been lavished. The glorious sky, the fertile soil, the harvest ready above, the mine rich beneath, and, more than all, a brave, free, and intelligent race, who but must feel that the world's great destinies are yet unaccomplished, when the mind dwells on the glorious promise which kindles the far shores of the broad Atlantic? The most creative imagination avails not to picture the noon of that mighty hemisphere now in its infancy. Other nations have sprung up amid darkness and disorder; but America commenced its onward career when our world was in its prime, and has the experience of all civilisation for its beacon. Commerce, science, and freedom are its fates; and the web over which they preside is but begun.
But one dearest interest mingled with the future in Evelyn's meditation. Alas! it was a hard choice that he had to offer Francesca. How often during that night did he re-trim the lamp that burnt beside his lowly pallet, to read his brother's letter! "Good God!" thought he, "is it possible that one human being can so trifle with the happiness of another, in the mere reckless pursuit of excitement and amusement? Had he really loved her, I at least must have pardoned him—I, who know how very, very dear she is. ​But he had not even the excuse of passion to plead for his violation of my confidence, his betrayal of my affection—I need to recall his untimely grave while I forgive him. Alas! how our youth has been wasted in doubt and sorrow—and to know how happy it might have been! How much anxiety, too, would our previous marriage have removed! The wife with whom I had shared my prosperity would not have turned aside from that adversity which I shrink from offering to my bride. And yet, methinks, I might judge her heart by my own. No change could alter the deep affection treasured there."
He was right, both in his regret and in his reliance. It must be matter of pain to any man to know that his love must demand sacrifices—and too well did Evelyn feel that for his sake Francesca must renounce home, father, friends, station, country—the privileges of gentle birth, the delicacies of wealth;—that for his sake she must prepare to meet difficulty, privation, hardship, danger, and even death. It was hard for a lover to have only such a choice to lay before the beloved one. And yet he was right in his entire confidence. Francesca loved him as those love who have loved but once—the freshness and truth of early years strengthened by ​trial and by absence. She had essayed the value of affection both in its possession and its want; and she felt the strong confidence of an attachment at once thoughtful and passionate, in a future shared by Robert Evelyn. Life could have no path so rugged but what she were content to track at his side. Evelyn preferred speaking to writing; he had asked an interview, with something of affection's gentle cunning in his thoughts. Surely, when painted by him, the future would not seem so desolate; and, moreover, he could read the impression in her eyes before her words found utterance. Their interview that night would determine all.
Evening came at last, though never had day seemed so long to Francesca. The constant consciousness of having something to conceal harassed her like a spectre. Her feverish and excited imagination conjured up every possible variety of misfortune, and read cause to fear or to suspect in every face around. She could not help contrasting her fate with that of Hortense Mancini, who, having decided on selecting her own choice, fairly set her uncle at defiance—an uncle to whom she owed at least the obedience of gratitude—and yet every circumstance combined to favour her. The very plan laid to unite her with another only ​enabled her to meet Meilleraye with less restraint. The worst she had to apprehend were a harsh word, a dark brow, and perhaps delay; but her own constancy was only needful to secure the future. "We were born on the same spot—we have grown up together—yet how different," exclaimed Francesca, "Has our lot in life been!" She thought mournfully on Guido's early grave; and its darkness seemed to gather over herself.
Madame de Soissons entered into none of her apprehensions, and felt all the pride of art in the necessary deception. As the hour approached she contrived to collect the whole circle round her; but as Buckingham and Lord Avonleigh were the only persons likely to interfere with Francesca's arrangements, to them her attention was chiefly devoted. The Duke accepted her challenge to the card-table, and Lord Avonleigh was detained to give his advice—and even about an odd trick it is pleasant to have one's advice asked and taken. She paid attention to Lord Avonleigh, with a little feeling of triumph all the time to think she was duping him; and the Duke had a similar sensation towards herself—for he was quite persuaded that he had at length succeeded in conciliating Francesca's most influential friend.
Considering what a useful thing deception is— ​the first and last lesson taught by what is called knowledge of the world—it is woful to observe how much of it is wasted. In nine cases out of ten, the most ingenious invention not only does not answer, but even defeats its own purpose. How much attention is thrown away, how often is flattery mistaken, and how many of our devices, like ostriches, blind their own eyes, and fancy others are blinded too! In the present case, danger, as usual, lurked in the quarter the least suspected. In the morning the King had been wearied with another of those loyal and long-winded deputations which Lord Avonleigh deemed such a credit to the county; and drawing an arm-chair into one of the recesses by a window which opened upon the terrace, declared, that, were it but for his own credit, he must sleep off the effects. "I believe," exclaimed he, "stupidity is infectious."
"I wish your Grace pleasant dreams," said Madame do Soissons, as she passed by on her way to the card-table.
"If your image haunts them, I cannot go to sleep too quickly."
Marie did not observe how soon the sleep to be charmed by her smile was flung aside, and that the opened casement afforded an easy escape to the awakened truant.
​ In the mean time Francesca had withdrawn under that universal feminine excuse—a headach; and indeed it was no pretext, for her temples throbbed with the feverish pain brought on by agitation; and lip and cheek were alike pale. It was a relief to find herself in the open air; and with a rapid and light step she hurried towards the wilderness; when, to her surprise and dismay, as she turned a sharp corner in the shaded path which led towards it, Charles stood immediately before her. It was equally impossible to retreat or to advance without speaking to him.
"I see," said he, with a smile, "that you, like myself, are trying the effect of this sweet evening for the headach. I have already found it very efficacious, and so, I think, have you,"—again smiling, as he noticed the deep blush which his sudden appearance had produced. "Do, pray, take compassion on me," continued he; "And allow me to accompany you on your walk. The evening is very lovely, and the quiet of this place delightful; but I always need a companion to enjoy the charms of solitude."
What could Francesca do, but say, in au almost inarticulate voice, that "she was very happy?"
The King enjoyed her confusion, and took his place at her side; and, if anything could add to ​Francesca's consternation, it was, that he took the exact path that led to the little pool, beside which she was to meet Evelyn. Madame de Soissons would have had a thousand resources in this emergency—Francesca could imagine but one, and that one so difficult, it seemed almost impossible.
"I trust," said Charles, "you will not think that I undervalue my present felicity, when I remark upon the cruelty of fortune. What an opportunity of calling 'yonder moon to aid his vows' is lost for ever to Buckingham!"
This was said maliciously; for the speaker well knew nothing embarrasses a woman more than talking of one lover while she is thinking of another.
"There is something," continued he, "in this soft and gentle air, that makes one feel quite charitable. I am almost inclined to fetch George here, and go for ever after by the name of the martyr to friendship."
"I beg," replied Francesca, "that you will do no such thing."
"Oh! you are satisfied with myself, are you?—very flattering. What shall I do to show my gratitude—make love to you?"
"It were a pity that two things that I hold so precious—love and your Grace's time—should be so utterly wasted as they would be on me."
​ "I can assure you, I should not think either wasted on your adorable self.”
"But I should," answered Francesca, calmly.
"You are not a judge," said Charles, somewhat piqued. A little confusion would have flattered him; but self-possession is the most provoking thing in the world.
"I am, as far as concerns myself."
"You are quite wrong to speak so decidedly. A pretty woman should never have an opinion of her own. Indecision is so very charming."
"I am afraid it is a charm quite wanting in myself. I both make up my mind and keep to it."
"Pray, have you made up your mind as to what sort of a lover you would like?"
"I have."
"You have rather taken me by surprise. I expected you to say that you never thought of such things—that you never expected to have a lover at all."
"I should not then have spoken the truth."
"I begin to suspect that you have some lover or other in your head."
"In my heart, please your Grace."
"You are very candid," exclaimed Charles.
"I mean to be still more so," replied ​Francesca, in a low, earnest voice, "if you will take the next path, and permit me to accompany you part of the way on your return to the Castle."
"In short, you want to get rid of me, as you are going to meet some one more favoured. And, pray, who is the cavalier?"
"I must rely on your honour as a gentleman, that the confidence you have drawn from me will be sacred. I fear me the name will find but little favour in your eyes. I am about to meet one whose life is risked in the meeting,—an outlaw—Robert Evelyn."
The King started in displeasure and surprise. "And how did you become acquainted with that young fanatic and rebel?"
"In earlier and happier days. We met four years ago in Italy."
"And why did you not marry then?"
"He had not his father's consent; and I could not leave an aged parent, then dependent on my care."
"And have you not met since?"
"Never till within the last two days. God knows, our attachment has, from the first, been surrounded by distress and by difficulties!"
"And yet you have loved on? But no marvel that he now seeks Lord Avonleigh's heiress!"
​ "Lord Avonleigh's heiress will be none to him. The hour that sees me his wife sees me portionless, and exiled like himself."
"But do you consider the folly of renouncing all your present advantages? As Duchess of Buckingham, think what a brilliant destiny offers itself to your acceptance!"
"I am as indifferent to the Duke's rank and wealth as I am to himself. More I cannot say."
"And have you no fear of the dreary realities of seclusion and exile, when the present romance of an excited fancy shall pass away?"
"Were I actuated but by a mere fancy, I might tremble to act upon its hasty impulse. But there is a love that is stronger than death, and deeper than life; for whose sake the sacrifice is light—ay, even unfelt. It is a love which, born of the pure and fresh feelings of youth, grows with your growth and strengthens with your strength—a love which would give sweetness to a palace and glory to a cottage—a love prepared to suffer, to endure, and yet suffice unto its own happiness—tried by time, by doubt, even by despair, and yet living on—the heart's deepest hope, and life's dearest tie. Such a love do I feel for Robert Evelyn." Her beautiful eyes filled with light, and her cheek grew pale with intense emotion.
​ Charles gazed on her for a moment—so spiritual, so touching was the expression of her perfect features. He took her hand kindly and said, "Mr. Evelyn is happy, very happy. I know not what are his views in coming to England at this moment. You, fair lady, shall be the guarantee of his peaceable intentions. Since I find that his exile includes yours, and as I cannot in conscience allow a face so fair to go out of England, bring Mr. Evelyn to my presence, equally penitent and loyal, and you remember the old proverb—
'A king's face Should show grace.'"
Francesca sunk on her knee, and pressed her lips to the hand which still held her own.
The good-natured monarch raised her, saying, "I will detain you no longer. However, it is all right that the gentleman should be the one to wait." So saying, he turned towards the Castle; and Francesca, taking the opposite path, was soon out of sight.
"I believe, after all," said Charles within himself, "that love is a more serious matter than we allow it to be at Whitehall. I did not expect to be so much interested as I have been. Poor child! she is too pretty to go into exile. But I can more ​easily pardon the lover than restore his estate. His Grace of Buckingham keeps a tight hold on the manors that come under his grasp. However, love and poverty are companions of old. Nous verrons." And trusting, as he usually did, to chance, the King returned to his arm-chair, and soon fell asleep.