# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 77

CHAPTER XVIII.
"Oh, weary heart, that must within itself
Close all its deepest leaves." L. E. L.
A few days brought time into that general routine of small observances which make up ordinary existence; but never had Francesca felt herself in a more uncongenial atmosphere. There was a littleness and an indolence about Lord Avonleigh which—unless concealed by the magic of long association, when affection is matter of habit—were insuperable barriers to attachment. Had Francesca grown up by his side, she would have loved him; and a thousand indulgences, the result of careless good-nature, would have linked the child to the parent, till the mutual affection would have become a thing of course. But he was not one whom you could begin to love with the judgment ripened and the feelings accustomed to examination. Albert was much more an object of interest; ​but, with a naturally noble and generous nature, his faults were precisely of a kind that made daily life wretched. He was arrogant, petulant, and self-willed; everything was expected to fly before him; and though, after an ebullition of passion, no penitence was held too great on his part, still the hasty word had been said, the wound inflicted, and still the offence was soon repeated. One perpetual source of annoyance, too, was her father's continual allusion to the Evelyns. He seemed to hate the name with a hate which was the only strong feeling he possessed. The truth was, that he had been humiliated by the superiority of both father and son; and with the genuine ingratitude of a little mind, he could not forgive the kind offices which he owed to both. Uncertain of what Robert Evelyn might now feel towards her—sometimes almost tempted, for his sake, to wish that he might have changed—it will easily be supposed that Francesca's most treasured secret never passed her lips—ah! the solitude but added to its strength. Deep, unutterably deep, is the love treasured in the hidden heart, on which the eye never looks, and of which no tongue ever tells.
A few days brought Lucy's wedding; and Francesca was with her early in the morning. ​The important duties of the toilette passed under her inspection. The white silk dress was her own gift; but that was nothing to the attention which devoted itself to the graceful adjustment of its drapery. It is in our nature to be much more grateful for that which flatters than for that which serves us—perhaps because the latter implies the superiority of another, while the former insinuates our own. The bride looked very pretty—with her golden hair allowed to hang beneath the veil, and a cheek whose blushes were of the most orthodox brightness; and the bridegroom appeared as happy as awkwardness and confusion could indicate. "But after all," thought Francesca, "A wedding is a melancholy affair. How much responsibility is in those few and scarcely audible words which give away your very life to the keeping of another! What a sudden change is wrought in existence!—a change whose consequences none may foresee. It is standing on the threshold of youth, and flinging its flowers behind you. The ideal merges at once in the real, and the dream, at least, of love is over. Well if the substance, depart not with the shadow!"
With irrepressible emotion Francesca thought upon the desolate home now left for the father: the accustomed music of Lucy's step was gone ​from his floor for ever. When next she trod there, it would be as a visitor. The long and lonely evenings that he would have to pass—no fair and cherished face to raise up images of hope and affection, whenever he chanced to look in its direction—alas! how many other ties must be broken to link the strong and engrossing one of love! She felt this most keenly when, after Charles Aubyn had led Lucy away, they themselves took their departure, and she saw Lawrence Aylmer walk slowly down the garden with a loitering step, and saw more than once his hand dashed across his eyes, as if for him there remained no object in the world. Pity became a far truer feeling than congratulation.
It is a painful thing to think how the purest and dearest tie that can exist—that which binds the parent to the child, and the child to the parent—is doomed to sever by the very course of nature: that a new and vivid emotion will inevitably enter the heart of youth—and before that emotion, how cold and faint seems all that was held precious before! And yet, so inextricably blended are happiness and sorrow on our earth, that fortunate, thrice fortunate, are they who have such ties to sever.
"You seem quite out of spirits to-day," said ​Lord Avonleigh, when they met at supper. "But never mind, Francesca, I dare say we shall be able to find you a husband in England."
Is there aught more provoking than the misinterpretation of our saddest thoughts? However, Francesca forced a smile, and endeavoured to answer the raillery in which he continued to indulge, while her spirits felt more and more depressed at every word. What an extraordinary mental delusion jesting is; that sort of laboured vivacity which fancies it is pointed when it is only personal; and more extraordinary still, it is always the resource of stupid people. "Take any shape but that!" is what I always feel tempted to exclaim when dulness attempts a joke; striving to pervert some poor innocent and ill-used word from its lawful meaning till it ceases to have any at all—worrying some unfortunate idea till, like the hunted hare, it is worried to death—dealing in witticisms whose edge has long since been worn off by constant use; and truly to the many, witticisms not only require to be explained, like riddles, but are also like new shoes, which people require to wear many times before they get accustomed to them. No, let the generality inflict upon you histories of themselves and their kind, even to the third and fourth generation—let them ​talk of their feelings, when they mean their temper—let them, for the hundred and fiftieth time, dilate on the lovers who made the delight of their youth, or the receipts which make the glory of their age—let them even give advice—let them do anything but jest—"the power of patience can no farther go."
It is said that the name of Love is often taken in vain, compelled to stand godfather to feelings with which he has nothing to do, and made answerable for all the faults and follies which interest, vanity, and idleness commit while masquerading under such semblance. Wit is just as much put upon—blamed for a thousand impertinences over which it would not have held for a moment its glittering shield; it is like the radiant fairy doomed to wander over earth, concealed and transformed, and only allowed on rare occasions to shine forth in its true and sparkling form. It is well that wit is an impalpable and ethereal substance, or it must long since have evaporated in indignation at that peculiarly wretched and mistaken race, its imitators.