# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 73

CHAPTER XIV.
"It speaks of former scenes—of days gone by—  Of early friendships—of the loved and lost; And wakes such music in the heart, as sigh
 Of evening woos from harp-strings gently crost." Malcolm.
It was late in the evening before Lucy came home, in the gayest possible spirits; she had been equally amused and admired, and now returned in a little flutter of pleasure and vanity. She had a great deal to say, but very little to tell; and repeated over and over again, that Lord Avonleigh had spoken something so kind about her to her father, though she could not remember the exact words; and that Lord Stukeley had danced with her; moreover, that it was very hot in the middle of the day; and that when they went into the hall to supper, there was a peacock, from whose mouth ascended a little flame; but beyond these important facts, no information could be elicited from her.
It is curious to note how few people ever ​contrive to give you any idea of what they have seen; they seize upon some little personal fact, and there the memory halts. While others, who allow their observation to travel out of their own sphere, contrive to bring the scene vividly before you, and without the aid of invention, but with a dramatic power many a writer might envy, give the most lively and graphic description, simply because they have attended to what passed around them.
Francesca had a hundred questions to ask about Lord Avonleigh, but her curiosity remained ungratified for two reasons; first, because she could learn little from Lucy, excepting the reiterated "so handsome, and, so polite;" and secondly, because she was aware of her own interest in the subject, which she was yet unwilling to avow—and what occupies ourselves we always fancy must be obvious to others. Nothing ever teaches us the extent of our mutual and universal indifference.
Late as it was when they separated, Francesca did not retire to rest, but, re-trimming the lamp, she drew the little table towards her, and prepared to write to Lord Avonleigh. More than once she had begun to address him before, but her resolution had always failed, and she had deferred the execution till to morrow, which, as usual, never ​came. Now, whatever she intended to do, it became imperative upon her to do at once. She was unwilling that her father should hear of her, and not from herself; besides, and her heart warmed at the thought, he might feel hurt at the appearance of neglect. How often did she commence writing; but how impossible she found it to say what seemed sufficient to herself! Wearied out by her own indecision, she at length sealed the following letter, most thoroughly dissatisfied with it, but feeling hopeless of another attempt.
"In entreating your Lordship's attention to the enclosed packet, I have nothing to rely upon but your kindness, and the hope that some sad, perhaps tender, remembrances from the past may plead the cause of the present. It explains itself, and, till read, I trust you will pardon the intrusion of a seeming stranger. "F. de C."
The packet contained Arden's confession, Avonleigh's own letters, and her mother's miniature. What a world of passion and of suffering were within its slender folds! But the passion was now cold as the dust in which it had long slept, and the suffering was now but a memory. Her ​letter finished, Francesca retired to rest, but in vain. What the morrow might bring forth kept her awake with feverish anticipation.
There is something in human nature that shrinks from any great change, even though that change be for the better. Alas! all experience shows us how little we dare trust our fate. At length, worn and wearied, she slept; but the turmoil of her thoughts was also in her dreams. Now, pale as she last beheld him, she saw Guido, beckoning her with a sad and mournful aspect. Suddenly he changed into Evelyn; but he, too, seemed grave and cold; and yet she followed him through a dim uncertain country, weighed down by that sense of oppression and helplessness which is only known to sleep. His silence appeared so strange, and fear was upon her; she tried, but could not speak—at last he passed away—terrible shapes crowded round her; and, in the effort to avoid their loathsome contact, she awoke.
The sun was shining into her room, and the birds singing cheerfully, while the many odours from the garden below came in at the open lattice. All was reviving and joyous; and the depression of the previous night vanished like the fear in her visions. Her first act was to despatch her letter to Lord Avonleigh; that done, she could settle to ​nothing, but wandered from the house to the garden, and from the garden to the house, in all the restlessness of anticipation. Suddenly, she thought Lord Avonleigh would, as soon as the packet was read, perhaps come to see her. A natural emotion of feminine vanity made her desire to look as well as she could; and, to her foreign and classical taste, the close cap and grey boddice which she had lately been wearing were odious—besides, she wished, it possible, to recall by her appearance all his early associations with Italy.
For the first time for many weeks her beautiful black hair was released from the confinement of the plaited muslin border, and bound up in its own rich braids round the small and graceful head. For a moment she turned a hesitating glance towards the gay attire that had only been opened to show Lucy since she left Paris; but, to say nothing of the inconsistency of such courtly garb in her present abode, their fashion would recall nothing to her father's mind, while a more national costume would carry him at once back to Parma. She therefore assumed the novice's garb, so universally worn by young Italians—a robe of black silk, only fastened round the waist by a girdle. And scarcely could she have selected aught more ​becoming; for her exquisite shape required no aid beyond the relief of the flowing drapery. Lucy, who had only seen her in either the large loose wrapping dress of serge, or in the quaint simplicity of the Puritanic garb, then so general in England, could not restrain an exclamation of admiration as she returned to their chamber.
Where there is no envy in the case—and envy rarely exists where there is no rivalry—I believe there is nothing more genuine or delightful than one woman's admiration of another's beauty. There is a pure and delicate taste about their nature which gives a keen sense of enjoyment to such appreciation: and loveliness is to them a religion of the heart, associated with a thousand fine and tender emotions. It would have been difficult to find two more perfect, yet more opposed specimens of beauty, than the two now before us. Lucy's was the result of the sweetest colouring. The golden hair, the violet-blue of the eyes, the pearly white skin, tinted by the softest rose that ever opened on an April morning, were blending together both the lights and shadows of a spring atmosphere—soft and timid—a creature made for gentle words and watchful looks.
But Francesca's beauty belonged to features and to expression—features perfect in the Greek ​outline. A brow noble as if never unworthy or ungenerous thought had crossed its white expanse; the red lip somewhat scornful, but smiling, when it did smile, with the sweetness of a thousand common smiles. Large lustrous eyes, passionate, thoughtful, clear, and calm—their general character was repose; but the lightning slept in their midnight depths—that flash which the mind alone can give, but whose light is that of the sky whence it emanates. Usually of a clear, delicate, yet healthy paleness, any strong emotion would flood her cheek with crimson—a rich, regal dye, as the heart poured forth its wealth in one glowing and prodigal tide; and that surest test of beauty—some might say that it was not to their taste, which contradiction, whim, or some other association had turned in favour of a different style; but none could deny its existence—no one would have thought of calling her merely pretty.
Long indeed did that morning appear to Francesca—the longer as her anxiety was unexpressed; for it certainly does shorten a period of waiting not a little to spend it in talking over its various probabilities of termination, wondering what will happen, while we are consoled by the strong sympathy we excite in the listener. But Francesca had never mentioned her peculiar situation with regard to ​Lord Avonleigh. Naturally proud and sensitive, she was necessarily reserved; and, perhaps from never having had to practise it, she had the highest idea of the duty owed by child to parent, and held herself bound to silence on a matter which implicated and depended upon her father. What ever she might hope and expect herself, she could allow no other to hazard a conjecture on the subject. To her own thoughts, therefore, she confined the hopes and fears whose agitation she might repress but not subdue.