# Francesca Carrara/Chapter 74

CHAPTER XV.
"He scanned, with a rapid but scrutinising glance, each of the papers contained in the parcel." The Buccaneer.
It was a large, long room, whose height, though disproportioned to its other dimensions, had this advantage, that the painted ceiling was distinctly seen. That ceiling was covered with square compartments, each filled with strange figures, flowers, fruit, heraldic devices—all blazoned in the richest colours, so minute, so fantastic, and so highly finished, that the painting might well have exhausted a whole imagination, while its execution was the business of a complete and busy life. It was supported by a gilded cornice, carved into a thousand curious shapes and emblems, among which the horned wolf, the crest of the Avonleigh family, was conspicuous. Beneath was a black oaken wainscot, each of whose panels was set in gilded frames, to match the cornice. Little, however, of the wall was seen, for it was nearly ​hidden by the arched book-cases; and the ponderous tomes, mostly bound in black or white vellum, long since grown dingy with age, contrasted forcibly with the gayer ornaments of their habitation.
The chimney-piece was of party-coloured marble, covered with figures, some of whose faces were beautiful, but generally running off into those grotesque combinations which characterised the peculiar taste of their time. Fire there was none; but a large china jar was filled with green boughs and flowers, and occupied nearly the whole hearth. Opposite was a range of some half-dozen narrow high windows, through which the sunbeams came slanting, and seemed striving to make acquaintance with heavy arm-chairs, covered with elaborate embroidery—with the dusky shelves, whence glittered occasionally the silver clasps of some old volume—and with an antique cabinet, whose open doors showed a collection of toys, cumbrous and odd-looking, but a convincing proof that the taste for nicknacks is no modern invention.
Towards one of the windows a table was drawn, and there, loitering over the remains of an ample breakfast, were seated Lord Avonleigh and his son,—sometimes talking eagerly, and looking ​with a pleased and prolonged gaze on the many familiar objects around.
"This is better than the Tower," exclaimed Lord Avonleigh as his eye followed the green sweep of the park to where it merged in the forest.
"But will you never have finished?" exclaimed Lord Stukely "I am impatient to run over the old place. Half an hour ago, I agreed with you, that avant tout il faut déjeûner"—(a few days at Whitehall had already imbued the youth with the prevailing fashion of using French when English would have done as well, if not better)—"but really we are spending half the day in looking out of the window."
What answer his father might have made it is impossible to say; for at that instant a servant entered, and gave in Francesca's packet.
"A lady's writing! and very pretty writing it is, vraiment, mon père. I do not know whether I can allow this."
"Well, yon can save me the trouble of opening it: I doubt much my taking any interest in the matter."
Albert opened the packet, and proceeded to read Francesca's note aloud.
"Very mysterious! Why, my dear father, this is quite a delightful adventure."
​ "Let me look at the note," said Lord Avonleigh; "I am sure I do not know the hand."
While he was considering the scroll, his son unfastened the miniature. "A picture, too!" exclaimed he; "I wonder whether it be that of our unknown correspondent? She could not have sent a better letter of introduction. Did you ever see so lovely a face?" and he gave the portrait to his father.
Had a spectre risen from the yawning earth at his feet, Lord Avonleigh could not have received a greater shock. He leapt from his seat, and stood gazing, as if spell-bound, on that long-forgotten face. Years flitted by, and Padua's walks and walls seemed to circle him round. The little garden and its moonlight meetings, with the fair girl, the spirit of the place,—all arose as the things of yesterday. A shudder passed over him. What suffering might he not now have to learn! He dreaded to seek the contents of these letters.
He was roused by Albert's cutting the string round the next enclosure. "I believe," said he, in a broken voice, "I must look over these letters myself: they relate to a long-past period of my life, and, perhaps, are ill-suited to meet any eye but mine."
Albert started as he marked the sudden ​change in Lord Avonleigh's countenance. "My dearest father," exclaimed he, as he gave him the letters, "do not exclude me from your confidence; my love for you will supply the place of experience."
"Not now," replied his father; "As yet I know not what I have to learn;—leave me for the present."
"I may soon return?" asked the youth, as he paused on the window-sill.
"Certainly, my child."
And, satisfied with the affectionate look which answered his own, Albert sprang down into the park.
Lord Avonleigh drew the papers towards him, and, turning his back to the light, prepared to examine their contents; but it was long before he could detach his gaze from the picture. The fair young face seemed to brighten beneath his look, even as it was wont to do of old: could it be so many, many years since they had parted? Deeply at that moment did Lord Avonleigh feel the conviction, that never had he been loved as he was loved by that forsaken Italian. His marriage, if not unhappy, had been indifferent; it brought back none of those passionate and tender thoughts associated with the image of Beatrice—it was not the ​one charmed dream of his glad and eager youthhood.
From the contemplation of the portrait he turned to his own letters: he began to look them over, and mournful—for all things departed are mournful—was the train of feeling with which they were connected. Saddened, softened, and subdued as he felt while reading them, yet more than once he laughed aloud—so absurd did the exaggerated expressions of the boy appear to the man. At last, in pure shame, he laid them down. "Good Heaven!" exclaimed he, "could I ever have written such nonsense?—and yet how delicious was the folly! Ah! wisdom is little worth what it costs!" and, with a graver brow, he turned to Richard Arden's letter. He read on, every feature convulsed with emotion, till he came to her death, when the paper dropped from his hand—he had never dreamed of such horror. To one who had known but the lulled emotions of domestic life, which had passed in the sunshine of prosperity—a quiet, pleasant, indolent sort of ready-shaped existence—such things appeared impossible till they had actually happened. His only relief was to execrate Arden; and, with the self-indulgence natural to one whom no bitter experience had ever forced upon still more bitter ​reflection, he excused himself by blaming him. At length he read to the close. His own—Beatrice's child in England! To her, at least, he would make ample reparation; and without waiting to think over the subject, he hastily locked the papers in a drawer of the cabinet, and hurried to Lawrence Aylmer's.
Even exaggerating, if that be possible, the difficulties of a young female left, without relation or friend, to her own resources, he was impatient to extend his protection to the hitherto orphan. It was fortunate for him that reparation took such an easy form. It cannot be denied that there are some persons whose faults are more severely punished than other persons' crimes: how much heavier had been Beatrice's portion! But Lord Avonleigh, after the first shock, put the worst part of the business aside, letting pity for the luckless Italian assume its most soothing form. He dwelt principally on Arden's shameful conduct, and his own intended kindness to Francesca; and by the time he arrived at the farm-house, he had also arrived at the conclusion that he had been only a singularly ill-used person, and was sufficiently recovered to wonder if his daughter was presentable and handsome. "If she is but pretty we shall manage. Albert can very well spare a sister's ​dower; and, no doubt, she will marry brilliant!y." Thus, occupied with pleasant prospects for the future, instead of gloomy reminiscences of the past, Lord Avonleigh entered the house.
Francesca was alone, and at once her ear detected a strange step in the passage. Her heart died within her; in vain she endeavoured to control her emotion;—the objects grew indistinct around her; and when Lord Avonleigh approached and took her hand, she sank kneeling at his feet, and burst into tears.
People who have not strong feelings themselves dislike their display in others. Wanting in that sympathy which intuitively teaches how to console, agitation always embarrasses them; they are puzzled, and know not what to say, and feel that they are in an awkward and disagreeable position.
Lord Avonleigh raised the agitated girl, and, leading her to a seat, took his place beside her.
"Do not weep, my sweet child!" said he: "surely our meeting is not a misfortune?"
At the word "child," Francesca raised her eyes to his face, and smiled through her tears—so delightful to her unaccustomed ear were the expressions of affection. "My dearest father!" exclaimed she; and at that moment what a ​security of future happiness seemed around her! A parent's love and a parent's care were indeed a guarantee against misfortune. Was not her fate now in his hands?
Lord Avonleigh soon recovered his self-possession. He had those elegant and finished manners which are prepared for any thing except emotion. He led Francesca to talk of herself and of her past life; and was equally satisfied with her conversation and her appearance. The classic and poetic seclusion in which the commencement of her life had passed, was, in the grace and the refinement which it nurtured, well fitted to receive the polish of the French court; and her great beauty flung its own charm over the slightest action. Lord Avonleigh was delighted with his daughter, and she was both delighted and astonished. Was it possible that this dreaded interview could pass over so placidly? It was, however, not ended yet.
"I deeply feel," said Francesca, "your kindness in asking no questions, and demanding no proofs, beyond Mr. Arden's narrative."
"Do not speak of him," interrupted Lord Avonleigh, who, in truth, wished to avoid all mention of the disagreeable past.
"I believe," continued she, "there are still ​some papers which, for our mutual satisfaction, it is fitting you should examine." So saying, she unlocked the little casket. "This," said she, in a faltering voice, "is the certificate of my—your marriage,"—she could not pronounce her mother's name to him;—"this the register of my own baptism; and this the record of her death and interment in the burying-ground of Santa Caterina."
Lord Avonleigh glanced over them; but as he read the last, his whole countenance changed. "Great God!" he exclaimed: "Her death occurred in August, and I was married in England seven months before! Francesca, if I acknowledge you, Albert is—" But his voice failed, and he leant back in speechless consternation.
For the first time in his life, an insuperable obstacle arose before his intention. He could not but feel most forcibly the justice of Francesca's claims: he could not hope that she would relinquish them; and yet, Albert to be disgraced, disinherited! and through whose fault?—his father's! He sprang up and approached the door, gasping for air. Francesca, who had rot comprehended his meaning, thought him ill, and approached him with gentle words of inquiry.
"Not yet," said he; and drawing her hand ​within his, he walked into the garden, and followed the first path into which they turned. It led to a gentle ascent that commanded the road; and there, as if sent to startle and reproach him, Lord Stukeley met his sight. He grasped Francesca's arm, who was terrified by his sudden agitation, and whispered, "Look there!"
She looked, and saw one of the most graceful cavaliers that ever reined in a mettled horse. The white plumes of his cap danced gaily in the air, while the long curls hung over his shoulders. The likeness between him and his father was striking. The same fair broad brow, the same clear hazel eyes, the same frank smile; and as he bent forward to caress the greyhound leaping up at his side, Francesca thought that she had never seen a handsomer youth.
"That is your brother," said Lord Avonleigh.
She gazed upon him with an eager glance of pleasure and affection. "I shall like him so much! Will you not speak to him?"
"Speak to him!" interrupted Lord Avonleigh; "speak to him! and for what?—to tell him that he is a beggar—disgraced—that he has no right to the very name he bears! Speak to him!—you are impatient to assume your honours as heiress of Avonleigh!"
​ Francesca was hurt by the manner, even more than astonished by the words. "What mean you?" exclaimed she. "You look at me reproachfully: you withdraw your hand from mine! What have I done? You were so kind. What has so suddenly changed you?"
"Franeesca," resumed her father, "put yourself in yonder boy's place, and then fancy what his feelings will be, when he finds that the rank, name, and wealth in which he has been brought up are not his! Do you think it is in human nature to welcome the sister who comes to deprive him of them?"
"Deprive him of them?" repeated Francesca: "why should I deprive him of them? Give me a home, with your mutual affection; and if you could look into my heart, you would see how little I care for your wealth?"
"Are you not aware that my first marriage makes my second invalid? If you are my lawful child, Albert is not; I cannot acknowledge the one without disgracing the other."
"Let us go back to the house," said Francesca, faintly.
Silently they returned by the narrow green path, Lord Avonleigh thinking himself the most unfortunate man in the world, and his daughter ​nerving herself to fulfil the resolution which she had instantly taken. The walk was short; yet what a world of emotion passed in its brief limit! Lord Avonleigh was bewildered and undecided; he was like a man who, having received some great shock, stands dizzy and pained, but quite unprepared to meet its consequences. Not so with Francesca. She knew that every vision in which she had indulged was annihilated at a blow; she saw at a glance the disadvantages of her future position. But only from one image did she turn away: she could not bear the thought of Evelyn. Still her mind was determined. No name, no rank, no wealth, no dream of love fulfilled, could reconcile her to purchase them at the expense of another. "I," thought she, "Am used to adversity—I know how to bear and suffer; and sometimes I think that my spirits are too much broken to enjoy happiness, even if it came. But my brother—let me call him by that name, and fill my mind with the claims of so near and dear a tie—he is in the first flush of youth and hope, and knows not how the one will darken and the other deceive. Can I bear to write shame on that fair young brow—send him forth a wanderer from the home of which he has been the delight—sow dissension between a father and son, who now idolise each other? ​Never, never! Evelyn, dearest Evelyn! I could not purchase even our reunion on such terms: I were unworthy of you if I could. There is but one course for me to take; and, harsh and bitter though it be, that course is mine."
They had now arrived at the door. "I pray you enter," said Francesca to her companion, who paused irresolute on the threshold. She approached the table whereon stood her mother's casket. She replaced the papers within, and, turning the lock, she gave the key into Lord Avonleigh's hand, at the same time pushing the casket towards him. "You will never," whispered she, "be further troubled with claim of Francesca! No avowal could avail my mother. In her case, silence is the only justice needed by the dead. Let the noble youth, now the acknowledged heir of your house and heart, so remain."
"Albert," interrupted Lord Avonleigh, "will never allow it. You know not the pride of that young heart."
"He must never hear it," was the reply. "Let the past be what it now is—a secret between ourselves."
"But you, my noble, my generous girl!" exclaimed Lord Avonleigh, "I dare not let you pay the penalty of my former folly."
​ "Nay," said she, soothingly, "I shall still rely on somewhat of protection and of kindness from you."
"And that, indeed, you shall have. I have power and wealth,—both shall be at your command. I will do everything I can to promote your future happiness. You will, of course, fix your abode at Avonleigh."
"In that," replied Francesca, "I shall be ruled by you. Here, certainly, I cannot remain; for Lucy Aylmer's marriage takes place in a week."
"You shall see me again this evening," answered Lord Avonleigh. "By that time, preparations shall have been made for your reception and welcome to the house of a father, whom you must learn to forgive ere you learn to love."
He kissed her brow, and left her. She watched him unconsciously, till the winding walk hid him from her sight, and then sank back on her seat, every nerve relaxing from its high-strained excitement into utter and still despondency.