CHAPTER XLIII.
"C'est qu'on n'a pas pour tout partage
De soupirer et de rèver;
Que sur l'ocean sans rivage
Il faut poursuivre son voyage,
Dût-on ne jamais arriver."
St. Beuve.
It was but a few hours after the preceding scene that a party were seen issuing from the gates of Avonleigh Castle. Two horses stood saddled, ready; but before Evelyn assisted his bride to mount, she turned to embrace Madame de Soissons, who had accompanied her to the portal. "God bless you!" exclaimed she, in a faltering voice. "Think of me sometimes, and Heaven above knows that my heart will beat with the remembrance of your kindness till it lies cold in death." Francesca then sprung on her horse, and in a few minutes they had crossed the path, and were hidden by the forest; once again they appeared on a winding turn of the road; again the boughs closed round them, and shut them out from those who watched them—for ever.
It was long before Madame de Soissons ceased to gaze upon the road. At length, dashing the last tears from her cheek, she turned with a forced smile to De Joinville, who was standing be side, and said, "Well, there are some things in the world I do not understand; and I neither comprehend Evelyn's going to America, nor Francesca's accompanying him;"—and with this speech we take our farewell of the Comtesse, who went back to Paris, and passed an active life of court intrigue, which was generally successful;—the chief incident of her after-life was a brief exile for an impertinent speech to Madame de Vallière.
The Chevalier de Joinville lived to an advanced age, and was considered a very amusing old gentleman; he was sometimes advised to write his memoirs, but, as he justly observed, he had a character to lose.
Lord Avonleigh married again, and with that singular good-fortune which never deserted him, except in the instance of his son, who was perhaps the one great sacrifice to Fate, was very fortunate in his choice, for his lady was pretty, obedient, and an excellent nurse. He took to good eating and the gout; and even Albert was as much forgotten as Francesca and her mother.
Charles Aubyn and Lucy vegetated in quiet content. The young and enthusiastic preacher taming down into an accommodating conformist, one who felt that the interests of his own living and of the Church in general were indissolubly connected. He dined constantly at the Castle, and was always considered a very worthy and respectable individual. Lucy herself made a valuable discovery, namely, that she had delicate health,—only those who have this perpetual interest in themselves can understand its enjoyment,—and what with complaints, symptoms, remedies, and ground-ivy tea, it was quite wonderful how time passed unobserved away. It is on such as these that life lavishes its favours; these are they of the light heart, and yet lighter mind, for whose sake the earth, to whose base clay they are so near allied, puts forth her best; these are they who have the corn and wine of existence. What know they of the sensitive temper which makes its own misery?—of the deep feeling that cannot change?—of the hope that looks too high, whose bright wings melt in the glorious flight, and is dashed to pieces in its rude collision with the common and the actual? What know they of that feverish impatience of the littleness of society, which takes refuge amid the dreams of a haunted solitude, from which it only ventures forth to have those dreams destroyed? What know they of these? Nothing, nothing; and in their ignorance are they happy!
A graver page than this, that of history, records the further career which awaited some who have been recalled in this brief chronicle of their earlier time. Power and indulgence harden, corrupt, and assimilate their possessors; and as they drew near and more near to the close, the characters of Louis and of Charles took stronger shades of resemblance. The indolent good-nature of the one lapsed in the most reckless selfishness; and throughout our English annals there is no portion more disgraceful than the latter years of Charles's reign; and assuredly the same censure may be passed on those of Louis,—periods of personal and of national degradation.
But we have now done with all those who have taken part in these pages, save of the two whose fortunes and characters they have endeavoured principally to illustrate; and they have yet a long wild voyage to perform.
A feeling of gladness and freedom long unknown animated them as they rode through the forest; the future was before them—that future of which they now spake together. Together!—the perfect happiness of that one word! An hour's quick riding—for time was precious—brought them to Southampton. A boat was in waiting at the quay, and in a few moments they were on board the vessel destined to convey them to America. The breeze was favourable, and the white sails were soon spread—a mighty sea-bird ruffling its snowy plumage in the sunset. The town of Southampton, with its old castle, and older trees, shone red in the gleam of the parting day; and the west was heaped with huge crimson masses, contending with a vast black shadow that rested on their verge. Beyond lay the fair green island, so tranquil in the cool calm atmosphere, only flickered by a few of the lightest clouds. "England, dear England, farewell for ever!" exclaimed Evelyn, as he leant on the side of the ship, and gazed on the lovely undulations of that native land whither he was to return no more.