CHAPTER XVII.
"With that she struck her on the lips,
So died double red;
Hard was the heart that gave the blow—
Sweet were the lips that bled."
Ballad of Fair Rosamunde.
"It is well you have returned home to dinner," exclaimed Albert, as he caught sight of his father in the avenue, and ran forwards to meet him, "or I must have starved; since eating before my curiosity is satisfied is quite out of the question. You have been the whole morning at Lawrence Aylmer's, and I hear that he has had for months past the most beautiful stranger residing under his roof. Like the wandering princess of an old romance, no one knows who she is, or where she came from, only that she arrived with a brother to whom she was devotedly attached, but who died a few months after their landing. Now, my dear father, do give me a full and particular account of this mysterious beauty. They say that she is evidently noble—surely she is not going to live for ever at the farm?"
"She is going to take up her abode with us," replied his father.
"In what capacity?" asked the youth, laughing.
"To every one else," said Lord Avonleigh, "As the daughter of an old friend; to you, as your sister."
"My sister!" exclaimed Albert.
"Your sister. It is a long and mournful history, and one whose repetition I would fain be spared; but we have all our faults and our follies, and, take my word for it, boy, that we pay dearly enough for the latter. She is my daughter—friendless and unprotected; and it were hard that the innocent should suffer for the guilty."
It is odd how easily the common-places of morality or of sentiment glide off in conversation. Well, they are "exceedingly helpful," and so Lord Avonleigh found them.
"Poor girl!" continued he, "she has known much adversity—we must at least be kind to her."
"Indeed we will," exclaimed Albert, eager with all the ready affection of youth; "I have always wished for a sister—I am sure I shall like her so much."
"But remember, Albert," added his father, "I rely on your discretion. To you alone is intrusted the secret of her birth."
"My dear father, can you doubt my prudence?" said the youth, with a little air of pleasure at being thought worthy of confidence.
The next day brought Francesca to the Castle. Of all concerned, she felt most at parting from Lawrence Aylmer's kind and accustomed roof. Lucy, though her tears fell fast when it came to actually bidding good-by, yet was too deeply impressed with what she considered her friend's good fortune to feel regret beyond the present. Besides, she was more than consoled by Lord Avonleigh's declaration, that they should all attend her wedding in the following week: it was impossible to be very miserable with such a prospect before her.
But Francesca felt a deep depression. Here was another great change in her life; and how little encouragement could she draw from its predecessors! None had been for the better. She had quitted the lovely and quiet scenes of her youth for the vexation and vanity of Paris—what a period of fever and disappointment had it been! She had sought England, to see the grave close over the only human being linked to her by ties of blood and long affection—and to find a father who feared to acknowledge her—and to enter another home, as a stranger and as a dependant. She had all life to begin over again, without the buoyancy or the hope that render its path endurable, and which surmount difficulties, by colouring them with those pleasant hues of delusion which make the yoke of existence easy, and its burden light.
Accustomed to the airy and cheerful architecture of Italy, cheerful even in its decay—for the proportion is still perfect in its grace, and luxuriant nature hides the ravages of time—or to the gay crowds which fixed attention upon themselves in the courtly hotels of Paris—and of late to the air of occupation and of comfort in Aylmer's house—a strange sense of oppression came over Francesca as she entered the gloomy baronial hall of Avonleigh. The high narrow windows shed shadows rather than light below; the carved walls were black with time; and the armour hung around suggested no images but those of warfare and death. Many of the figures, clad in mail from head to foot, were ranged above the dais; and she could almost fancy a skeleton form beneath, or that wild and fearful eyes glared through the apertures of the closed visors. The hall was cold, too, and chilled her southern temperament almost like unkindness.
"Is this my welcome," thought she, "to my father's house?—is it an omen?" She wished to hurry through the Gothic space, complaining of the cold, to the discontent of both father and brother, especially the latter, who delighted in the legends attached to every weapon or scutcheon on the wall. They forgot that the early associations which had made their interest were blanks to Francesca; but her indifference was quite enough to put them out of temper—and both were too self-willed to conceal it. In the mean time, unconscious of her offence, poor Francesca could only wonder within herself at the change in their manner, and assign it to every cause but the right one.
She was conducted to her own apartment; and as she braided back her hair and changed her dress, it was well for her that the young waiting-maid appointed to attend her was more alive to the duties of the toilette than her mistress: for, depressed and bewildered, Francesca scarcely knew what she was doing. Still, when she entered the supper-room, no longer muffled up in her riding-hood and cloak, though pale, and her eyes heavy with unshed tears, neither Lord Avonleigh nor his son could restrain an exclamation of delight at her exceeding beauty. Albert's good humour, too, was completely restored; for the falcon, alluded to at an earlier period of the narrative, had been brought to the Castle, and he was full of gratitude and pleasure. Supper passed off more cheerfully than could have been expected; but its after-conversation drove the blood from Francesca's cheek to her heart, there to fever with anxiety, or freeze with fear.
"So I hear," said Lord Avonleigh, "that young Roundhead, Robert Evelyn, is excluded by name from the general pardon. But for him, that vacillating Henry Cromwell would have proclaimed Charles Stuart in Dublin upon his father's death."
"Is he a prisoner?" asked Albert, while Francesca gasped for breath.
"No; but he is too dangerous to let escape so easily. It is amazing what a hold those Evelyns have on the peasantry in this county; glad am I that we are to be rid of them, for I hate the very name."
"Francis was shot by that mad fanatic Johnstone," added Albert, turning to his sister, "before Aylmer's door—did you see anything of the prisoner?"
"Nay," interrupted Lord Avonleigh, "this is not the most agreeable subject wherewith to entertain our guest; you have ample time to talk over every event that ever happened to either. I see that the Signora da Carrara looks fatigued. Albert, will you call her attendants?"
"Yes," replied the youth, "And light her myself through all our endless galleries."
Tears rose to Francesca's eyes at even this slight mark of kindness. Albert noticed them, for long indulgence had not yet wrought its usual work of hardness and indifference; and, taking her hand kindly in his, he said, as he led her along, "We are all very new and strange to you now; but we shall be such friends soon! Good night, my sweet sister."
Francesca felt too much to speak: but her grateful look gave Albert more pleasure than any words. Almost immediately dismissing her attendant, she sat down in a large carved oaken settle that was drawn close by the hearth, where the wood-fire threw a multitude of fantastic shapes in rapidly changing shadows around. It was scarcely possible to imagine a more gloomy chamber. The purple velvet curtains of the bed looked almost black in the dim light, and heavy plumes of hearse-like feathers drooped from each corner. The floor of polished wood gave no relief to the general dulness; and the walls were hung with tapestry, where the ghastly figures, large as life, waved to and fro with a human likeness which yet seemed to mock humanity.
It represented the history of Fair Rosamond, one of those legends which take that hold on the popular imagination which love and crime usually do when stamped by death, and chronicled in the simple poetry which is the truest echo of the heart. In the first compartment, she was sitting with her maidens, binding up flowers; and, rude as were the outlines, and harsh the tints, the artist had well contrived to express the attention they were giving to their simple employment,—an attention that could only be given by the easily pleased, and the light-hearted. But a cavalier, who was gazing on them from the back-ground, seemed to indicate that one at least would soon find that there could be a deeper interest excited than that taken in binding a garland of lilies. In the next, that period had already arrived. A maiden was seated apart from her companion, the very flowers scattered neglected by her side; but it was obvious that idlesse—that first sweet symptom of love—was pleasanter than her graceful task; for the colour was rich upon her cheek, and the smile parted her scarce conscious lips. In the third, a cavalier was kneeling at her feet, while the downcast eye, and the yielded hand, betrayed that his suit was granted almost before it was asked. To this succeeded a splendid banqueting room. The cavalier and the maiden are seated beneath a royal canopy, and the cavalier wears the insignia of his high station. Rosamond is at his side, her hand still clasped in his; the gems are bright in her braided hair, and neck and arms are laden with orient pearls: but her cheek is paler than its wont, and the soft blue eyes have a look of care far different from what they wore when but heeding how best the primrose and the violet might consort together. This was followed by the parting between the frail Rose and her royal lover. The spur is on his heel, and the sword at his side;—honour with a knight is stronger than love, and he must go—yet she clings to his arm—alas! why may not she accompany him! Henry's face is averted; but the agony on that of his unhappy mistress is terrible—it is the desolation of a life. Next you saw her alone, a kneeling penitent at the foot of the crucifix; her long fair hair is unbound, and the sackcloth robe is girded by a cord round her slender shape: her hands are clasped, and tears are flowing fast from the quenched radiance of those shadowy eyes; no penitence can avail the still cherished sin, and no humiliation express the depth of her self-conscious degradation. She looks above, but it is in despair, not hope; she weeps, yet dares not pray, for the image of Henry is in her heart even while prostrate before the image of her Saviour. The scene changes—it is the banquet-room again. Another sits beneath the purple canopy—a lady, but alone. The diadem is on her cold and haughty brow; there is no pity in her stern aspect, and the smile on her lip bodes death. Before her stands the lovely culprit, whose fatal beauty, and still more fatal love, are about to be dearly requited. Her mouth is yet red with the blow of the vindictive Queen; but her eye, if sad, is calm, and her cheek, though pale, is resolved. The dark cup is in her hand—she has turned aside from the dagger—it is too cruel a weapon for her gentle clasp.
Francesca, who knew not the story, gazed eagerly on the last compartment. It is a little chapel, where the mourners are ranged, torch in hand, and at the altar the robed priests are chanting: the service for a departed soul. An old man stands near, but his face is buried in his cloak; and in the midst, laid upon an open bier, is the fair Rosamond. The decent shroud hides that perfect form; and two long braids of hair, parted on the white forehead, extend their length even to her feet. Death has not yet subdued the beauty of that angel face; it has come upon it like a lovely sleep, but sad, very sad, for their dying look is still upon the features. A king is kneeling by that coffin—one who would give his crown to restore life but for a day to those pale lips—to ask their latest wish—to implore pardon—and to say farewell! In vain King Henry bends in speechless despair over his victim and his love.
"Everywhere the same!" exclaimed Francesca, as she resumed her seat—"the same human misery—the same human portion! The loud wind, which I now hear howling around the battlements, seems but a mighty echo of the universal plaint wrung from mortal suffering. I would to Heaven, that if this is to be my chamber, it were hung with a less mournful history! A place for rest and sleep to be perpetually haunted by such misery as I see pictured there—and one grief ever brings another to mind—how many sorrowful records of my own land does that tapestry recall! Alas! amid so many instances of ever-recurring wretchedness, how can I hope that an exception will be made in my favour?"