CHAPTER XXIX.
"I tell you, you shall wed him!"
"Lady Francesca Stukely, may I request your presence in my library?" said Lord Avonleigh, with the air of a philosopher or a Spanish minister of state, or whatever else may seem most important and imposing.
Francesca followed, reluctant enough in her secret; for though she would not have admitted it even to herself, she did shrink from the infliction of the inane solemnities with which her father garnished his discourse—to say nothing of the ungracious reflections which so often glanced at herself.
"Matters of import require time," said he, waving his hand, and taking an attitude in his chair, very far from insensible to his long-lingering personal graces; "I therefore beg you will be seated." Francesca obeyed, a little marvelling on what matters of import she could be deemed worthy of consultation. "To continue a noble name is one of the first duties incumbent on its possessors—and most unfortunate it is when an ancient line ends in a female." Francesca knew not very well what answer to make to this. Lord Avonleigh, however, spared her the trouble, by observing, in what he meant to be a consolatory tone: "I know what you were going to say—that it is not your fault that you are a woman."
"Only my misfortune."
"And a very great misfortune it is, under the present circumstances. However, the true philosophy is that which makes the best of every thing. I have, therefore, arranged the following plan. The house of Avonleigh is too ancient to be merged in any title, however exalted. I have therefore settled that, when you marry, your eldest son will inherit his father's honours, but your second will represent my name and lineage."
"Suppose I do not marry?"
"I never suppose impossibilities."
"And if I should not have two sons?"
"And pray, why should you not? His majesty has already most graciously spoken to me of your marriage; and I myself have observed the admiration with which the Duke of Buckingham has been pleased to distinguish you. But one point remained to be settled—and that his Grace has accorded—namely, that the title of Avonleigh should descend to the second son."
Francesca could almost have laughed at the facility with which Lord Avonleigh had laid out the future according to his own will and pleasure; but her own position was too serious for mirth—now or never must she tell her father that he could not reckon on this disposition of her hand and heart—or rather hand only, for the heart seemed the last thing in the world that entered into his calculations. A myriad of beginnings to her intended discourse darted into her mind; but, as is usual in such cases, she chose the one the very worst suited to her purpose. "I never intend to marry," said she, in a faltering voice.
"Very proper to say so," replied her father, with an air of gracious encouragement. "Marriage should always take young ladies by surprise. It would be contrary to the dignity of my daughter to accept the Duke of Buckingham on supposition. I am well content you should refuse him beforehand."
"My father," said Francesca, rising from her seat, "I pray you listen to me for a few moments, and do bear in kindly remembrance how different my life has been to the general run of feminine experience.”
"I could not help your being left to run wild half over the world; so don't reproach me with it," exclaimed Lord Avonleigh, half pettish, half sullen.
"I reproach no one; but I would fain entreat you to remember, that many years—youth's most eager and sensitive years—passed ere I knew there was a human being to whom I was accountable for my actions."
"And now you have only to obey my commands."
"I will obey in what I can; but affection is neither in your power nor even in my own."
"Affection! and, pray, what have you to do with affection?"
"Very little indeed," replied his daughter, the tears she could not repress glistening on her long dark lashes; "And yet I have known it, Sir, long before I was aware of a father's claims upon my obedience. My heart was given, and my hand promised, to one who, though noble and rich himself, yet delighted to share his prosperity with the poor Italian orphan. Circumstances, which it would only weary you to detail, prevented the fulfilment of that contract; but I hold it dear and binding as I did in that brief hour of happiness when my faith was pledged, never to be recalled.
"And pray," asked Lord Avonleigh, almost inarticulate with anger, "what foreign adventurer has entrapped the romantic fancies of a foolish girl? What sunburnt count, with some unpronounceable name, and a palace in ruins, looks forward to the tangible delights of English gold wrung from the gullibility of his easily-to-be-talked-over father-in-law? His name, girl!"
"His name is as ancient as your own, and has more than once been thought worthy of an alliance with the house of Avonleigh."
Her father's brow grew darker than she could have believed that fair smooth brow could have darkened—his lip was white with anger. "Speak!" muttered he, in a tone of subdued rage, subdued but for the moment. "Your lover's name!"
"Robert Evelyn," said Francesca, in a scarcely audible whisper, for all her resolution sunk with the effort of pronouncing his name.
"I thought as much: but it matters not; for never shall Robert Evelyn wed daughter of mine, unless he take her penniless and discarded. Why, your cavalier is a rebel—an exile, whose property is confiscated, and for whose neck the gibbet stands prepared!"
"And for whose sake I will bear an unchanged name and an unaltered heart to my grave."
Lord Avonleigh walked to and fro; but anger was a wearying exertion, and rage soon subsided into pettishness.
"Respect for our illustrious guests must induce us to waive these family quarrels for the present; but, mark me, Francesca, accept the Duke of Buckingham when he offers his hand, or, the moment that our visitors leave, I will lock you up in the south tower, on bread and water, to learn obedience when it is too late to practise it." So saying, he quitted the apartment, having recourse to that grand resource of the wounded feeling or the aggrieved temper, namely slamming the door after him.