CHAPTER XXX.
"We are the unwilling sport
Of circumstance and passion."
Shelley.
The next few days passed pleasantly enough to the majority of the visitors at Avonleigh Castle. Madame de Soissons amused her own leisure by amusing that of the king. Hortense and Mielleraye indulged in those gentle speeches which say so little, yet look so much, and whose charm is so soon exhausted, and never renewed. The Chevalier de Joinville made a third in every tête-à-tête, and was de trop in none; for he always talked to them of themselves, or entertained them at the precise moment when there was, though unconfessed, some slight approach to ennui. The Duke of Buckingham was devoted to Francesca, somewhat marvelling at the slow progress which he made, but rather animated by the indifference of the lady than otherwise. Lord Avonleigh was happy in the duties of a host; to hear him talk, Atlas was but an allegory of himself—the weight of two separate worlds, loyalty and hospitality, rested on him; besides, he had the enjoyment of occasional sneers at the folly of women, together with their obstinacy; and also at the error of romantic attachments.
All these hints Hortense and her lover considered as levelled at themselves; to which, however, they were perfectly indifferent, only retaliating by ridiculing his habits, manners, &c., and finding in this said ridicule a perpetual source of conversation, whenever sweetness required sauce piquante. I believe they were rather grateful to him,—a standing subject of laughter is invaluable, especially to the young, who like what they laugh at. As they advance in life, laughter, in common with all things else; grows bitter—it expresses scorn rather than mirth.
Poor Francesca might seem the offering to Fortune made for the rest of the party. Every word of her father's cut her to the heart. The very fact of her childhood and her youth having passed without being the object of that near and deep affection, made her exaggerate its happiness, as we ever exaggerate the unknown. And now that she found herself, and by no fault of her own, an object of indifference, nay, of dislike, where she had so long gathered up her hopes, cruel indeed was the disappointment. In every point of view her situation was most irksome; from morning to night there was a perpetual demand upon her attention, and the slightest relaxation was sure to be visited by Lord Avonleigh's petulant reproaches. The Duke of Buckingham's suit was an additional annoyance; without ever saying enough to warrant a decided refusal, he was always at her side, trying every possible variety of flattery and amusement; but his being her lover destroyed all that might have been agreeable as an acquaintance. Francesca absolutely hated him. How often, when her thoughts were far away, did he break in upon them, and force them back to the weary realities before her! Entirely filled with the image of another, her heart, indeed, had the deaf ear of the adder, which heedeth not the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely. The Duke was too shrewd not to perceive that he lost, instead of gaining ground. A rival was, of course, the only solution; but who was that rival? Certainly not one in their own circle. He watched every word addressed to another—he examined every look, but all were alike cold and careless; and he soon arrived at the conclusion, that none in the Castle interfered with his interest—he therefore had the field to himself; les absens ont toujours tort was repeated, and on that maxim he proceeded. He saw that Lord Avonleigh had little indulgence, and less love, for his daughter; and that on her he vented that temper which fear or interest repressed in other instances: her home was unhappy. And how many women have believed that any change must be for the better, and only discovered their mistake when too late to remedy it!—a time, by the by, at which mistakes are usually found out.
"Hope deferred maketh the heart sick;" and how long had Francesca suffered under this heart-sickness! Again she felt a return of that utter despondency which had fallen upon her after Guido's death: but then she could indulge in it unmolested, and that was something of relief: now she was forced into exertion, that sort of exertion of all the most tiresome, because the least interesting—a constant attention to people to whom she was indifferent, and to trifles which she could not even fancy to be of consequence. Oh this weariness of the forced spirits! and yet is there one human being but has known it? The brightened eye, which is fain to turn aside and weep; the lively answer, which says all but what is most present to its thoughts; the fatigue of body which follows this toil of the mind; the heartlessness, the hopelessness of such a task recurring day after day—never assert that hell comes only after death, while such a hell as this exists, and is known, alas, to common experience! How eagerly did she seek for an hour of solitude, though that solitude was only filled by haunting fears and vain regrets!
One evening, with what a sensation of relief did she contrive to escape from her guests! Madame de Soissons had a head-ache, and had retired to her chamber. Charles, for lack of other amusement, proposed cards, and formed his party of Lord Avonleigh, the Duke of Buckingham, and the Chevalier de Joinville. Francesca only felt too grateful to the table which attracted attention from herself. The beautiful evening soon drew her from her apartment, and she wandered forth to a little lonely nook in the pleasaunce, which was her favourite haunt. The terrace, which a few warm days had induced the gardener to line with some noble orange-plants and early roses, was soon passed through. Francesca paused with tearful eyes over the round, fruit-like buds and broad shining leaves, which brought another country to her mind, and descended to a shady walk, where, a few weeks since, the pale snowdrops had spread like waves of that white fall whose name they bear. On either side was a straight row of yews, "Deuil de l'été, et parure de l'hiver;" and this ended in a little wilderness, where the lithe and scented shrubs were placed in careless yet graceful profusion. As yet, it was rather the promise of spring than spring itself. A faint green indicated the coming foliage; though, save on the early hawthorn, scarce one full-formed leaf had expanded. But the air was sweet with thousands of violets, for the turf was filled with them; and even their large and shadowy leaves could not hide the azure multitudes that seemed to have caught the shadow of noon's bluest sky. In the midst was a small clear pool, which gave back the first sunshine of the morning, and reflected the rising of the earliest star. It was now silvered over by the tremulous line of light which came direct from the young moon, as if it were a love-message, illuminating the dark but clear waters, like the one touch of poetry to be found in every human heart. A few daffodils grew on the further side, their pale beauty falling white upon the shadow, the slender stalk bending over its own reflection in vain desire. A few more sunny days, a few more moonlight evenings, and it will repeat its own sweet deceit, and strive in vain to reach its beloved image. Nearer and nearer it droops—every hour seems to hasten their union. It comes, but it is brought by death; the leaves fall on the treacherous mirror; and, lo! the likeness which they have worshipped has perished with themselves—fit emblem of that passion for the ideal which haunts the tender and the imaginative mind through life, ever desired, and never realised. And who is there that, at some time or other, has not devoted the hope and the dream of life to a shadow?
Close beside a tranquil pool, for the moonbeams melted harmoniously into its quiet depths, was an old tree. Two stems had once sprang from the same root; one had fallen, and the other leant mournfully over the stream, as if sadly waiting the time which would mingle its own dust with that of its beloved companion, and weary of the green honours of the coming spring, in which it delighted no more. The old trunk was overgrown with moss, and there Francesca took her seat, flinging down violets on the water, and fancying their fragrant breath, as they gradually sank, reproached her for her prodigality.
"Yes, let them perish, even as all sweet emotions perish!—wasted by ourselves, or crushed by others. Methinks I grow cruel, and am fain to destroy even these poor flowers!" exclaimed Francesca, as she threw her last violet on the pool. At that instant a rustling was heard among the trees—a quick step on the turf—the boughs parted—and Robert Evelyn stood before her.