Francesca Carrara/Chapter 38
CHAPTER XI.
"Whither, oh! whither hath the world a home—
The wide, cold world—for heart so lorn as mine?"
It was the third night after their arrival in their new abode, that Francesca was seated watching the slumbers of their sick guest. They were quiet and deep; and the physician had pronounced that he would, in all probability, awaken restored to sense. More than once she had approached the pillow, and bathed his temples with some aromatic essence, and moistened his lips with some refreshing liquid. At length he stirred, and drawing a deep breath, she could perceive that he was rousing, and, as she hoped, to consciousness. Placing the screen carefully before the lamp, lest its light should flash too suddenly on his weakened eyes, she took a cup in her hand, and advanced to give the medicine it had been especially enjoined he should take when he awoke. She raised his hand on her arm, and, like a child, he implicitly followed the motion of her hand, and swallowed the reviving draught. He looked feebly round, and murmured a few inaudible words; but Francesca perceived that his hand was no longer feverish, and his temples, as she bathed them, were comparatively cool.
The lamp was shaded, and the fire was dim, when suddenly the log, which had burnt through, gave way; a shower of sparkles rose from the hearth, and a bright blaze illuminated the room, falling full on Francesca's face, as she bent over the patient. He gave one wild look upon her countenance; she started back at the expression of terror in his eyes.
"Beatrice!" he shrieked, and attempted to rise, but fell back, and fainted in the effort.
She called loudly for assistance; and Guido hurried in, and aided in the recovery of the sick man, who lay pale as death before them. Gradually he revived: he gazed fearfully round, as if the impression of some awful sight were yet in his mind; when, seeing Guido by the bed-side, he whispered his name.
"Thank God! you know me again," exclaimed the youth, not observing Francesca's sign.
"I have been delirious, then?" exclaimed Arden, with a singular appearance of satisfaction.
"You must not talk," said Francesca, closing the curtains at the foot of the bed. But the patient had seen her, and again a ghastly expression of horror convulsed his features. The name Beatrice again died on his pale and quivering lips, and he grasped Guido's hand convulsively. "Did you see her, too?" he whispered, at length.
"See who?" exclaimed Guido; and at that moment Francesca again drew near with a glass of water.
"Who is that?" cried Arden, speaking with a strong effort, and gazing with fixed eyes upon her.
"My sister Francesca;—do drink this."
The sick man allowed them to put the glass to his lips, and sipped a small quantity; his look became more composed; he lay down, as if exhausted, and in a little while slept again, leaving his youthful friends full of surprise at the strange terror which he had manifested. It proved, however, to be the crisis of his disease; for from that time he rapidly amended, and was soon able to sit up for a few hours.
In the meantime, Francesca had leisure to note the unrest, and unfixedness of purpose in Guido's mind. He would listen to all the plans she suggested, but she could get him to decide on none; it was in vain to attempt to interest him in the future. He warmly entered into her wish of leaving Paris; but where they were to go, and what course of life they should pursue, still remained unsettled. A straw would have turned him any way; but orphans, so utterly unconnected as they were, where was that straw to be found? They were equally without motive or desire; only that Francesca saw the danger of allowing this apathy to increase, and would fain have laid down some determinate scheme, and sought some fixed home and employment, which must have brought its occupations, its habits, and, finally, its interests.
The attention required by the stranger was a relief to both. They watched his most careless look, and anticipated his slightest wish, not only with a kindness, but a pleasure, and a degree of attachment to the object, which alone would have proved how much affection they had still to spare—how much too young they were for indifference and inactivity. Richard Arden's singular deportment, too, stimulated their curiosity. Sometimes he received Francesca's attentions with a degree of affectionate fondness, as if he derived from them the most heartfelt pleasure; then he would suddenly repulse them with an expression of absolute horror, and remain for hours together lost in gloomy reverie. At one time he would gaze upon her face with a look of such deep yet sorrowful tenderness; while at another, he would start and turn away, as if he could not bear to meet her eyes.
"Do you know," said she to Guido one morning, when, after asking her to sing, the Englishman had left the room in the very middle of her song, "that I have taken a fancy into my head, which quite accounts for Mr. Arden's singularities: it is, that I am like some one whom he loved and lost in early youth; and though the loss is dreadful, the love is yet pleasant to remember."
"I can imagine," replied her brother, "such a state of mind, acted upon by such a resemblance; but, ah! the pain must be greater than the pleasure. Our youth recalled, when we are no longer young—our hopes brought back again, but side by side with the knowledge that they were unfulfilled—our dreams, but attended by no accomplishment—feelings, the ghosts of themselves—and love risen, as it were, from the tomb, to meet us with a bitter and subtle mockery."
"You take too dark a view," answered Francesca; "the first fierce agony of grief gone by, it soothes us to dwell upon the memory of the departed. It sanctifies and purifies the heart, to know that it has one sad and sacred spot, unvisited by commoner cares and meaner sorrows. We repose in the deep sense of our own faithfulness, and learn gradually to pass in thought to the other side of the tomb, and parting is forgotten in the diviner hope of a meeting where there is no farewell!"
"And that it is which makes my own thoughts so unendurable. Good God! to think in what vain sacrifice I have offered up the best hopes, the fervent and young affections of my heart! Ask yourself; would the tears shed over the grave be half as bitter as those which you have shed over the unworthy? The loss of mistress or lover is little, compared with that of love!"
This was a subject on which Francesca liked not to converse,—nor, in truth, did Guido, unless carried away for a moment into the expression of angry disappointment. It is a solace to confide our hopes, our feelings, and our thoughts; but none to impart our mortifications,—their shame is heightened, not subdued, by sympathy.
It was a few days after this conversation, that Richard Arden entered the room where his young friends were seated, as had now become a favourite habit, by the glimmer of the twilight. Though Francesca urged it upon her brother, she had herself little inclination for exertion; and hours often passed away, before the lamp was lighted, in desultory conversation, only varied by long and thoughtful pauses. They were now, as usual, talking of their future plans, and, as usual, the dialogue had finished with the constant question of "Where shall we go?"
"To England," exclaimed their companion, seating himself in an old arm-chair in the darkest nook of the room. "I have long," continued he, without waiting for an answer, "intended to disclose to you all that has long made, all that still makes, existence a burden. God open your hearts to mercy as you hear! How little, my kind and beautiful child," added he, turning to Francesca, "could you think that you watched by the sick-bed of your greatest enemy! But for me," exclaimed he, rising and pacing the room in uncontrollable agitation, "you had not now been an orphan—severed from life's dearest and sweetest tie, the love of a mother! Can you forgive me? can you bear to hear my history?"
Francesca and Guido gazed with astonishment on the ghastly paleness of his haggard features, at the cold damp glistening on his brow, and then looked to each other. Each thought that their guest was stricken with sudden insanity; and under this impression rose, and endeavoured to soothe him with the kindest words of solicitude and goodwill.
"I cannot endure this," exclaimed he; "I have long wanted resolution to reveal the fatal past—a past so intimately connected with your fortunes; but now, though you start from me in horror, it shall be told."
At his instance they resumed their seats; and after a few minutes' pause, to nerve his mind to its task, he began the following narrative.