Francesca Carrara/Chapter 47
CHAPTER XX.
"Ah! life has many dreams, but yet has none
Like its first dream of love."
With hospitable eagerness Lucy Aylmer hastened to conduct her guests to her own room. Francesca was soon disencumbered of her riding-hood and cloak; and the three young people, left together, became rapidly acquainted. The very blunders made by the two Italians in the English tongue,—the necessity of explanations, and of mutual assistance in comprehending each other, soon put the conversation on a familiar footing.
The dinner was very cheerful; for all were inclined to please and be pleased. Francesca was not only attracted towards her sweet and gentle hostess, but wished, by exertion, to banish the image of Evelyn, brought too readily before her by the frequent recurrence to mind of the morning's scene.
Lucy was delighted with the strangers. She had too little society not to enjoy the prospect of such an addition to their household circle during the dull and dreary winter; besides, there is a readiness of attachment in youth—the fresh and unused heart is so alive to the kindlier impressions. Pass but a few, a very few years, and we shall marvel how we ever could have found love enough for the many objects which were once so dear!
When Lucy left the room, both were warm in her praise. Ah! that exaggeration of liking—that readiness to like—that taking for granted all imaginable good qualities—to what a joyous time, to what a buoyant and happy state of feeling, does it belong! Their young hostess was so fair—so delicate, with her golden hair only visible beneath the snow-white cap, just where it parted on the forehead. There would have been something childlike in the pure skin and small features, but for the deep and melancholy blue eyes; and in them was a thoughtful sadness, never yet seen in the clear orbs of childhood. There was a tone, too, of pastoral poetry shed over the new scenes to which they were just introduced, that had a greater effect from the contrast to those, artificial and crowded, which they had just left. The simplicity of the pretty chamber where they sat was different from any thing they had seen before. The cheerful white wainscoting was ornamented with carving; and on the high mantel-shelf were ranged some curious shells and pieces of glittering spar, and a nest filled with various eggs. Around were many of the little graceful signs of feminine taste and presence. There were some light book-shelves, an embroidery-frame, a lute, and in the large bow-window, so placed as to catch whatever sunshine could be found in December, a number of plants—mostly common flowers, but improved into another nature by sedulous cultivation.
The aspect was southern and sheltered, the rime had long since melted from the evergreens, and a few late roses looked in at the casement. Somewhat pale were they, and drooping; but lovely, for they were the last. Beyond the garden was a field, and that skirted a vast arm of the forest—dense and impenetrable, though now the thickness of the foliage added nothing to the matting of the branches.
A drizzling rain kept them close prisoners for the three succeeding days, which, nevertheless, passed easily away. Of Lawrence Aylmer they saw but little; enough, however, to mark and pity the restraint that existed between him and his daughter; though convinced, at the same time, it was one of those evils for which, at all events, no stranger could bring a remedy. More familiarity of intercourse might have taught both parent and child the affection hidden in each other's heart; but this would have been to reverse the long-established custom. They never took their meals together; there was no hour in the day to which they looked as a rallying point, where each is prepared with the little narrative of daily occurrence, only interesting from daily listening. As to Arden, he was more gloomy and unsocial than ever. Of what could the scenes of his boyhood remind him, but of talents wasted, of time departed, and of hopes gone by for ever!
The first day they were able to walk out, the young people hastened to explore the neighbourhood.
"That is Avonleigh," said Lucy, as they paused upon an eminence, which commanded a fine sweep of country, "though you can scarcely see it for the trees; and that old hall, on whose gray walls the sunbeams are glistening, is Evelyn House,—perhaps you might like to go over it? there are some beautiful pictures."
"Oh, no!" exclaimed Francesca, interrupting her; "we should very much dislike coming in contact with strangers just now."
"None of the family are there," replied Lucy; "As Mr. Evelyn went to Ireland the very day after Sir Robert's burial."
At this moment Guido, who knew how disagreeable the subject must be to his sister, drew their attention to those golden slants of sunshine which seem to come so direct from heaven to earth,—bright and vapoury ladders,—fitting steps for our vain wishes to mount above; and just then so distinct from the dark mass of shadow flung from the deep forest in the distance. This turned the conversation, and the topic was never again renewed; for Francesca carefully avoided aught that could bring on any mention of the Evelyns; and Lucy had her own secret consciousness, which, by keeping a subject constantly in the mind, often prevents all allusion to it.
Lucy was still in the early and golden time of affection—vague, visionary, and believing. She never dreamed that in her lover was the greatest obstacle to their happiness. No remembrance of falsehood was treasured bitterly in her memory—a warning for the future which we are better without; for what avails distrust? It only deprives us of life's greatest enjoyment—being deceived. Made up of illusions, as our existence is, alas for the time when we come to know those illusions beforehand!
Lucy's cheek was pale with the sickness of hope long deferred; and her imagination, wearied with exertion, sometimes sunk down, languid in its utter solitude. Still she hoped and trusted, and, in so doing, was far happier than she deemed. Gentle fancies waited around her, the poetry of her youth was over all the associations of her attachment—the days to come rose beautiful before her, for they were of her own creation; and absence was sweetened by expectation.
In all things there is one period more lovely than aught that has gone before—than aught that can ever come again. That delicate green, touched with faint primrose, of the young leaves, when the boughs are putting forth the promise of a shadowy summer—the tender crimson of the opening bud, whose fragrant depths are unconscious of the sun,—these are the fittest emblems for that transitory epoch in the history of a girl's heart, when her love, felt for the first time, is as simple, as guileless, as unworldly as herself. It is the purest, the most ideal poetry in nature. It does not, and it cannot last. It is only too likely that the innocent and trusting heart will be ground down to the very dust. Falsehood, disappointment, and neglect, form the majority of chances; and even if fortunate—fortunate in requited faithfulness and a sheltered home—still the visionary hour of youth is gone by. There are duties instead of dreams—romance exhausts itself—and the imaginative is merged in the common-place. The pale green returns not to the leaf, the delicate red to the flower, and, still less, its early poetry to the heart.