KNIGHT-ERRANT
BY
EDNA LYALL
AUTHOR OF "DONOVAN," "WE TWO," "A HARDY NORSEMAN,"
"IN THE GOLDEN DAYS," ETC.
NEW YORK:
W. L. ALLISON COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS.
TO
EVANGELINE JAMESON
"Searching my heart for all that touches you,
I find there only love and love's good-will."
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I.--"The Happiest Man in Naples"
II.--A Goodly Heritage
III.--Francesca
IV.--A Cloudless Betrothal
V.--A Threatening Sky
VI.--The Storm Breaks
VII.--"No one but You"
VIII.--Piale Schemes
IX.--The Olive Garden
X.--The "Pilgrim"
XI.--A First Encounter
XII.--A Troubled Night
XIII.--"Pazienza"
XIV.--The New Baritone
XV.--A Dear Adventure
XVI.--On the Stage
XVII.--A Farewell
XVIII.--Francesca's Autumn
XIX.--In England
XX.--A Return
XXI.--Wintry Weather
XXII.--A Rescuer
XXIII.--"Clare"
XXIV.--An English Home
XXV.--A Last Struggle
XXVI.--Behind the Scenes
XXVII.--"High Failure"
XXVIII.--A Restoration
XXIX.--Convalescent
XXX.--Bitter-Sweet
XXXI.--A New Proposal
XXXII.--After Two Years
XXXIII.--Genoa
XXXIV.--Yachting
XXXV.--A Final Choice
XXXVI.--"All Goeth but God's Will"
XXXVII.--At Palazzo Forti
XXXVIII.--At Casa Bella
XXXIX.--Afterwards
KNIGHT-ERRANT.
CHAPTER I.
"THE HAPPIEST MAN IN NAPLES.
"They came at a delicate plain called Ease, where they went with much
content; but that plain was but narrow, so they were quickly got over
it."--_Pilgrim's Progress_.
"Presto! off with the paper! let us see how they look!" exclaimed a
fresh, mellow voice.
"Permit me, signor," interposed the Neapolitan stationer who presided
behind the counter of a shop in the Toledo, and taking the little
white packet from the hands of the speaker he slipped the blade of
his penknife through the wrapper, drew forth with a flourish one of
the cards within, and, bowing and smiling, handed it to his customer.
"There, signor, and accept with it my sincere congratulations."
The young man glanced eagerly at the card, upon which was engraved in
copperplate the name,--
"AVVOCATO CARLO POERIO DONATI."
It was to him the sign and symbol of manhood, of freedom; it meant
that he turned his back upon examinations and tutelage; it meant that
he was at length free to declare the love which for many years had
been the great guiding influence of his life.
"Ah, Signor Pietro," he replied, turning to the friendly old
shopkeeper with a smile which illumined his whole face; "I am the
happiest man in Naples to-day! Come, Enrico, you are not half enough
excited!" and turning to his friend, who stood beside him watching
the scene with good-humored indifference, he caught a similar little
packet from his hand, and, tearing it open, produced a card bearing
the name,--
"AVVOCATO ENRICO RITTER."
Enrico was of German parentage, but the Ritters had lived for
half-a-century in Naples and were naturalized; nevertheless, spite of
his Italian education, Enrico remained German to the backbone, and
presented in every way a most curious contrast to his friend and
companion.
"Why, devil take the cards! they're not so much to me as to you," he
exclaimed, with a laugh. "Signor Pietro does not expect to see me
wild with excitement over a trumpery piece of pasteboard."
"Most matter-of-fact Enrico! Where is your imagination?" cried
Carlo, laughing. "Can the magic word _avvocato_ call up to your
German brain no visions of the future?"
"Visions!" grumbled Enrico, with assumed despondency; "ay, visions of
hot courts, long cases, rusty gowns, and scant fees."
Both Carlo and the stationer laughed heartily at the serious face of
the speaker.
"Well, Signor Pietro, it was ever the same story; was it not? He is
prosaic now as when we came to you years ago for note-books and pens
on our way from the Ginnasio. But come, it is getting late; I must
be off, Enrico. Good-day to you, Signor Pietro, and many thanks for
your congratulations."
The two friends left the shop and walked on through the busy, crowded
streets to the Piazza del Plebiscito. More than one passer-by turned
to glance at Carlo's beautiful face; for, truth to tell, good looks
are the exception, not the rule, in Naples, and among the swarthy or
sallow Neapolitans his rich, ruddy-brown coloring could not fail to
win notice. The face was singularly attractive, not only from the
beauty of its well-cut features, but from the unaffected modesty of
the expression, and the sweetness of the dark, liquid eyes. He
looked what he had termed himself--the happiest man in Naples. If in
appearance he lacked anything it was height; but we cannot all be
heroes of six feet, and Carlo, though small and slight, was so well
proportioned, so lithe and active, so imbued with the grace common to
most Italians, that it was impossible to wish for any change in him.
He might that day have stood as a true impersonation of Optimism,
while Enrico Ritter, on the other hand, might well have posed as the
ideal Pessimist.
Enrico was of the Germans, German; there was no mistaking that fair,
straight hair and moustache, that light coloring and broad face,
those small, light-gray eyes, honest, hard, yet with some good-humor
in their expression which contradicted the cynical mouth. What had
first drawn two such curiously contrasted men together it was
impossible to say; scientists might have argued that it was the very
fact that they were polar opposites. But, whatever the cause of
their friendship, friends they were in the best sense of the word,
and their friendship had stood the wear and tear of ten years.
By this time they had reached the Piazza; the afternoon sun was
shining on the red walls of the Palazzo Reale, lighting up the heavy
arcades of the San Carlo, glorifying the dome and stately front of
the Church of S. Francesco di Paolo. It seemed a strange medley of
ancient and modern, haunted by memories of King Bomba's
cruelties,--haunted by visions of Garibaldi and Carlo Poerio, while
hither and thither plied the busy tramcars, and amid a gay throng of
people dressed in the latest Parisian fashion there filed slowly past
a procession of white-robed monks.
"Ten minutes to spare before my horse is ready," said Carlo, looking
at his watch; "let us have some coffee;" and so saying he led the way
into the nearest restaurant. Enrico paused to buy an evening paper,
then followed his friend.
The place was crowded, and there arose a confused babel of voices, a
mingling of French, English, and Italian. Carlo had seated himself
at one of the small marble tables, and, since Enrico seemed more
inclined to read his paper than to talk, was fain to listen to the
discussion going on between two English tourists close by.
Possibly they thought themselves practically alone in this foreign
assembly; certainly it did not occur to them that their very
Italian-looking neighbor understood and spoke their language as well
as his own, for they were talking freely on subjects which Englishmen
are not wont to speak of in public.
"But, really now," urged the younger of the two, with some warmth,
"you can't possibly maintain such a notion. Do you think we are not
improved,--vastly improved, in the last two hundred years?"
"The increase of civilization gives us a better appearance, I grant,"
said the elder, "but I do not believe the sum total of evil is
lessened."
Carlo listened attentively, for this dreary doctrine was opposed to
his whole nature.
"Why, turn to history," exclaimed the younger man, "see how
indifferent people were to suffering, and then look at our nineteenth
century, with its innumerable charities, its missions, its hospitals,
its guilds."
"True, quite true," said the elder man, quietly; "a wave of
philanthropy is passing over us; there is much talk--even, I admit,
much good work, but men are not more willing to live the life of the
Crucified."
The younger man was silent. Hitherto he had been very ready with his
replies, now he fell into deep thought. Carlo Donati, too, was
struck by those last words. They broke in very painfully upon his
rapturous happiness, his joyful anticipations. He had been spared
most of the usual doubts and fears of a lover; he was practically
sure of Francesca Britton's love, and already he had received her
father's permission to propose to her, Captain Britton having only
stipulated that he should wait till his education was finished.
Now his time of probation was over; within a few days, nay, perhaps
within a few hours, Francesca might be his own. Could he bear on
that day, of all others, to dream of the possibility of a cloud
arising? His sky was so clear, his life had been so happy and
successful, the very thought of gathering darkness on the horizon was
torture to him; "Let my happiness last! oh, let it last!" was his
inward cry, and, as if in answer, there floated hack to him the
stranger's words, and he knew that they were true: "Men are not more
willing to live the life of the Crucified."
Involuntarily he turned to glance at the man who had disturbed his
peace, and saw a strong, intellectual face, which, notwithstanding
traces of deep thought and hard conflict, bore a calm and tranquil
expression. But the conversation had been checked by those grave
words, the stranger called the waiter, paid for his coffee, tucked
his "Baedeker" under his arm, and rose to go.
Carlo followed him with his eyes as he left the restaurant; he felt
strongly that curious conviction which comes to some people when a
stranger has unconsciously influenced them, that in this world, or
some other, they will infallibly meet again.
So engrossed had he been with the two Englishmen and their talk that
he had not heeded his friend. He had not seen the start of surprise
and dismay with which Enrico had noted a paragraph in the _Piccolo_.
What was there in those brief lines which filled him with
apprehension? Why did he glance with such anxiety and regret at
Carlo, and then once again read that unwelcome paragraph?
"We understand that the season will be commenced at Whitsuntide at
the Teatro Mercadante, with the operatic company of Signor Merlino.
Madame Merlino, whose singing has created a very favorable impression
in America, will be the prima donna."
All the indifference had vanished now from Enrico's face. A dreadful
annoyance awaited his friend, and that it should reach him to-day of
all days seemed to him intolerable. He would at any rate do his best
to give him a respite, Carlo should at least propose to Miss Britton,
and enjoy if it were even but a few hours of unalloyed happiness.
Seizing his opportunity, when his companion turned to watch the
Englishmen as they left the restaurant, Enrico tore off the corner
containing the unwelcome news, and was about to thrust it into his
pocket when Carlo checked him with a question,--
"What is it! About our examinations?"
"No," said Enrico, composedly; "I saw nothing about them. I only
wanted a scrap of paper to wrap up these confounded cards; thanks to
your eagerness to see them, they're all loose in my pocket."
So saying, he deliberately wrapped the cards in the paper containing
the bad news, and pushed the rest of the _Piccolo_ towards his
friend. "Take it home with you if you like, I have done with it."
"And I," said Carlo, laughing, "hope to have little time for it." He
took it nevertheless, stowed it away in his pocket and got up to go.
"I'll walk with you as far as the stable," said Enrico. "Now follow
my advice and ride home calmly. If you go on in this state of fever
you will not be fit for your interview with that stately old
Englishman, upon whom you have to make a good impression as future
son-in-law."
"Stuff and nonsense!" said Carlo, laughing gayly. "Make an
impression, indeed! Do you forget that we have been next-door
neighbors this age, and that he knows me as well as you do?"
"An impossibility," said Enrico, smiling, "for with me I have taught
you, as we say in Germany, to be as you are to yourself. Now with
that old English captain you walk as though treading on eggs, you are
courteous and deferential; you never forget that you hope to be his
son-in-law, and you'll never quarrel with him,--at any rate not until
the hope has become a tame reality."
The dry, sardonic tone in which this had been spoken, turned Carlo's
indignant protest to laughter.
"The only topic on which we are likely to quarrel is politics; and as
he knows nothing of Italian affairs, one needs now and then adroitly
to turn the conversation. But don't make me speak against Captain
Britton, to-day, _amico mio_."
"Ah, poor fellow!" said Enrico, pityingly; "I knew he would prove the
crumpled rose-leaf to destroy your perfect bliss. There is always a
father-in-law, or a mother-in-law, or a cantankerous relative, who
kicks up a row about the settlements. Don't you expect the course of
your true love to run smooth--that's against nature."
As he spoke he glanced rather anxiously at a large hoarding which
they were approaching, rapidly running his eye over the theatrical
posters, but, much to his relief, the Mercadante bills were not yet
out.
"You are as depressing as a funeral!" said Carlo, much tickled by the
notion that the substantial Englishman was a crumpled rose-leaf;
"and, indeed, if I have no worse crook in my lot than Captain
Britton, I shall farewell. No one could have been more courteous and
helpful to my mother all these years, no one could have been more
genial and hospitable to me. Of course we all have our faults."
"Too true!" said Enrico, mockingly. "The Englishman loves a lord,
and has an eye to the main chance, and knows that you are heir to a
certain rich uncle, and that unless the money is secured and tied up
in the orthodox English fashion, it will be flung away upon 'Young
Italy,' or some hare-brained scheme for educating organ-grinders."
"If we were not in the public street I would punish you well!" cried
Carlo. "There never was such a fellow for imputing low motives to
all the world."
"Well, well, rail at me as you like," said Enrico, indifferently;
"but as yet I have never found myself at fault in assuming that
egoism rules the universe. Ah, your horse is waiting for you, I see,
and the ostler tries to look hot and tired to cajole a large coin
from you. _A rivederci!_ But I advise you to avoid Naples for the
next few days; don't come to me for sympathy in your rapture, for
I've not the smallest doubt that love is egoism, and marriage is
egoism, and----"
"You are incorrigible!" cried Carlo, as he mounted the beautiful Arab
which was waiting for him. "I'll not wait to hear you out." And,
with a wave of the hand, he rode off, looking back laughingly at the
interrupted egoist, who, with a shrug of the shoulders, turned away.
And yet it was something quite other than egoism which brought a
grave look to Enrico's face as he walked home through the sunny
streets. Suddenly perceiving an upright, alert-looking old man on
the opposite side of the way, he crossed the road and hastened after
him.
"Pardon me, Signor Piale!" he exclaimed, "but may I ask you a
question? You are probably acquainted with all that is going on in
the musical world. Is this true that I see to-day in the _Piccolo_?
Is Merlino's Company really coming to the Mercadante?"
"_Diavolo!_ it is true enough, more's the pity," replied the old man;
"but I have not said a word of it to my pupil. Carlo is
over-sensitive, he felt that affair too much; only of late has he
seemed to have forgotten it somewhat. He is one whose life should
have been exempt from shadows."
"I should have thought common decency would have kept Merlino away
from Naples," said Enrico, hotly.
"Merlino does not care a fig for common decency," said the old
musician. "He is no credit to our profession. Probably he knows
well enough that the Merlino-Donati scandal is just fresh enough in
men's minds to make his operas draw well."
"Let us, at least, do our best to keep back the ill news as long as
possible," said Enrico; "it will be a frightful annoyance to Carlo
just now, and I do believe it will be the death of his mother."
"'Tis always the innocent who suffer for the guilty," said the old
singing-master, giving a fierce rub to his parchment-like cheek. "If
ever there was one who deserved to be free from care, why it is
Carlo; there are but few nowadays who could show so blameless a life."
"You speak very truly," said Enrico. "Let us hope his blameless life
will weigh with worthy Captain Britton, and prove heavier than the
family skeleton."