A CLOUDLESS BETROTHAL.
"Let my voice be heard that asketh
Not for fame and not for glory;
Give for all our life's dear story,
Give us Love and give us Peace."
JEAN INGELOW.
Villa Bruno was a smaller house than Casa Bella. It was lacking,
too, in the air of cozy English comfort which the Brittons had
managed to impart to their rooms, and the furniture was scanty,
though handsome of its kind. Carlo walked through the veranda and
entered by the open window of the _salotto_, treading lightly, as he
saw that his mother lay asleep on her couch. He stole up to her, and
stood in silence, watching the beautiful but worn face of the
invalid. He thought how great a happiness was in store for her, and
smiled. He imagined Francesca bringing that English air of home into
this room, and thought how sweet it would be when he rode home each
evening to picture those two together waiting for him. Looking on
into the sunny future, he forgot the present; his mother had opened
her eyes, and had watched him for some moments before he saw that she
was awake.
At last he looked down at her, and met her eyes shining into his with
perfect comprehension.
"Carlino, you bring me good news!" she exclaimed, drawing his face
down to hers, and kissing the smooth, ruddy-brown cheek.
"The best news, mother--the best!" he replied, returning her embrace.
"Oh, mother! I'm the happiest man in Italy."
"Francesca----" began the Signora.
"Francesca is mine--is mine!" he broke in. "She is coming--you will
see her soon, _madre mia_."
"And her father?"
"Was kindness itself. He will bring her in this evening to see you.
No one could have been more friendly. I saw him first, and
then--then he told me I might speak to her--that I should find her in
the garden. Afterwards, her first thought was for you. Oh, mother,
she will be to you the daughter you have so much needed."
The tears started to the mother's eyes.
"_Insomma!_ Now I have grieved you, and made you think of poor Nita;
happiness made me forget all else. Forgive me, little mother; I did
not mean to make you think of the past."
"Ah!" sobbed the Signora Donati. "How can I help thinking of it,
Carlino, when the contrast is so sharp--you coming to me thus with
your joy as a son should, and Nita bringing me only shame and grief
and disgrace--not even sending me one line of love or regret all
these years?"
"She will come back, little mother,--she will come back," he said
soothingly. "Some day she will feel her need of you. Don't cry
to-night, of all nights in the year. I shall take it as a bad omen."
Years had raised no barrier between these two; Carlo was as frank and
open with his mother as when he had been a child; she had shared all
his hopes and fears during his long time of probation, and now she
shared his joy, and was soon coaxed back to cheerfulness, as he told
her more of what had passed at the Casa Bella. She was quite herself
again as she went in to dinner upon his arm, her grief was forgotten,
she laughed merrily at his account of Enrico's philosophical
counsels, and felt a glow of pride and happiness as she looked across
the table at the son who had been all in all to her for so many
years. Carlo was too happy to be hungry, but he pledged his mother
over a bottle of Orvieto, and they drank Francesca's health, and
clinked glasses, and made merry.
The _tête-à-tête_ dinner at the Casa Bella was quieter, but happy,
too, in its way. The old Captain beamed silently from behind the
sirloin. Francesca looked radiant. They talked fitfully of the
weather, of the orange crop, of the silkworms, of the last letter
from England--of everything, in fact, except the one subject that was
nearest their hearts; but, then, old Dino was waiting, and it behoved
them to keep up appearances. Their tongues were unloosed by the
appearance of Sibyl and the dessert, and the disappearance of the
servant.
"Sibyl," said the Captain, taking the little girl on his knee, "what
would you think if we were to have a wedding here?"
"A wedding, father?" Sibyl clapped her hands with delight. "Oh, may
I be the bride, father? May I be the bride?"
"No," said the father, laughing, "that character is bespoken. You
will have to be my little housekeeper. Francesca is to be the bride.
There, you must drink her health: Long life and happiness to the
future Signora Donati."
Sibyl obediently repeated the words, but made a wry face over the
claret.
"What horrid stuff, Daddy; do give me a bit of your orange, quick."
Then, with her mouth very full, "But Fran can't be Signora Donati."
"Oh, yes, she can when she marries Carlo," said the Captain.
"Marries Carlo?" echoed Sibyl, in astonishment. "Dear me, will Carlo
be married? What a bother! I suppose he'll never play games and be
jolly any more?"
"Why not?" said Francesca, laughing.
"Oh, he won't," said Sibyl, looking wise and elderly, "I know he
won't; I asked nurse the other day what it meant to be married, and
she said it was when people grew steady and settled down."
The two elders laughed heartily.
"But he will be your brother, you know, Sibyl, and brothers always
play," said Francesca.
"Carlo, my brother?"
"Your brother-in-law."
"Oh, yes, I know about that--that's what he had put on his cards,"
said Sibyl, triumphantly; "so he must have known he was going to be
my brother before he came here; Dino said that long word was in-law."
Then before Captain Britton had done laughing, Sibyl convulsed her
companions by solemnly raising the glass to her lips again, and
repeating in the gravest way imaginable,--
"Long life and many games to my future brother--in-law."
Francesca was eager to go in quickly to see Signora Donati, but she
had to wait till Sibyl was tucked up in bed and her father had
finished his after-dinner nap. Then she threw a white, woolly shawl
about her head and shoulders, slipped her arm into the Captain's, and
crossed over to the Villa Bruno. The Signora was alone; she came
forward to meet them with the prettiest little greeting imaginable.
Francesca loved her dearly, and returned her embraces with all
possible warmth; but above the soft and tender assurances of the
Signora's delight in the news which Carlo had brought her, she was
conscious of her lover's voice singing out in the garden. The joyous
ring about the old Neapolitan song, the unmistakable rapture of the
singer, filled her heart with happiness. The sweet, familiar air
always brought back to her memory that first perfect evening at the
Villa Bruno.
"He has done nothing but sing since he came back from you," said the
Signora, as the singer drew nearer, every word distinctly heard in
that clear atmosphere:
"_O dolce Napoli,
O suol beato
Dove sorridere
Voile il creato,
Tu sei l' impero
Dell' armonia,
Santa Lucia! Santa Lucia!_"
The last note still echoed in the air as Carlo stepped into the
dimly-lighted room through the open window, bearing in his hand a
bunch of red roses and myrtle-blossom. It was the picture he had so
often imagined which met his gaze, for Francesca stood beside his
mother, the lamplight shedding a soft glow over her sweet, fair face.
She was dressed in some kind of soft, white dress which made him
think of a baby's robe, her wavy brown hair was a little ruffled by
the white shawl which she had thrown aside, in her sweet, pure
happiness she was exquisite.
"I did not know you had come," he exclaimed, hastening towards her;
"how was it I never heard you?"
"We came without ceremony, there was no ringing of bells," said
Francesca.
"And Carlo was singing at the top of his voice," said the mother,
laughing. "I foresee, Francesca, that he will now be like my canary,
who is so happy that he sings all day long, and I have sometimes to
extinguish him."
"We have been wondering what Signor Piale will say," replied
Francesca, smiling; "you know he looks upon love as the supreme
obstacle in the way of art."
"Then he should not compose music to such words as these," said
Carlo, taking up a song from the open piano.
"Is that his last? I have not heard it," said Francesca. "Ah, he
has dedicated it to me as he promised."
"Go and sing it, Carlo; it suits you well," said his mother.
"I am not well acquainted with your Tennyson," she continued, turning
to Captain Britton, "but it seems to me that these words are
melodious and well adapted for music."
The Captain was not poetical, but he at once launched into an account
of how he had once met the Laureate at Lord Blamton's, while Carlo
and Francesca wandered off to the piano, Francesca glancing through
the accompaniment to see if she could manage it.
Even in that land of beautiful voices, Carlo Donati's voice was most
remarkable. But Piale was the only person who quite knew what it was
worth, and he had issued strict orders that his pupil was to sing
nowhere save at home and at his lessons. He knew well enough that if
Carlo once sang at a Neapolitan party he would be allowed no peace,
but would become the spoilt and overworked amateur, and fail
altogether to do justice to the severe but excellent training which
he had now almost completed. The voice was a baritone of unusual
power and sweetness; Piale's music suited the pathetic words
admirably:
"Love is come with a song and a smile,
Welcome love with a smile and a song;
Love can stay but a little while.
Why cannot he stay? They call him away;
Ye do him wrong, ye do him wrong;
Love will stay for a whole life long."
The song ended, Francesca sat dreamily playing over the refrain which
her lover had declaimed so passionately; he stood close to her,
deftly arranging the flowers he had brought from the garden in her
hair and dress. Then, after the thanks and praises of the listeners
had been spoken, Captain Britton once more enlarged upon his meeting
with the Laureate, and Carlo, foreseeing that the topic would last
some time, looked longingly out into the dusky garden, then down at
Francesca.
"The paths are quite dry, it is starlight," he said; "will you not
come out?"
She smiled and nodded, let him wrap the white shawl about her, and
crossed the room to the window. Carlo lingered a moment to slip a
cluster of red roses into his mother's hand.
"We go into the garden for a few minutes, _madre mia_," he explained.
She smiled approvingly, perceiving that he meant to claim all the
liberty which an English betrothal permits, and then turned again to
the Captain with a question, in her pretty broken English, which she
was well aware would keep him happy for some time to come.
"And this Lord Blamton, at whose house it occurred, is he your
friend?"
The lovers, supremely indifferent to both Lords and Laureates,
strolled out into the starlit garden. All was still and peaceful;
through the olives they could catch glimpses of the yellow lights in
Pozzuoli, and every now and then a lurid crimson flame and a column
of vapor lit up by the fierce glare, revealed in the distance the
conical form of Vesuvius and its peaceful neighbor, Somma. There was
a delicious fragrance in the air; thyme, and myrtle, and mignonette
filled the dewy garden with their sweetness; everywhere the peace of
a great content seemed to brood. A stranger might have fancied
something disturbing and incongruous in the burning mountain; but to
Carlo Vesuvius was an old friend, not a terror. In his childhood he
had fancied it a sort of symbol of the Deity, vaguely connecting it
with that other pillar of cloud by day and pillar of fire by night of
which old Father Cristoforo had told him. Not a care, not the least
shadow of anxiety, broke the bliss--the unclouded happiness of that
evening.
Remembering Enrico's advice to keep his happiness to himself, Carlo
took a holiday, and stayed at home till the end of the week, when,
partly prompted by a conscientious wish to break the news to Piale,
and to keep his usual appointment with the old Maestro on Saturday
morning, partly because he wished to search for a betrothal ring to
his mind, he ordered his horse and rode into Naples.
Piale lived over a shop in the Strada Mont' Oliveto. His apartments
were furnished in a Spartan manner without the least attempt at
comfort or picturesqueness. A marble floor, unrelieved by carpet or
mat, walls painted in pale green, but bare of a single picture, a
grand piano in the middle of the room, a table strewn with
music-paper, books, and pens, and a few straight-backed chairs
stiffly set round it, completed the furniture of this musical
anchorite. When Carlo entered the room that morning he found the old
man poring over the score of some opera, his shaggy gray hair tossed
back from his broad forehead, and the shabbiness of his many-colored
dressing-gown fully revealed by the sunshine which streamed in
through the half-open _jalousies_. He looked up as Carlo entered,
giving him a sharp, searching glance, as though to discover how the
world went with him that morning. Convinced by the radiant happiness
of his pupil's face that at present the sky was cloudless, he grunted
out a rather surly "_Buon giorno_," and closed his book with an air
of reluctance.
"I want your congratulations, Maestro," said Carlo, coming quickly
forward. "Nothing but the most filial obedience and respect to
yourself brought me away from my paradise this morning. You must
mingle with praise your good wishes for our health and happiness."
"Hein!" exclaimed the old man, pretending not to catch his meaning.
"You are an _avvocato_, I understand; young Ritter told me as much as
that. _Corpo di Bacco!_ don't come to me for congratulations.
You've mistaken your profession. You are wasting--yes, wasting, the
noblest gift of God."
"But, Maestro, reflect; how is it possible for me to use my voice as
you would have me? Would you wish me to leave my mother? And then,
moreover, there are other considerations--I am about to be married."
"Married!" The Maestro turned away with a groan. "Ah, then I wash
my hands of you! You are lost to art--lost to the noblest of the
professions! Farewell to my hopes! All my efforts with you are
thrown away! You might have been the pride of my old age and the
delight of Europe. Instead you choose the career of a lawyer and the
caresses of a woman."
"You speak scornfully, Maestro," replied the culprit, laughing. "I
shall add two adjectives to your bald remark--'the useful career' and
'a perfect woman.' Why, signor, you who know Miss Britton should be
ready to make excuse for me. What else could you expect? Is the
Muse of Harmony to take precedence of such an one?"
"Hear him!" cried Piale, in despair; "great Heaven! and it is this
ungrateful one that thou hast endowed with the voice of a seraph and
the dramatic power of a Salvini!"
"My apologies to Salvini," said Carlo, laughing merrily, "but that,
beloved Maestro, is bathos--a fine example."
His laughter was so infectious that Piale was obliged to join in it,
then, with a shrug of the shoulders, he shuffled across to the piano.
"You are incorrigible! I wash my hands of you! But since you are in
so jocular a mood at the prospect of settling down to so monotonous a
life----"
"Maestro!" broke in Carlo, with indignation.
"Do I speak unadvisedly?" said Piale, with sarcasm; "not at all. Oh,
I know well enough what it will be. You will sit under your vine and
under your fig-tree, and you will count the olive branches round your
table----"
"Signor Piale!"
"And you will say as you look, 'I must work hard,' and you will
become the speaking-machine of the Neapolitan criminals, and you will
use that divine gift for the proclamation of lies, and you will
debase your fine dramatic genius and make it the tool of the
worthless and the guilty. Since all this makes you in so gay a
humor, come sing me your song from _Il Barbiere_."
Pursing up his lips the old professor began to play the accompaniment
of _Largo al Factotum_; and Carlo, entering into the spirit of the
thing, and with his sense of humor touched by the analogy between the
barber's glorification of his profession and the words that had just
passed, sang magnificently.
At the end there was unbroken silence. The old professor sat lost in
thought, Carlo watched him with a smile on his lips. Then sauntering
across the room, sang, _sotto voce_, the recitative which followed,
throwing malicious meaning into the--
"_Ah! Che bella vita! Oh! Che mestiere!_"
"It could not have been better sung!" cried Piale, with a gesture of
despair. "Carlo, perhaps I have dealt unfairly by you. I have never
praised you, never told you what I thought of your powers; I feared
to ruin that modesty which has endeared you to me! But now it is
time that you seriously consider the matter. There, there, don't
interrupt me! Marry if you will, and let your wife tend the Signora
Donati in your absence. But do not allow so glorious a gift to rust
unused."
"But, dear Maestro," said Carlo, gravely, "you do not realize that
others do not think of the profession as you do. Captain Britton
regards the theatre as the school for hell, the stage is an
abomination to him. He fancies that all actors are like that villain
Merlino. And, indeed, it is wonderful that he made no objection to
having as son-in-law one who is so deeply compromised as I am. I
suppose he hardly realized the fact, he has almost forgotten poor
Nita's existence."
At the recollection of that sorrowful past he sighed. Piale was
quick to note how the remembrance interfered with his present
happiness.
"Well, only a brute would dream of holding you responsible for the
sins of others," he said, warmly.
"Tell me," said Carlo, "have you seen any mention of my sister lately
in any of the musical papers?"
"I heard that Merlino's company had been in America for the last two
years, and that Madame Merlino had made a good impression there.....
Well, I suppose I must say no more, lad, but it is hard on a master
to have his best pupil lost to the world."
He changed the subject rather hastily. He could not bear to bring
back that cloud to Carlo's brow by telling him the last news of his
sister.
His lesson over, Carlo began to ransack the jewelers' shops, and
having at last found a broad gold gypsy ring with a single diamond
which satisfied him, he bent his steps towards his uncle's house,
conscious that Guido Donati--a rather autocratic man--would require
early notice of his nephew's engagement.
The interview passed off well. Uncle Guido thoroughly approved of
the marriage, and treated his nephew in the most generous and
paternal way, and Carlo came forth in excellent spirits. All seemed
to promise well for his future life. Happy in his love, with the
prospect of a fair inheritance, a hope which practically amounted to
certainty of success in his profession, and with the best of mothers
and the truest of friends, it seemed as if life could offer him
nothing more. His face was radiant as he greeted Enrico Ritter.
"Well met!" he exclaimed, waylaying Enrico, who, in a fit of
abstraction, would have passed him by.
"Oh, it is you!" exclaimed Enrico, looking him critically in the
face. "Well, what news?"
"You will be requested to dance at my wedding before long," said
Carlo, gayly.
"So!" Enrico whistled.
"I took your advice, you see, _amico mio_, and stayed at home, that
you might not be afflicted with the trouble of congratulating me."
"Yes, yes," said Enrico, with a sarcastic smile. "That is your kind
way of putting it--egoist that you are! You stayed to enjoy
yourself, and now you want to make me believe that you were
considering my comfort and not your own. An egoist! A double-dyed
egoist!"
But his laughter was suddenly checked. They were passing a hoarding
in the Strada S. Trinita, Carlo had glanced at one of the placards,
and now he clutched his friend's arm.
"Enrico!" he gasped; "my sister's name--I thought I saw it. Look for
me; I can't."
Huge black letters on a pink ground danced in wild confusion before
his eyes; but surely it was that hateful name of Merlino which had
suddenly darkened his sky, which had struck a blow at his heart and
left him stunned and bewildered!
"Dear old fellow, you must come on," said Enrico. "I didn't know
those cursed placards would be out yet; but it is true, alas! only
too true."
Carlo walked on mechanically, feeling as though he were in a
nightmare. His thoughts flew wildly from Francesca to Anita, from
his mother to Captain Britton, from his uncle to Merlino. He had no
definite ideas, only a giddy consciousness that the world, so bright
but a minute before, was now overshadowed, and that a nameless fear
filled his heart.
"Where?" he faltered, after a brief silence.
"The Mercadante," said Enrico, following his train of thought and
understanding the laconic question as a friend should.
"Let us come there," said Carlo.
Enrico silently complied. After a time his friend looked up with
another question,--
"You knew of this before, then?"
Enrico signed an assent.
"The day I last saw you," he added, after a pause.
"What? That thing you tore out of the _Piccolo_? Why did you try to
keep it from me?"
"I wanted you to have a cloudless betrothal," said Enrico, rather
reluctantly.
"Ah, _amico mio!_" exclaimed the other, gratefully. "You shield me
thus, and then call yourself egoist!"
"Of course," said Enrico, who hated to be caught in a kindly action.
"It was pure egoism. Naturally, I wish you to be happy, for it
disturbs me and makes me uncomfortable to see you as you are now.
Purely for my own sake I deferred the evil day."
Carlo could not help smiling, even then, at the energy with which his
friend tried to establish his own selfishness for the sake of
triumphing in his pet theory.
"I must find out whether they are yet in Naples," he said, growing
grave once more, and trying hard to collect his thoughts. "Oh,
Enrico, how shall I break the news to my mother? She is unfit to
bear the least shock."
"I would keep it from her, then--at any rate, till you know what line
your sister intends to take," said Enrico. "But, see, we are close
to the Mercadante. Shall I make inquiries for you?"
"I wish you would," said Carlo, with a look of relief. "Ask when the
Company arrives in Naples, and where they are to be found."
Enrico walked forward, Carlo following more slowly; on past two
open-air _caffès_ with groups of idlers beneath a shady trellis-work
of vine and euonymus; on past a stall gayly wreathed with lemons and
greenery, where thirsty Neapolitans were drinking mineral water; on
till the arsenal was in sight, and the red tower of the lighthouse,
while in the foreground was the Teatro Mercadante. Little had he
thought that the sight of its pink walls with their white facings
would ever have caused him such strange emotion. Huge placards were
posted here in all directions. He read them over and over in a sort
of dream, taking in little but that one name in larger type, "MME.
MERLINO." At length, Enrico came forth, having made his inquiries.
"They do not seem to know the exact date of their arrival," he said,
in answer to Carlo's mute question. "The man was just going off to
his _siesta_, and was not best pleased at being hindered. However,
he wrote down the address for me. You will find them there, whenever
they do arrive. It may be to-morrow or any day next week. They are
coming from America, but by what route the fellow didn't know.
However, you see by the placards there are no performances for
another ten days."
Carlo took the paper, and read the address.
"I shall be here again to-morrow," he said. "I will call and see if
they have arrived, and till then I shall say nothing to my mother."
"That would be wise," said Enrico. "Then she will be spared the
worry and uncertainty. You look tired, _amico mio_. Come home with
me, and have your _siesta_ in peace."
"No," said Carlo; "I want to go home. I want to tell Francesca."
"You can't ride back in this heat; you'll get a sunstroke."
But he only shook his head, and, with an unmistakable air of wishing
to be alone, said good-bye to his friend, and went to order his horse.
Enrico turned to look after him. Profound dejection was expressed in
his walk. The serpent had all too soon invaded his paradise.