THE STORM BREAKS.
"God be praised, that to believing souls
Gives light in darkness, comfort in despair."
_King Henry VI._, Part II.
How to break the news to his mother? this was Carlo's sole thought as
he walked home on that Sunday afternoon. For an Italian he was an
unusually good walker, having fallen a good deal into English habits
through his close friendship with the Brittons; and perhaps it was to
the free country life which he had always lived, and to his daily
rides to and from Naples, that he owed his brilliant coloring and his
healthy mind and body.
It tortured him to think that the story which had been a shock to him
would be tenfold worse to his mother. It had been, as Sardoni
observed, his first near connection with evil, but to his mother it
would be the first introduction to evil at all. He had not lived the
life of a Neapolitan student without coming across many Comerios; but
his mother, in her peaceful country life, her tranquil invalid
existence, knew nothing of wickedness. His mind was so taken up with
the difficulty of telling her that he had no leisure to think of the
yet greater difficulty, how to help Anita.
He could not bear to be the one to bring her these bad tidings; he
half thought of asking Father Cristoforo to go to her; then, ashamed
of shrinking from a painful task, he forced himself to pass the old
man's house and climbed the hill, turning over in his mind a dozen
different ways of approaching the subject, and feeling satisfied with
none of them.
There was something very beautiful in the devotion of this mother and
son; perhaps only Francesca and Clare knew how entirely Carlo had
given his life to the work his father had left him, or how
wonderfully it had helped to mould his character. To a woman it is
second nature to devote herself to an invalid, nor does it involve
any very serious break in her life; but to a man, obliged to go on
with his daily work at the same time, the strain of attendance in a
sick-room is infinitely greater. If he can live this life for years,
it gives him an established habit of always ruling his life by the
needs of another, and not by his own desires.
There were two gates to the grounds of Villa Bruno. The one nearest
to Naples was that which led into the stable-yard, and Carlo, from
force of custom, went in this way, although he was on foot. He was
surprised to see a hired carriage in the yard; he wondered if
possibly Frau Ritter had driven out to call on his mother, and paused
on his way to the house to ask a servant who was the visitor.
"Oh, signor," said the girl, flushing up, "they say it is Madame
Merlino!"
With an exclamation which was almost a cry, he rushed on towards the
house. His mother had had no preparation whatever--the shock might
be fatal to her. And yet, surely it looked well that Nita should at
once hurry home in this way? Surely that in itself gave the lie to
Sardoni's assertion? And then it flashed across him that Nita would
regard him in the light of the elder brother in the story of the
prodigal son, and he prayed that he might be his direct opposite.
Flinging open the front door he hurried on, pausing for an instant
outside the _salotto_. There was a sound of voices; he hastily
entered, glanced quickly towards his mother's couch, then towards his
sister, who had risen at sight of him with a look so frightened and
timid that he longed to reassure her, as one longs to still the fears
of a terrified child.
"Why, Nita!" he exclaimed, kissing her repeatedly, "I have been
trying to find you in Naples, but you were before me after all."
Something in the tone of his "_Ben venuto_," and in the many
untranslatable Italian phrases with which he greeted her, brought the
tears to Anita's eyes.
She watched intently while Carlo bent down to kiss his mother.
"You are cold, _madre mia_!" he exclaimed. "You are faint and
over-tired."
"Ah, it is my fault!" cried Nita, vehemently. "It is I who have
tired her and broken her heart!"
He saw that there would be no quieting her just then, and took the
law in his own hands.
"You must rest a little," he said; "you too are tired; and then,
after dinner, mother will be fit to talk again. See, I will show you
a room--the place is a little altered."
With some difficulty he enticed her away, but no sooner were they
alone than her tears again broke forth.
"Oh, Carlo! I am afraid I have been too much for her," she
exclaimed, "and yet--and yet--I wanted so to come."
"Yes, yes, I am so glad you came; only we must be careful!" said poor
Carlo, distracted at the thought that she was keeping him from his
mother, and much alarmed as he recollected how white and weary the
invalid had looked. "There, you will lie down and rest till dinner
time, will you not?"
"But I ought to go back," sobbed Nita.
"Not yet," he said; "you must dine first; and now promise me to rest.
There, I will not stay longer; I am a little anxious--she is not
strong, you know."
He tore himself away, and returned as fast as possible to the
_salotto_. His mother's face was hidden; he could hear her low,
gasping sobs.
"_Madre mia!_" he cried, and there was anguish in his voice. "Oh, do
not give way! She has come back to us, _carina_--all will be well,
if only you will take care of yourself."
"I must tell you----" she sobbed.
"Not now," he said, "not now, mother. Indeed you must be quiet
or----"
"I must speak," she said, "it is killing me! I must speak now, that
you may promise me to save her."
"From her husband?" he asked, anxious to find how much she knew.
"No, no--from one she loves. Don't look like that, Carlo--her
husband was so stern and cruel, and she was afraid of him, and--and
this man was kind."
"Kind!" ejaculated Carlo, with scorn indescribable.
"He always tried to shield her from her husband, and then, when they
were leaving America, she was in debt and he lent her money, and----"
"Enough, darling; enough," he said with tenderness which contrasted
strangely with his last ejaculation. "She came and told you all, and
now we can help her. If you love me, try to rest."
But it was too late. The shock and the agitation had brought on one
of the Signora's worst attacks. Carlo hastily summoned a servant,
and the whole household came rushing together in a miserable
confusion of helplessness. But the maids only glanced at their
mistress's face and went away; they would have left their own
relations rather than have stayed in a room where the Death Angel
already hovered.
It was then, in his terrible lonely watch, that Carlo thanked Heaven
that Francesca was English. The doctor had already been sent for,
but he left his mother for a moment and hurried towards the group of
weeping women gathered round Anita.
"We have sent for Father Cristoforo, signor," said one, hoping for a
word of commendation for her forethought.
But Carlo took no notice, nor did his stern face soften.
"One of you go instantly," he said, "and fetch Miss Britton."
Francesca knew little of sickness, nor had she ever seen death, but
she had none of the Italian shrinking from a dying bed, in fact,
every thought of herself was swallowed up in the one longing to be
able to help Carlo. Cutting short the servant's tearful description
of the Signora's state, she rushed out, not even pausing for a hat,
and never stopped running till she reached the Villa Bruno. Then she
pushed past the little group who would have detained her, knocked at
the door of the _salotto_, and softly entered the room where, only a
day or two before, they had spent such a happy evening.
For a moment she stood amazed, able to think of nothing but the havoc
wrought in so short a time. Her lover knelt beside the couch, he
looked ten years older than when they had parted that morning. The
Signora, whose head rested on his arm, was haggard, ghastly, utterly
changed, while the indescribable look of approaching death upon her
face seemed reflected in the young face which bent over her.
"Darling, is there anything I can do?" said Francesca, when she had
wiped the damp brow and reverently kissed the dying woman.
"Nothing," he replied, "except to stay here. You do not mind?" He
looked up at her with questioning eyes, which yet were sure of their
answer.
"Oh, no!" she said. "I am so thankful you sent for me."
A long sigh escaped him; he tried to stifle it, lest it should
disturb his mother, who lay with closed eyes. And after that the
room was perfectly quiet, so quiet that Francesca could hear the
ticking of her watch; while the canary in the window pecking the bars
of his cage with his little pink beak, seemed to make a noise so loud
that she wondered whether it would disturb the Signora.
At last there was a change in the wan face; the eyes opened, and the
Signora looked up at Francesca with a smile.
Perhaps the beautiful face of the girl made her think of her own
daughter, for the smile changed to a look of anguish as she turned
her eyes to her son.
"Don't forsake Nita, promise me--save her--try to save her!"
The words were gasped out with an agony of tone indescribable. But
yet it was not till Carlo's answer was given that Francesca's eyes
brimmed over with tears.
"I promise, _madre mia_--I promise."
His face was like the face of a saviour, strong, pure, and sweet; his
voice was firm and clear. No one could have helped trusting him.
A look of rest--even of hopefulness--stole over his mother's face.
She lay still for a few minutes, then turned again to Francesca with
a most beautiful smile.
"He has never given me one moment's sorrow all his life," she said.
The words, which would be sweet to remember in after years, which
might bring in time to the lips of the son a reflection of the
mother's smile as she uttered them, were just then more than he could
endure. His fortitude gave way; he had little to reproach himself
with, yet it grieved him now to remember that at times it had been a
hard struggle to leave Naples and return to the quiet of Villa Bruno,
and that sometimes he had, perhaps, lingered a little longer than he
should have done at Casa Bella. Now his days of service were
over--she would no longer need his help.
With a cry which tore Francesca's heart, he bent down, clasping the
dying form yet closer as he sobbed out a passionate appeal,
"Mother, mother, do not leave me!"
But the Signora was past hearing, past speaking--only she felt his
close embrace, and, feebly raising her left hand, passed it behind
his head with that gentle pressure--half caress, half support--which
every woman knows how to bestow on a baby. And thus they stayed till
the door opened, and the old priest and a little acolyte entered,
barely in time to administer the last sacraments. Then Carlo
regained his composure, stung into calmness by a sort of bitter
resentment that an outsider must usurp those last sacred moments, and
that he, heretic and alien, had no part or lot in the ceremony, and
would be expected to leave the room. But Father Cristoforo, who was
a son first and a Churchman afterwards, read his thoughts at once.
"Stay, my son," he said, with so kind and fatherly a look, that
Carlo's bitter thoughts were banished, and he knelt on, still
supporting his mother.
Francesca knelt, too, on the other side of the couch, but she could
neither pray nor feel; she watched the scene like one in a dream.
The sunshine streamed in through the window, lighting up the white
unconscious face of the Signora and the grief-stricken face of her
son, the rich vestments and tonsured head of the priest, the curious,
roving eyes of the acolyte with his little silver-toned bell. But
Francesca was still numb from the exceeding pain of watching her
lover's agony. Now he was peaceful once more; his thoughts were
raised above the pain of the parting, but her thoughts would not
follow. The monotonous voice of Father Cristoforo, as he intoned the
service, seemed only to increase her dull stupor. It was not till
the canary in the window broke out into a sudden burst of song that
her heart seemed to awake once more, and to join in the familiar
words, "_Gloria in excelsis Deo. Et in terra pax hominibus._" And
then, as once more the service became unintelligible to her, she bent
her head, and prayed on with fast-flowing tears, "God, I thank Thee
that she is spared the pain--that it is only left for us."
When she looked up once more all was over. Father Cristoforo, with a
few kind words, went quietly away; from without there was a sound of
bitter weeping; but Carlo knelt on with bowed head and peaceful
heart, and the Signora's face was stamped with that calm majesty of
death which Francesca had never before seen, and the canary in the
window still sang his song of praise.