THE PILGRIM.
"Joy, so true and tender,
Dare you not abide?
Will you spread your pinions
Must you leave our side?
--Nay; an Angel's shining grace
Waits to fill your place!"
A. A. PROCTER.
"Very odd of Carlo not to come in to-day," remarked Captain Britton
from the depths of his easy-chair. "I suppose the heat was too much
for him. Have you heard from him, Fran?"
"I had a little note from him yesterday, father, only to say that he
wasn't well and that the Ritters insisted on keeping him, but that he
would be sure to be at home again on Saturday. I daresay Frau Ritter
made him stay; it was so sultry, you know, and since Herr Ritter's
illness she is always in terror of sunstrokes."
"Well, one thing is, this thunder-storm will clear the air," said the
Captain, rubbing his large hands together contentedly. "If I could
be sure your uncle was safely in port, I should feel more
comfortable, though. What did I do with his letter? Ah, here it is!
'The yacht is to leave Leghorn on Wednesday,' he says. They
certainly ought to be at Naples by this time."
"I looked out for the _Pilgrim_ yesterday," said Francesca, "but
to-day I forgot all about it. How I wish Clare and the girls were
coming too; it was very benighted of them to like a stupid visit to
the North Cape better than a cruise in the Mediterranean."
"No accounting for tastes," said the Captain, smiling. "If it were
not for this engagement of yours, I should feel sorely tempted to get
your uncle to give me a berth. There is nothing, after all, like the
sea. You smile, Fran. Why, bless your dear little heart! I wasn't
wishing things otherwise with you and Carlo. On the contrary, I
think the sooner you are married and settled the better for both of
you. He has looked sadly worn and out of spirits lately, poor
fellow!"
"There has been so much to trouble him," said Francesca, with a sigh.
"Ay, and he is unfit to be left all alone in that dreary house.
Really, I don't see why there should be any more delay. Now that he
has got rid of that sister of his, why shouldn't you be married
quietly and have done with it? No disrespect to the mother in that,
poor soul! Why, it is the thing of all others she would have wished.
I tell you what, Fran, here is such a chance as is never likely to
come again. Your uncle is unexpectedly coming out here, he is sure
to give at least a week to Naples--why should we not have your
wedding while he is here? Upon my word!"--he rubbed his hands with
greater satisfaction than before--"that's the happiest notion that
has come to me for a long time, Fran. You and Carlo shall be packed
off on your honeymoon, Sibyl and I will console ourselves with a
cruise in the _Pilgrim_, and we'll all forget that provoking Madame
Merlino, who has made such a storm in a teacup."
Francesca blushed vividly.
"If you really think--if Carlo----," she broke off in confusion.
Captain Britton patted her head caressingly. "Why, of course, my
love, of course I would take good care that Carlo thought the
suggestion his own. To prolong the engagement would be bad for both
of you. Nothing in the world more trying than long engagements. Not
that you are to think I am in any hurry to get rid of you; but, after
all, we shall scarcely be separated, and an engagement is somehow
neither one thing nor the other. I should like to see you married,
my dear; this sad affair of poor Carlo's has been an annoyance to
me--such things are unsettling, they interrupt the steady routine of
daily life. I confess I shall be glad to go away for a time with
your uncle, and then, later on, to come back and begin our ordinary
life once more."
Francesca felt like a cat rubbed the wrong way, but knowing that the
rubber meant it all very kindly she bore it with composure.
"A cruise in the _Pilgrim_ would be the best possible change for
you," she said, laughing lightly, though not altogether without an
effort. "I shall go and see if she is anywhere to be seen; and
really, since you are in such hurry to be off, I shall have to think
about my wedding-dress."
Glad to put an end to the conversation, she crossed the room, threw
open the window, and stepped out into the _loggia_. The night was
deliciously fresh after the storm; she felt an inexpressible sense of
freedom and relief as she closed the window behind her, and drank in
deep draughts of the cool, moist air. Though her father's words had
grated upon her, there was, nevertheless, a certain amount of truth
in them which she could not but recognize. She, too, had that
longing to go away, to escape from the scene of all the trouble and
sorrow which had lately invaded their home. It would be like
escaping from the hot, lamplit drawing-room into this cool
out-of-doors. And then, perhaps Carlo would begin to be himself
again. Surely, though, she had not liked the way in which the idea
was expressed, the idea itself was a good one. They would go
away--right away from Naples--away from the region of theatres--away
from all that could recall Carlo's loss, and she would comfort him.
Then, later on, they would induce Merlino to let Anita come to them;
she should stay with them at the Villa Bruno, should be made
perfectly happy, should have all kinds of little English comforts
which would be new and delightful to her after her wandering life.
And so her troubles should somehow conveniently disappear, and she
should find that their home was her home. If her trouble was
connected with money, as Francesca fancied, why then Carlo would
somehow manage to clear off her debts, and she, too, should start
life afresh, and they would all live happily ever after. So she
dreamed in her girlish fashion, knowing nothing of the real state of
the case, only fully convinced that this dreary state of things could
not last forever, that somehow it would all come right in the end
like the books. And in that belief no doubt she was right; wrong
only in this, that "coming right in the end" meant to her coming
right in these threescore years and ten.
To be married, perhaps, next week! How calmly her father had
suggested the idea, and how her heart throbbed as she recalled his
words! She would lay aside her mourning for that one day, would be
dressed, spite of the sadness which had heralded in her marriage, "as
a bride adorned for her husband;" and therewith she began, after the
manner of girls, to picture the dress to herself; it should be long
and white and shining; and as for orange-blossom, why, there was no
lack of that in the garden, always supposing this heavy rain had not
dashed it. Thinking of the orange-blossom, she turned from those
inward visions and looked down into the dusky mass of trees and
shrubs below, starting a little at sight of some one approaching, but
quickly recognizing her lover.
"Carlo! why, Carlo! is it really you?" she exclaimed, an ecstasy of
happiness in her voice, for she had not in the least expected him.
He looked up. She was leaning on the rail of the loggia among the
climbing roses, her eyes bright with joy, her sweet face a little
flushed, her white neck and arms gleaming through the black lace of
her dress. He trembled from head to foot. It was too late now to
tell her all--and had he strength to meet her? Would it not be
better just to kiss that hand resting on the white balustrade, and
excuse himself for the evening? But Francesca, who had never since
her betrothal been so long parted from her lover, turned and flew
down the steps to meet him.
"Oh, I had quite given you up, darling!" she cried. "And are you
really well again--quite well?"
A terrible pang rent his heart, but he trembled no more; all the man
in him rose up to meet this sore trial.
"Quite well, _carina_; only wet through, and not fit to touch you,"
he said; and by an impulse which he could hardly have explained he
checked the hands which were stealing round his neck, drew them down,
and held them fast in his while he bent forward and kissed her.
A shade passed over her face. Why did he stop to think about his wet
clothes? What lover ever deigned to bestow a thought on such prudent
considerations?
He read her thoughts in a glance, and therewith saw a vision of the
future--the shadow deepening on that dear face, the eyes dim with
tears, the brow contracted with pain. To hide his agony from her he
let his head droop forward, resting his burning forehead on her
shoulder.
"I have been so dreadfully anxious about you, Carlino," she said.
"And, oh! it is so beautiful to have you back again!"
He did not speak, only his cold hands held hers more tightly; his
face was hidden on her breast. But, though he could hide from her
the sight of his anguish, he could not deceive her; she knew
intuitively that it was no physical pain which made a man like Carlo
bow his head like one overwhelmed. It must surely be that he was
thinking of his mother--and it must have been terribly dreary coming
back from Naples that stormy evening--coming home for the first time
to the empty house.
"My own dear one," she said, all the deep tenderness in her heart
stealing into her voice, "you'll not shut me out from your sorrow.
What is yours is mine, Carlino. I was so happy when I saw you, I
forgot what a sad home-coming it must be. But, darling, it wasn't
that I forgot her, for I, too, loved her."
"Pray that I may keep my promise to her," he whispered. "Pray! pray!"
There was a silence. The tears welled up in Francesca's eyes, not
because she understood his sorrow, but because the sorrow was his,
and because she loved him. She prayed obediently like a little
child. After awhile he raised his head, looked for a moment into her
eyes, then pressed his lips to hers in a long, lingering kiss.
"Dear love," he said, gently, "we will keep our Whitsuntide together."
He watched her up the marble steps, then turned away, walking home
through the wet garden paths. And even in his great sadness he could
not but smile faintly as he reflected what Piale's feelings would be
could he now see him, cold, and weary, and wet to the skin. "The
singer keeps his shop in his throat," he said to himself, with a
pathetic little effort to persuade himself that he was now quite
accustomed to the idea. "I must not indulge any more in evening
storms."
The next day was Whitsunday. Carlo, as usual, drove in to Naples
with the Brittons, and was very glad that the great excitement in
"Uncle George's" probable arrival, excluded all other topics of
conversation. It lasted throughout the drive, and, indeed, engrossed
Captain Britten's thoughts so much during church-time that he was
glad to effect his escape with Sibyl after the sermon, leaving Carlo
and Francesca to the second service, while he hastened to make
inquiries as to the _Pilgrim_.
To his surprise and delight, he was greeted just outside the church
by his brother.
Sibyl, who had very vague recollections of her uncle, studied him
with a child's keen criticism.
"He is like papa," she reflected, "but smaller and finer; his beard
is beautiful, and white, and curly, like a Father Christmas; he
laughs with his eyes. I like him."
Having satisfied herself on this point, she began to listen to the
conversation.
"Yes, we got in early this morning," her uncle was saying. "We had
very light winds all the way from Leghorn--in fact, yesterday we were
becalmed, but after the squall we got on better. What a paradise you
live in, to be sure! Ah, is this your little one? Why, Sibyl, you
have grown out of all knowledge! And what have you done with
Francesca?"
"Francesca will be here directly," replied the Captain. "We may as
well wait for her, if you are not in a hurry. By-the-by, George, I
think you have not heard that she is to be married shortly."
"What high and mighty nobleman has been so happy as to meet with your
approval?" said Mr. Britton, well aware of his brother's weakness for
titles, and convinced by his beaming face that the marriage was
desirable in his eyes.
"A young Italian neighbor of ours, Signor Donati; not a noble at all,
but of a good old family, and likely to do well at the Neapolitan
Bar. Oh, I am thoroughly pleased with the affair--thoroughly
pleased, and Donati is heir to a rich old uncle, so it is
satisfactory in every way.
"I hope he is good enough for dear little Fran," said Mr. Britton,
dryly. Somehow the notion of his pretty niece marrying the first
foreigner who proposed for her did not please him.
"Well, as to that, I doubt if there is any one in the world quite
good enough for her," said Captain Britton, rubbing his hands, but
slightly embarrassed by the presence of his Prayer-book. "You will
like Donati, though, I am sure of that. He is a fine fellow. Just
now, poor boy, he is in great trouble--lost his mother quite
suddenly, and, of course, he's dreadfully cut up. In fact, I think
the only thing will be to hasten on the marriage, and get him right
away from the place for a bit. Ah, here they come! that's right!"
and he hurried forward lest Sibyl should forestall him as news-bearer.
Mr. Britton glanced quickly at Francesca's _fiancé_, and felt his
insular prejudice melting away. A more beautiful face he had never
seen. Something of its serenity vanished, however, as Captain
Britton approached,--a sort of shade passed over the forehead, and he
evidently came back to the present with an effort. The Captain
brought him forward, and introduced him in his usual rather
boisterous and patronizing way. Mr. Britton was all the more struck
by the grace and dignity of the Italian, and he held out his hand
cordially.
"I have been hearing of you, Signor Donati," he said, pleasantly.
"You must let me congratulate you, for, indeed, I think you are a
very happy man."
The Italian smiled, surely the saddest smile ever seen, as he bowed
his acknowledgments. Mr. Britton was startled and perplexed, but
Francesca's happy face reassured him, and had not the Captain said
that his future son-in-law was in trouble?
"I want you all to come and spend the day on my yacht," he said,
turning to his brother. "The gig is waiting down by the Arsenal.
Come! you must really take compassion on my solitude. Signor Donati,
I hope you'll put up with that barbarous custom, an early dinner; but
the fact is, our cook's cuddy is so near the men's quarters that if I
dine late the poor fellows are half-grilled at night."
After a little more discussion, they all set off for the Arsenal,
where the "gig," a term which had baffled Carlo altogether, resolved
itself into a four-oared boat, manned by trim-looking English
sailors, who bore the name of the _Pilgrim_ in red letters across
their blue jerseys, and in gold letters round their hats. Mr.
Britton took his place in the stern, insisting that his brother must
sit beside Sibyl to trim the boat, and, having thus managed that the
lovers should be side by side, gave the word to start. Sibyl gave a
cry of delight as the golden-brown oars were promptly raised in the
air and simultaneously lowered into the water.
"Oh, Uncle George!" she cried, "how happy you must be with this dear
little boat always waiting for you, and men to do so beautifully just
what you say!"
"Ah!" said Mr. Britton, laughing. "Wait till you are on board the
_Pilgrim_! I see," he added, turning to Carlo and Francesca, "that
you two have already taught this little one to understand the proud
sense of possession."
Francesca smiled and blushed. Carlo appeared to be engrossed with a
vessel which they were passing, the huge _Duilio_, then not quite
completed.
"I suppose," he said, turning back with a bright smile which veiled
the pain at his heart, "I suppose there is no need to introduce you
to our monster vessel, you probably know much more about her than we
do."
The shipbuilder was not above appreciating the compliment thus
delicately conveyed, and Francesca looked up at the unwieldy form
with its dull red color and its six funnels, and tried to seem
interested in the discussion which arose upon its merits among the
men; its only merit to her was that it seemed to be interesting Carlo
and taking him out of himself. The _Pilgrim_, a pretty,
schooner-rigged yacht, of about 150 tons, was anchored off the
Military Mole, and, like all the vessels in harbor, was gayly dressed
with flags in honor of the _festa_. A somewhat smaller yacht was
anchored close by.
"They tell me our neighbor the _Aida_ belongs to an Italian Count or
Duke, or something of the sort," said Mr. Britton. "What was the
name, Oxenberry; do you recollect?"
"Count Carossa, I believe, sir," said the coxswain.
"Count Carossa!" said Captain Britton, with a beaming face. "The
name seems familiar to me. A friend of yours, perhaps, Carlo?"
"No, sir; I have never even met him," said Carlo repressively.
"But the name is familiar to you, surely?"
"It is certainly a well-known name," said Carlo, still in the same
tone.
Mr. Britton was a little puzzled, he could not make out whether the
Italian knew of something not to the credit of Count Carossa, or
whether his tone merely implied a great distaste of the Captain's
love of the aristocracy.
By this time they were alongside the yacht, and the Captain,
forgetting all about the Count, began to admire his brother's latest
toy.
"A very pretty little vessel indeed, George! I confess I envy you.
Sibyl, what do you say? Shall we not sell the villa and live afloat?
Now, Carlo, don't forgot to take your hat off to the deck, it's a
mortal insult to forget that!"
Carlo laughed; just for a little time he forgot his cares, and his
first thought, as he glanced round the deck, with its exquisitely
smooth and white boards, its shining brass work, its cunningly
arranged skylights and companions, was this:--
"A yacht is the last place in the world for private conversations.
One more day of freedom! One more day's peace of mind for my
darling!"
As for Sibyl, she was wild with happiness, now watching the gig as it
was hauled up, now trotting off hand in hand with the coxswain to the
forecastle, looking with longing eyes at the rope ladders, and
chattering without intermission.
It was not without difficulty that Francesca bore her off to be
washed and brushed before dinner, and had it not been for the
fascinations of the shifting table in the saloon, she would hardly
have been induced to stay down below for so dull a duty as eating.
"Uncle George," she said, leaning forward in her quaint way, "it
would have been nice to come on board the _Pilgrim_ any day, but
being Sunday it's just perfect."
"Eh--how's that?" said Mr. Britton. "The better the day the better
the deed, is that your idea?"
"No; but don't you see on weekdays we can have games--different games
every day, if we like, but Sundays are always--always the same. Now
this makes such a beautiful difference. I am glad you asked us on
Sunday!"
Carlo, to whom the rules of the English Sunday had always been
incomprehensible, could not repress an amused smile, but he wisely
avoided taking part in the discussion which ensued on modern
Sabbatarianism, being, of course, ready enough to speak out his own
opinion if it were asked, but not feeling bound to volunteer it. The
argument was at last interrupted by the entrance of the steward.
"A boat has just come across from the _Aida_, sir, with Count
Carossa's card, but the Captain can't make out what the men say, all
of them being Italians."
Carlo at once offered to act as interpreter, and ran up on deck,
returning with the message, which he delivered with an impartial face.
"Count Carossa presents his compliments to the owner of the
_Pilgrim_, and it would give him much pleasure to make his
acquaintance. If quite convenient to Mr. Britton, the Count will
call upon him in the afternoon."
"Very happy to see him, I'm sure," said Mr. Britton, who was the soul
of hospitality. "Perhaps, Signor Donati, you would be so good as to
frame a polite message for me and deliver it to the messenger; or
stay, I'll write it on my card."
This done, they all adjourned to the deck, where, before long, they
were joined by Count Carossa, a fine-looking man of two or
three-and-thirty, to whom Captain Britton took very kindly. There
was much amusing discussion as to the merits of the two yachts, then
of Mr. Britton's homeward route, during which the Count discovered
that Francesca and her father were living in the neighborhood, and
did his best to push the acquaintance, eliciting very easily an
invitation to dinner on the following Wednesday.
Carlo, after the Count's arrival, had kept sedulously in the
background, and had said but little. Happening to glance at him
once, Mr. Britton was struck by the strange expression of his face.
He hastily turned his eyes towards Francesca; she was smiling in
answer to some polite nothing addressed to her by the Count.
"I believe that fellow Donati is jealous!" he thought to himself.
"My poor little Fran, you are altogether too good to be left to the
tender mercies of an Italian husband. I wonder if the marriage is,
after all, so advisable as they seem to think."
Afterwards, when the Count was gone, he said, casually, to Carlo,--
"By the way, Signor Donati, I suppose this Count Carossa is a decent
sort of fellow; you don't know anything against him, do you?"
"Nothing whatever, sir," said Carlo, emphatically,--"nothing
whatever. I only know that he is very rich, and that he leads a
wandering life; I have often heard people wonder why in the world he
does not settle down."
"Then he is unmarried?"
"Yes, he is unmarried."
At that moment Sibyl ran up to beg Carlo to look at "some dear little
tortoises in the dinghy." Mr. Britton nodded to himself with the air
of one who has surmised rightly.
"Just as I thought," he muttered, "as jealous as he can be."
The afternoon was spent in rambling about Naples, showing Uncle
George as many lions as he cared to see; then they returned to the
yacht to that curious English meal called "tea,"--a new experience to
Carlo, and it was arranged that they should drive home in the cool of
the evening, taking Mr. Britton with them.
"It has been such a delightful day," said Francesca; "I think I agree
with Sibyl that being a Sunday it has been all the nicer."
The lovers were standing near the wheel in the dim starlight; perhaps
Carlo was glad that the light was no clearer.
"See," he said, "there is Venus just setting; not there; look, out
yonder behind St. Elmo."
Francesca was just in time to see the last of the planet; after it
was set, the Castle on its lofty height seemed to stand out more
darkly against the evening sky. The harbor was very quiet, but from
the shore came sounds of laughter and merriment, a confused roar of
many voices, and now and then in the distance a line or two of
Garibaldi's hymn floating on the wind.
"How still and peaceful we are out here!" said Francesca, "and how
noisy and horrid it seems in Naples. Why does a Babel like that
always sound so wicked, I wonder? It makes me think of Vanity Fair
in the _Pilgrim's Progress_."
"And yet through the uproar we can make out Garibaldi's hymn," said
Carlo.
"Ah," she said, laughing, "I know you would like to be in the thick
of it all, fighting against the evil as your father and grandfather
fought in their day. Oh, Carlino, what a good thing for me that
there are no battles now!"
"Yet in a good cause you would not have hindered me, I think,
_carina_? Tell me," his lips trembled,--"tell me, had we lived then
would you have begged me to stay at home?"
"No, Carlo _mio_," she said, raising her sweet eyes to his; "I would
have told you to go and help your country; I wouldn't have cried till
you were out of sight."
They were interrupted by a summons to get into the gig, and the four
trim-looking sailors rowed them swiftly across the quiet harbor, the
only sound being an occasional "_Qui va la?_" from the watchman on
board one of the anchored vessels, and a ringing reply from the
coxswain of "Yacht's boat."
"The peace of my life is over," thought Carlo, as he glanced back
across the quiet waters to the _Pilgrim_ with her golden harbor
light; "now for Vanity Fair."