A RESCUER.
"Such was the life Thou livedst, self-abjuring,
Thine own pains never easing,
Our burdens bearing, our just doom enduring,
A life without self-pleasing."--FABER.
Mr. George Britton was a man who seldom ate the bread of idleness,
and since his hurried visit to Naples in the early summer his
holidays had been few and far between. A cruise of a few days in the
_Pilgrim_ before the close of the yachting season had been all he
could snatch from his busy life, for he was one of those men who are
always going out of their way to help other people, and this cannot
be done without an expenditure of time and labor which is often
scarcely realized. He was so kind-hearted, so genial a man, that he
numbered his friends by hundreds; and his life brought him into
contact with such hosts of people that it was often all he could do
to remember the names of those he had helped, to say nothing of their
faces. He had not, however, altogether forgotten Carlo Donati; more
than once he had thought of his pretty niece's ill-fated love story,
but having promised to say nothing about it, even to Miss Claremont,
he had thought it best to mention Carlo's name as little as possible.
"Yes, I saw him," had been his cautious reply to Clare's questions;
"but the Signora Donati is dead, and I fancy there will not be so
much communication between the two houses now. I myself liked the
fellow very much, but he has some political ideas which annoy my
brother."
That was all that had passed with regard to Carlo during the nine
months which had since gone by. Clare felt a little sorry and
disappointed as she realized how hard it is not to grow apart from
old friends whom there is no chance of meeting; but she remembered
that it was the way of the world, and that in her wandering life she
must try to be content with touching people closely for the time, and
then passing off the scene to make room for fresh comers. It crossed
her mind once or twice to write to Carlo and send him her sympathy in
his trouble about his mother; but such letters are hard to write, and
she was so busy that somehow the time never came. She contented
herself with inquiring after him in her next letter to Francesca; but
Francesca was a shockingly bad correspondent, and when, in two
months' time, she replied to the letter she made no mention at all of
Carlo.
Mr. Britton's business often took him from Ashborough, where his own
works were carried on, to a place in the neighboring
county--Mardentown; and one cold, dreary, March afternoon he was
pacing the platform of the Mardentown station, waiting for the train
that was to take him home. He was not alone. One of his many
acquaintances had walked to the station to see him off, and was
pouring out some of his own troubles into the shipbuilder's
sympathetic ears, when he became conscious that his friend was not
listening quite so attentively as usual, and following the direction
of his eyes, exclaimed,--
"Oh! you are noticing those Italians. I thought they all went off
yesterday: there was quite a crowd of them last night. It's an
Operatic Company; that's the Impresario, that sullen-faced man with a
black beard; and that's his wife, the _prima donna_ of the party. I
suppose the rank and file went off yesterday and left a few of the
swells behind."
"Curious," said Mr. Britton, glancing again at the little group;
"that fellow is like a man I met at Naples last year! But, after
all, foreigners always look more or less alike. He's a handsome
fellow; isn't he?"
"The young one, do you mean? Yes, but too small; that's always the
way with Italians. He looks bigger on the stage, though. I saw him
the other night in _Marta_. What on earth was he called--Sardoni?
No; that was the tenor. I forget. One mixes up these outlandish
names so. Look, they are sending him to the bookstall to get the
local papers; no doubt they want to read the criticisms on their
singing."
The talk turned once more upon other matters, and the two friends
paced up the platform; then, warned by the big bell that the train
was coming into the station, retraced their steps.
"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Mr. Britton, clutching his friend's arm.
"Look! A child on the line!"
He rushed down the platform, while at the same instant warning cries,
shouts, and a heart-rending shriek in a woman's voice, filled the
air. It was all over in a few seconds, and yet there seemed time to
take in all the details--the horror of the spectators, the utter
helplessness of the child himself, who stood terrified and
bewildered, hearing the shouts, seeing the train approaching, and yet
too completely paralyzed by fear to move, literally frightened out of
his wits. Mr. Britton dashed on and had almost reached the spot when
a slight lithe figure darted across the platform in front of him; it
was a wonder that they did not knock each other over, but the Italian
just swerved to the left in time, leapt down on to the railroad, and
ran like the wind to the rescue of the child. There was a moment of
intense pain to all the spectators; people held their breath; would
the child be saved, or would he and his rescuer be cut down together?
The chances seemed about even: not a little depended on the man's
strength, and the child might, no doubt, help or hinder his own
rescue. The train was slackening speed, yet it seemed to advance
with a rapidity that was frightful to watch. It was almost upon the
child; the women hid their faces, the men strained their eyes to see
what would happen, while the rescuer gave a cry, at the sound of
which the child turned, ran a step or two with uplifted hands, and
was caught up in the strong arms of the man who had saved it from
death. The next instant they were in the six-foot way, and the train
passed on and hid them from view.
Mr. Britton drew a deep breath, and, now that the horror of the
moment was over, found time to wonder at the cowardice of the
spectators. There were several men on the platform, some of them far
nearer than he had been at the time the alarm had been given; but no
one had rushed instantly to the rescue except himself and the young
Italian who had intercepted him.
"Of course," he overheard one man remark to another, "I made sure the
people who belonged to him would save the poor little beggar. They
say he's the child of Merlino, but if so, Merlino did nothing but
shout and tear his hair. Look here! there'll just be time for a
brandy-and-soda; I declare it's given me quite a turn."
The speakers ran at full speed to the refreshment-room, and Mr.
Britton, with indignation in his heart, turned to see whether the
rescuer was in sight again. He was at that moment appearing at the
far end of the platform, the child still in his arms. Mr. Britton
joined in the eager little crowd which speedily surrounded him; but
every one was talking and asking questions, so he held his peace,
only looking and listening and feeling strongly drawn to the young
Italian, who seemed not to consider himself at all in the light of a
hero or to be troubled by the fear that the spectators might do so.
An Englishman's first impulse would have been to escape from the eyes
of the crowd; the Italian seemed not to consider at all what the
onlookers might think of him; he was a little flushed and excited and
much taken up with the child, who clung to him and refused to be
given to his father.
"The dear little fellow," said Merlino, kissing his son, with tears
in his eyes. "He is not hurt? You are sure he is not hurt?"
"Not a bit, only frightened. How in the world did he get down there?"
"He owes his life to you, sir," said the station-master; "I never saw
a closer shave!"
"It seemed almost upon us," said Carlo, "relentless as Juggernaut."
But, though he did not under-estimate the danger, it did not appear
to make him feel the need of a brandy-and-soda. He turned in the
most practical and matter-of-fact way to choose a carriage.
"You get in, Nita," he said, opening the door, "and I'll give you
Gigi on your lap."
Mr. Britton, puzzled at the comparative indifference of the mother,
took possession of a corner-seat in the same carriage, and felt
relieved to see that as she took the child she bent down and covered
his face with kisses. In truth, poor Nita in that moment of horror
had for the first time realized what the loss of her child would be
to her; the agony of seeing him in danger, without being able to stir
a finger to save him, had touched into life the motherly love which
till now had lain dormant in her heart. But the shock had almost
stunned her for the time, and it was not till she held Gigi in her
arms that any sign of feeling escaped her. Carlo's face lighted up
as he saw how closely she held the little fellow, and both he and
Merlino were so much taken up with the child, that it was not till
just the last minute that they thought of the luggage.
"Did you see it in, Gomez?" asked Carlo, turning to the Spaniard who
had ensconced himself comfortably in the corner opposite Mr. Britton,
and beside Mlle. de Caisne.
"I? No, I imagined you had given directions," replied Gomez, with
the most irritating air of calm dignity.
Carlo sprang up and put his head out of the window.
"It is gone," he said, "it must be all right."
"Ah, but my bag!" exclaimed Nita. "You really might think of things
for me! I must have left it on one of the benches."
The train was on the point of starting, Carlo flung open the door and
rushed in search of the lost property, while Merlino, fuming with
impatience and anxiety, hurried across the carriage to look from the
window.
"_Santo diavolo!_ we are moving!" he exclaimed. "What induced you to
be so careless, Nita! Valentino will be left behind--he'll be too
late for the opera. There! I told you so," as the train steamed on
relentlessly, and a porter closed the door with an authoritative
bang, regarding neither the nerves nor the anxieties of the
travellers.
"There's not a creature who can take his part to-night, you know
there's not, and Marioni won't have rehearsed anything else," stormed
Merlino, swearing at his wife, and wholly disregarding the presence
of a stranger. The babel that ensued was deafening, Gigi adding not
a little to the confusion by bursting into tears, and crying as only
children of that age can cry. Mr. Britton began to wish that he had
chosen another carriage, yet was obliged to own that these people
interested him, and that there was something rather amusing in this
glimpse of life behind the scenes. He got out his train-book to see
whether there was any other train which would bring the missing
singer away from Mardentown in time for the opera, and wondered
whether these people were going to Ashborough, or to its near
neighbor and rival, Queenbury.
Just at this minute, however, the train stopped at a suburban
station, and to the relief and astonishment of all, Carlo suddenly
appeared at the door.
"Where on earth did you come from?" exclaimed Merlino.
"The guard's van," said Carlo, taking the vacant place beside Mr.
Britton, and evidently perceiving that the atmosphere was disturbed.
"I am afraid I gave you all a fright, but there was no chance of
getting back to you, only just time to make a dash at the last
carriage. I seem fated to run races with the train to-day."
There is nothing more strangely trying than the sudden reaction after
great anxiety. Merlino, whose temper was always irritable, was now
in the worst possible humor; the very perception that he owed a deep
debt of gratitude to his brother-in-law chafed him into greater
rudeness and harshness. As for Carlo, when he had put the bag up in
the netting, he resigned himself to the inevitable, and bore the
storm for the most part in silence, interposing a word or two when he
thought it would be any use, but knowing too well that Merlino in
this sort of humor must be allowed to have his fling, and that any
sort of argument would only make matters worse.
At the first opportunity he took Gigi on his knee, and drawing a
little further from Merlino, and nearer to Mr. Britton, began to do
what he could to check the loud crying, which was irritating both the
father and mother, and which had resisted all Nita's coaxing and
Merlino's threatening.
"See, Gigi, you must be quiet," he said, lowering his voice a little.
"I thought you were lost," sobbed the child; "I was so
frightened,--and--and I've lost my poor, dear, little soldier!"
When he had recounted this catalogue of woes his tears rained down
faster than ever.
"You shall have another. Where did you lose it!"
"It dropped down where the train goes, and I jumped down to look for
it, but I couldn't see it nowhere, and then they shouted, and the
train came by."
"Well," said Carlo, holding the child closer, "you must never get off
the platform again at a station; and as to the little soldier, why,
we will get a new one to-morrow at Ashborough. See--dry your eyes,
and be a man, and then we will hear about Lionbruno if you like."
"I don't want Lionbruno," said Gigi.
"Well, then, the 'Fair Fiorita,' or the 'Fairy Orlanda,' or shall it
be about Buchettino and the Ogre?"
"I think I'd like about Giucca, and, 'eat, my clothes, eat!'" said
Gigi.
"Very well," said Carlo. And in English, since that was the language
which Gigi liked best to talk, but with all the graphic imagery of an
Italian, he told the story of Giucca's two visits to the farm; of how
in his poor clothes they drove him away with scorn, but when he came
in velvet vest and gay raiment they invited him to dinner; and how in
irony he had put the food in his hat and in his pockets, saying,
"Eat, my clothes, eat! for you were invited,"--taking care to make a
good dinner for himself into the bargain.
"Another," said Gigi, when this story was ended. By this time
Merlino and his wife had settled down into their respective corners,
Merlino and Gomez had taken up their papers, Nita and Mlle. de Caisne
appeared to sleep; of the stranger Carlo had taken scarcely any
notice, nor would it have embarrassed him, probably, had he known
that Mr. Britton was listening to the stories quite as attentively as
was Gigi.
"What shall it be? 'The Shepherd who made the King's daughter
laugh?'" asked Carlo.
"No," said Gigi, "I'm so tired; I'd like to have about _Il Cristo_."
"Which story do you want?"
"Something new," said the child. "I'm so tired,--so tired."
"Well, once upon a time," began Carlo, who had no feeling at all as
to the mixture of sacred and secular,--"once upon a time, _Il Cristo_
was very tired, he had been going about from town to town you must
know, and in the towns he never had a minute's quiet, for, of course,
the people wanted to see him, and all day long they were coming and
going, and talking and asking his help, so that he had no rest, and
not even time to eat."
"That's like you, _zio caro_," put in Gigi.
"And just at this time he was sad as well as tired; for you must know
that in that country was a bad king, and this one had taken one of
_Il Cristo's_ friends, with whom he used to play when he was a little
boy, and had shut him up in a great gloomy old castle by the side of
a lake, and when he had kept him in prison a long time he sent his
soldiers one evening and ordered the good man's head to be cut off.
When _Il Cristo_ heard that his friend was dead you can fancy how sad
he was, and how he wanted to be alone for a little while out of the
hurry and the rush of the town: and he knew that his followers, too,
were tired, for they had been travelling about, and had had hard work
to do."
"Were they in his troupe, do you mean?" asked Gigi.
"Not exactly; but they travelled about with him; they were the men
who tried hardest to do what he said. And just before this they had
been travelling by themselves, which was much harder than travelling
with _Il Cristo_."
"Did they travel on stuffy cars like this?"
"No, there were no cars then; most likely they walked, and it was hot
like a furnace, and the sun beat down on their heads and the dust
came in great clouds, and when they got back to the town they were
tired out. Then _Il Cristo_ saw how it was with them, and he said,
'Come away from the town and the hurry and bustle, come right away
into the country and have a rest.'
"Then they were glad, and he took them in a ship to a place where he
thought they would be quiet--a nice country place."
"I guess it was like Salem," said Gigi, _sotto voce_.
"But when they got there, why, what do you think? the people from the
towns had got there before them by a quicker way, and there was a
crowd waiting for them which you should have seen!"
"Then the troupe didn't get a holiday after all?"
"Yes, but they did. _Il Cristo_ took the work himself, and they
rested, and just heard him talk."
"I guess they liked that better than walking in the sun," said Gigi,
thoughtfully. "Why do you know, _zio_, I feel kind o' rested
listening to you here in this car; and they had the country and _Il
Cristo_ too. Do you think he would have been like that to tired men
in our profession?"
"Why, yes, of course," said Carlo, smiling a little at the way the
child identified himself with the troupe.
"I wish he'd take us to a country place. You look kind o' tired. I
think he might."
"So he will when we really need it."
"Did _Il Cristo_ travel about always like we do? And do you think he
got nasty hotels and lumpy beds?"
"Often no bed at all; he said so once, not grumbling you know, he
never grumbled."
"We do sometimes, don't we, when they're real bad?"
"Yes; but he made the best of things, and thought of other people
before himself; so now, you see, when he was tired and sad he first
took care of the followers, and gave them a rest, and then gave the
great crowd of people a real good time, and let them come and talk to
him, and cured the ones who were sick, and taught them how to be
good, and before he sent them home again gave them plenty to eat."
"I guess I'm rather hungry just now," said Gigi. "May I have a brown
dog?"
A "brown dog" proved to be a substantial-looking biscuit, and by the
time this had been discussed Gigi had grown sleepy. Gomez at the
next station changed to a smoking carriage, and Carlo, taking
possession of his empty corner, made the child comfortable, and
suggested a _siesta_, while Mr. Britton was glad to have an
opportunity of studying his features at leisure, and trying to
compare them with his recollections of Carlo Donati when he had last
met him. He saw that there was a likeness, yet at the same time a
great difference, and this Signor Valentino, as he fancied his name
to be, had a look of strength about him which Donati had lacked. It
was hard to describe the great fascination of the face, the curves of
the smooth cheeks and chin were beautiful, the dark moustache so
slight that it did not hide the finely chiselled lips; the forehead
was specially developed just above the eyebrows, the ear small and
set high up in the shapely head, while the rough, dark hair, the high
cheek bones, and the deep, brown eyes would alone have stamped him as
an Italian. He had pulled his red Phrygian train-cap to a
comfortable angle, and had leant back in the corner, with the child
still in his arms. Mr. Britton could have wished that he had not
chosen to go to sleep, for he would have liked to talk with him, and,
perhaps, to say a word or two about his prompt rescue of the little
boy, but he was evidently tired, and though from time to time he
raised his eyelids and glanced out of the window at the country
through which they were passing, he never seemed to notice his
English travelling companion, or to have the slightest wish to talk.
In fact, Carlo had for the time being forgotten his present
surroundings altogether, Gigi's words had returned to him: "I wish
he'd take us to a country place." Now there were times when his
longing for Italy was the keenest of pains, but there were also times
when the mere recollection of his old home made him very happy. It
was thus this afternoon; half asleep, half awake, his mind went back
to the old familiar scenes; he saw the blue bay of Baja, and the
pearly gray mountains of Ischia, and the smiling campagna, and the
near hills, with their outlines broken here and there by umbrella
pines. Then he wandered down the long, shady walks of the Casa Bella
garden, and once more Francesca was with him, and just then the
recollection of her was enough to make him happy; there were times
when he hardly dared to think of her at all; there were times when
memory was anguish, but there were also times when he could smile to
himself with the happiness of the mere thought that Francesca lived
and that he loved her.
"Is this Ashborough?" asked Nita from the other end of the carriage.
He was startled back into the present by a voice which seemed to him
to be Captain Britton's.
"Yes; this is Ashborough, madam."
Could this traveller be the Captain's brother--the "Uncle
George"--whose arrival at Naples he so well remembered?
He felt uncertain. It might be only that his half-dreamy
recollections of Casa Bella had made him fancy some familiar tone in
this Englishman's voice. It was hardly likely that Mr. Britton
should happen to get into the same carriage with them. Besides, he
had never connected him with the neighborhood of Ashborough; he
fancied Merlebank was in another county. And even if this should
indeed be Francesca's uncle, would it be very desirable to introduce
himself under the circumstances?
While he wondered what to do, the train had steamed into the station,
and his doubts were solved and his opportunity lost at the same
moment. Some one on the platform recognized the gray-bearded
Englishman, and threw open the carriage-door.
"Ha, Britton! are you here? I'm just off to Queenbury, and will take
your vacant place."
"How are you?" said the Englishman, with a hearty grip of the hand.
"Any of my people here, do you know?"
"The carriage wasn't up just now; hindered, very likely; the town is
in an awful confusion--the races on Monday, you know."
Carlo heard no more. He had to carry Gigi to the nearest fly, and
the flies seemed scarce and mostly engaged. When at length he had
secured one, and made over Gigi to his mother, he had to rush off and
see to the luggage, and there was no time to think any more of his
own plans.
In the meantime, however, Mr. Britton had not lost sight of him. He
felt strangely curious as to the movements of these operatic people,
and being obliged to wait till his own carriage came up, he strolled
to and fro, glancing now out of the station at the driving rain and
the chilly March night, now at his late companions. As usual, it
appeared that "Signor Valentino" did the work, the others all crowded
into the one available fly, and sat impatiently waiting while he
hunted up truant trunks and portmanteaux.
"What an age you have been!" was the greeting he received. "You
can't get in here! Perhaps there'll be another fly by this time. Do
you think the man can take all the luggage outside?"
"He'll have to," was the reply. "There's nothing else to be had nor
any chance of getting anything. It seems it is the race week."
"Can't you change places with him, Signor Gomez?" said Nita, for once
in her life prompted to think for her brother. "His cough is so bad
he oughtn't to be out on such a night."
Gomez made a dignified excuse, and suggested that if they delayed any
longer it would be impossible to dine before the opera.
"And by-the-bye, Val, my dear fellow, just stop in passing at the
theatre," exclaimed Merlino; "you'll notice it on your way to the
hotel, and might just see that all is right there."
"Very well. Is my umbrella handy?"
They gave it to him and drove off, while Carlo began to wrap up his
throat in a huge muffler, looking distastefully enough at the dark,
muddy street, and the torrents of rain. He was just about to set off
on his wet walk when, on turning to ask the nearest way to the hotel,
he suddenly confronted Mr. Britton.
"I am expecting my carriage every minute," said the Englishman, in
his kindly voice, which, but for the absence of the slight tone of
patronage, would have been exactly like Captain Britton's. "I hope
you'll allow me to drive you to your hotel."
"You are most kind," said Carlo. "I should indeed be very grateful;
but perhaps I ought to tell you----"
He was interrupted. Mr. Britton, glancing round to see if the
carriage had come, chanced to notice a huge advertisement of Signor
Merlino's Operatic Company, and his eye was instantly caught by a
name in large black letters--SIGNOR CARLO DONATI.
"I must beg a thousand pardons, Signor Donati, for not recognizing
you before!" he exclaimed, shaking him heartily by the hand. "I
thought I knew your face on the Mardentown platform, but I heard them
call you by the name of Valentino, and, moreover, had not the
slightest idea that you were in England or that you had changed your
profession."
"The change was only just decided on when you left Naples, sir," said
Carlo, his color rising a little. "I hope you have good accounts
from Casa Bella?"
He tried to subdue the eagerness of his tone, but it was some time
since he had heard from Enrico, and the thought of hearing of
Francesca in so much more direct a way made every pulse in him beat
feverishly.
"Very good, indeed," said Mr. Britton. "They all seem well.
Francesca is coming to stay with us in the summer, I believe. It was
an old promise, and I think the change will be good for her. Here is
the carriage at last. Now I am quite at your disposal. Shall we
call first at the theatre, and then shall I drop you at your hotel?
Or are you, too, in a hurry to get your dinner?"
He had kindly made a rather lengthy speech, because he saw how much
the Italian was moved by his reference to Francesca. Carlo asked to
stop at the theatre, and Mr. Britton, who understood now that his
brother's objection to the marriage had had to do with the stage and
not at all with political matters, determined to show that he, at any
rate, did not share in his prejudice.
"I suppose Valentino is just a nickname; it misled me altogether," he
said. "But for that I think I should have spoken to you, and asked,
at any rate, whether you were related to Signor Donati, the
Neapolitan advocate."
Carlo smiled. Not for many months had he had such a pleasure as that
friendly talk with Francesca's uncle.
"It is the name of what is supposed to be my best part--Valentino in
_Faust_," he explained.
"I see. Well, I must manage to hear you in it. It is twenty years
and more since I heard an opera."
"Then you have never heard Faust?" exclaimed Carlo, almost
incredulously. "We are to give it to-night; may I really have the
pleasure of getting you an order?"
"You are very good; I should like nothing better," said Mr. Britton,
fully understanding that since his lady-love could not be present to
hear him the next best thing was to have her old uncle, who might
possibly tell her something about it. He felt convinced that such a
thought had flashed through the young man's mind, and liked him the
better for it, because, after all, it was so human, so precisely what
he himself would have felt at four-and-twenty.
"You have a very bad cough!" he exclaimed, quite agreeing with the
prima donna that Donati had no business to be out on such a night.
"Oh, it is only chronic!" said Carlo, lightly, as if that made it an
affair of no account. "Is this the theatre? Will you then come in
with me, and choose your place for to-night?"
The ticket chosen, Carlo and Mr. Britton made their way through long
and not particularly clean passages to the region behind the scenes.
Here all seemed confusion; carpenters and scene-shifters hurried to
and fro; there was a babel of talking, shouting, hammering; and
Carlo's arrival was evidently hailed as a relief by the man in
authority, who came quickly up to him to explain some difficulty that
had arisen, and to ask whether Merlino would soon be at the theatre.
Mr. Britton, meantime, was learning that scenery and stage illusions
were disenchanting enough when nearly viewed, and in his own mind was
wondering whether anything could possibly teach him to walk
respectably on the sloping stage. It was evident that Carlo was a
practical man, for his suggestions were received as orders, and
something like method began to be traceable in what had at first
seemed the wildest chaos.
"I must not keep you waiting any longer," he said, after a few
minutes, coming up to Mr. Britton; "thank you for all your kindness.
They seem to have got behindhand here, and I must stay and help them
a little."
"Will you not come and dine with me at the club?" said Mr. Britton;
"it is close by."
"You are very good," said Carlo, looking at his watch, "but, to tell
the truth, it is too late for me to dine now. I shouldn't be able to
sing if I did."
"I hope you don't intend to starve yourself," said the Englishman.
"Surely that can't be good for the voice."
"No," said Carlo, laughing; "I shall send out for some oysters, or
perhaps take a raw egg or two." Then, seeing Mr. Britton's look of
commiseration, he laughed. "You know we make up for it at supper. I
shall be as hungry as a hunter by the time the opera is over."
"Then I cannot take you to the hotel?"
"I think not, thank you; I must be here for the present. When all is
ready I dare say I shall run and see that Gigi is none the worse for
his fright, but they tell me it is close by. You will remember me to
Miss Claremont."
"She will be delighted to hear you are in England; you must come over
to see us at Merlebank; we are not much more than two miles from the
town. Good-bye then for the present, and I hope you'll find the
little boy has suffered no ill effects."
It was not till nearly eight o'clock that Carlo could snatch a minute
to run and see after Gigi; hurrying along the wet and cheerless
street he made his way to the hotel, and on the doorstep came
suddenly upon Sardoni, who had gone on to Ashborough on the previous
night with the rest of the troupe.
"So here you are at last," he exclaimed, "doing the dirty work as
usual, I see. How are you, Val? I declare you look better."
In truth the meeting with Mr. Britton and the pleasure of having
rescued Gigi had acted as a sort of stimulus, and Carlo, spite of a
very tiring day, felt better than he had done for some months past.
"I'm as strong as a horse," he said, laughing, "should come in neck
and neck with the winner of the Mountshire Handicap on Monday. Where
is Gigi?"
"Sitting on the stairs when I last saw him; the place is packed, and
I'm afraid they won't have given you much of a room; Gomez snapped up
the only decent one."
Carlo waited for no more, but ran upstairs till he came upon the
disconsolate figure of the little boy.
"Have you had something to eat, _mio caro_?" he asked taking the
child in his arms and carrying him on.
"Yes, but there's no bed for me," said Gigi, piteously.
"How's that? one was ordered. Where have they put my portmanteau?"
"Up at the top," said Gigi, mournfully, "in No. 62; but there's no
bed for me."
Carlo rang to inquire, only to be told that, the house being quite
full for the race week, no more beds were available; and the only
room, No. 62, proved to be a servant's room vacated just for the
occasion, a dismal little place under the roof, smelling strongly of
stale ham sandwiches. In the corner was one narrow truckle-bed.
"Never mind, Gigi," said Carlo, passing his arm round the child's
neck, and waking a smile on the dismal little face; "you've slept in
the overland trunk before now. Let us see if you have grown too long
for it; you know it was rather fun last time. Yes?"
Gigi measured himself by the trunk, to the infinite amusement of the
chambermaid, who volunteered to find him a pair of sheets.
"But as to blankets, sir, they're every blessed one of them in use,"
she added.
"Never mind, one of mine doubled will do for him," said Carlo,
ruthlessly stripping the truckle-bed. "Now, Gigi, unlock the trunk
for me, and we'll turn the things out on the floor and make room for
you."
Gigi thought this fine fun; and what with pillows and blanket from
the truckle-bed, and clean sheets which the chambermaid brought hot
from the fire, the improvised crib was comfortable enough. But to
Carlo it somehow suggested a coffin, and the thought of the danger
the child had been in made him shudder as he bent down to kiss him.
"I do love you so," said Gigi, clinging to him with all his might.
And Carlo hurried back to the theatre with the words ringing in his
ears, and the feeling of the little child's arms still about his neck.