"CLARE."
"But when I met him he was still the same;
The quiet, happy face that lighted up
As from a sunshine in the heart within,
Rejoicing whomsoever looked on it,
But far more whomsoever it looked on."
_Ugo Bassi_: MRS. HAMILTON KING.
The schoolroom at Merlebank was one of those comfortable, nondescript
sort of rooms, which have a charm for most people; it was a room
where you did not feel bound to be on your best behavior,--a room
where you could read with both elbows on the table, or lounge in
unconventional ease by the fireside. It was essentially a snug room,
its green Brussels carpet was comfortably shabby, its curtains were
old-fashioned and faded, its walls were crowded with frameless oil
paintings, which the girls had brought home from the School of Art,
and the books in its crowded bookshelves had evidently seen good
service. Miss Claremont loved the room, and it was in a great
measure her presence which helped to make it one of the pleasantest
retreats in the house. In lesson hours she knew well enough how to
make any unwary visitor feel himself _de trop_, but at all other
times, on half holidays, or on Sundays, or in the long evenings, she
liked nothing better than to sit and talk to any one who chose to
seek her out. She had now been at Merlebank for many years, and had
given to each of the children the "mothering" they so much needed.
In person Clare was short and slight, she was an
insignificant-looking little woman, and took scant pains with her
dress. But all these details were observed only by strangers; to
those who knew her she was just "Clare," the one being in the world
whose sympathy was always available, the only person who could
brighten up a dull dinner, or entertain stupid visitors, or find good
points in those whom the girls themselves condemned as odiously
vulgar.
All the troubles and anxieties of the household gravitated by a
natural law to the schoolroom. Clare would sit by the fire in
winter, or by the open window in summer, and would listen to Mr.
Britton's anxieties about the children, or to the grandmother's grief
about her failing eyesight, or to Kate's difficulties in her
district, or to the boy's hopes and fears with regard to
examinations, or first loves, or vanished pocket-money. Her clear,
light-blue eyes could sparkle with fun, or grow soft with pity, or
become thoughtful and patient, as she weighed the pros and cons of
some puzzling question; she was the most delightful of confidantes,
and her wide circle of friends did not scruple to work her pretty
hard, for Clare was always supposed to like to hear every one's woes.
Probably she really did like it, and few went away from her
uncomforted, for somehow you were apt to leave the schoolroom feeling
as if she had removed a crape veil from before your eyes, so that the
most common and trivial matters of every-day life became far more
interesting than you had imagined them to be.
Late on that March evening Mr. Britton, returning from Ashborough,
made all speed towards the schoolroom, and as he had hoped, found
Clare still sitting over the fire reading.
"The children have all gone to bed," she explained; "Kate waited till
half-past ten, but she was tired with her choir practice."
"I am glad to find you up," said Mr. Britton, "for I have a message
to you from an old friend of yours, who, to my great astonishment,
proves to be in England."
"Not Francesca!" exclaimed Clare.
"Her next-door neighbor, young Donati; he sends you his kind regards
and is very anxious to see you."
"Well, that is really a delightful surprise," said Clare. "I should
like so much to meet him again, for as a boy he interested me a good
deal. What can have brought him to England?"
"He has developed a voice, and has turned into an operatic singer.
That quite explains my brother's determination to have less to do
with him, for you know the Captain disapproves of the stage as much
as you do. However, I think I have managed to put two and two
together, and to form a pretty shrewd guess as to Donati's reason for
his sudden change of profession. It seems he has a sister; did you
know her?"
"She was being educated in a convent when I was in Italy, but I saw
her once or twice. Poor girl! she made some very foolish marriage, I
believe, not long after we came to England. I never heard the rights
of the story, but I know she eloped with some one."
"Oh, that was it! Well, she seems to have paid dearly for her folly,
poor thing! for her husband is a brute, a more sullen, ill-tempered
fellow I never saw. He is the Impresario of this travelling company
which Donati has joined; the sister, Madame Merlino, is the prima
donna. Let me see, what did he call her? Nita, I think."
"That was her name. I remember her as a demure little girl, shocked
at Francesca's freedom."
"Well, she seems to be one of those pretty helpless, unhappy wives
who stand in such grave need of a protector. Now, when I was at
Naples I heard nothing at all about this sister, but on the Sunday,
Donati was introduced to me by my brother as one of the most
promising young advocates at the Neapolitan bar, and his praises were
sung to me in a way which I own rather prejudiced me against him. I
couldn't help liking the fellow when I saw him, however; and you can
imagine my surprise when, on the Tuesday morning, I found that my
brother had quarrelled with him, and that their friendship was at an
end. He had decided on some course of action which the Captain
disapproved, and said you would also disapprove. However, the matter
was a private affair of Donati's and he bound me over to silence,
telling me however, that I should soon see all for myself, and should
then agree with him. I got quite on a wrong tack, and thought it was
some political difference, but surely this is the true explanation.
I appeal to you now, Miss Claremont, as a reader of romances:--given
a pretty actress, with a brute of a husband, and doubtless some not
too reputable admirers, is it not conceivable that circumstances
might arise which should induce her father or her brother to
sacrifice everything in order to save her?"
"Quite," said Clare; "and Carlo Donati would be the very man to throw
himself into the breach in that way; there was something chivalrous
about him, something one doesn't often meet with nowadays. Do you
remember Mrs. Browning's lines?
"'The world's male chivalry has perished out,
But women are knights-errant to the last.'
I always thought she wouldn't have written that if she had known
Carlo."
"I think there is no doubt that he is playing the part of
knight-errant now," said Mr. Britton, musingly; "and that he has a
hard time of it. I doubt if he will succeed, though. The sister
seemed to be a very shallow, heartless little woman. He is a noble
fellow, much too good to be wasted on such a life."
He gave Clare a detailed account of what had passed that afternoon.
"I am sorry he has gone on the stage," she said. "I hoped he would
have done great things. It seems to me that a man like that might
have wonderful influence in public life."
"And yet in some ways he is admirably fitted for his present work,"
said Mr. Britton. "His voice is very fine, and his acting really
first-rate; I went to hear him to-night, and was delighted with him.
Would you care to see him to-morrow? I want you to look him up, for
I think, poor fellow, he is leading the life of a dog; and he seemed
so pleased at the thought of meeting you again. I have promised that
the carriage shall take the Vicar into Ashborough in the afternoon;
he preaches at St. Cyprian's in the evening. Would you like to go
in, too? You might, perhaps, go for a drive with young Donati."
"It would be the best chance of seeing him alone," said Clare.
"Thank you, I think I will go, and on Sunday I suppose he is sure to
be disengaged."
Accordingly the next day Clare, having set down the Vicar at St.
Cyprian's parsonage, drove to the Royal Hotel, and sent in her card
with a little pencilled message asking Carlo to come for a drive. As
she waited there she felt a little anxious, and even shy, for after
all it was many years since she had seen Carlo. Would time have
raised a barrier between them? Would Signor Donati, the public
singer, be less approachable than the frank, light-hearted, Italian
boy, who at one time had almost worshipped her? The first glimpse of
him, however, dispelled all her fears; he came quickly forward with
the same eager boyish manner which she recollected so well, and took
both her hands in his.
"How good, how kind of you to come!" he exclaimed. "This is the
greatest pleasure I have had for a long time. Gigi," he turned to
pick up a small boy, "this is Miss Claremont. Should you mind,
Clare, if I brought him with me? Sunday has come to be considered
his special property."
Clare was delighted to welcome the little fellow, and made many
inquiries about his narrow escape of the previous day.
"What a great pleasure it must be to you now to feel that you saved
him!" she said. "I have often wondered how a rescuer would feel
afterwards."
"It's a satisfaction to feel that I have not failed in one thing
undertaken," said Carlo, rather sadly.
At first sight Clare had thought him hardly altered, but on looking
more closely at him she saw that his face, when in repose, bore signs
of friction; and, though still very young-looking, told plainly of
grief and sorrow undergone.
"That is a sad way of putting it," she said. "I thought, too, that
you had had such very great success,--Mr. Britton led me to believe
so."
"You see," he replied, "every artist leads a double life; just at
that moment I was thinking more of my own personal side of the
question, but really sometimes I think I'm making a failure of both."
"But you have surely had a very rapid success?"
"Don't think I am ungrateful for my reception," he said. "I know I
have made what the world calls a success, but I'm not yet satisfied
with myself; and each time I go on the stage I feel that I may fail
utterly. An artist's life is a life of eternal anxiety. But then to
counterbalance that we have moments of inspiration, and they are
worth all."
Clare was surprised at his sudden fervor.
"You really like your new profession, then?" she said. "I remember
you were always fond of music."
"I don't know how I should get on without it," he said. "It is not
only the music that is such a great delight, it is the getting out of
one's own world, the living in the characters of others, the sense of
holding the attention of one's audience and playing upon their
emotions, and the pleasure of giving pleasure. Besides, there is a
kind of satisfaction in being what you were meant to be."
"Had you long intended to take up this way of life?"
"No; but Piale had fully educated me for it. I was an advocate, you
know, though I had never practised."
"And I suppose it was your wish to be near your sister which prompted
you to make the change?" she said.
He was surprised, and yet relieved, that she had guessed as much.
"It was my last promise to our mother," he said. But he was quite
silent as to the sacrifice it had been to him to take up the
profession; and Clare, who had not the faintest suspicion of his love
for Francesca, could not, of course, realize what he had been
through. She wondered whether his plan had been a wise one, and
recalled Mr. Britton's description of Madame Merlino, and his
conviction that in this case chivalry would not avail.
"I know you don't approve of the stage," he said. "Had I thought you
would have seen things as I saw them I should have written to you
when we first came to England, for I was horribly lonely then."
"I wish you had," she said, with warm sympathy. "Indeed, I should
not have argued with you through the post! Nor will I argue now. It
is quite impossible for me really to judge: I know too little about
the stage."
"Yet you do disapprove in your secret heart," he said, rather
wistfully. He could not help longing for Clare's benediction on his
efforts.
"Perhaps it seems to me a little like doing evil that good may come,"
she said, hesitatingly. "But that may be only my British prejudice."
Then, seeing a sad look in his eyes, she added, quickly,--
"But, as I said before, Carlo, it is impossible for me to judge.
What did Captain Britton say to it?"
"He shared in the British prejudice."
A look of such deep pain flashed across his face that her heart smote
her; she had spoken without very much thought, forgetting that Carlo
would probably feel sore-hearted still at the recollection of the
quarrel with the Captain which Mr. Britton had mentioned. Of the
true state of the case he had nothing to tell her, and the best of
friends cannot avoid now and then wounding each other in the dark.
"As a matter of fact, you know," she said, in her sweet, bright way,
"I am a very ignorant woman as to these matters. I have never been
inside a theatre, I have never come across people connected with the
stage, and I have no doubt that the evils connected with theatrical
life are painted more darkly than they need be. Indeed, I should be
very glad if you could convert me."
"Then this shall be the first step in your conversion," he said,
smiling. "Look at these two ladies whom we are just going to pass on
the left."
Clare looked, Gigi kissed his hand, and the ladies bowed and smiled
as Carlo raised his hat.
"The tall one has a beautiful face!" exclaimed Clare. "So dignified
and sweet."
"That is Mlle. Borelli, our contralto; she is one of the noblest
women I know. The other is Mlle. Duroc, her great friend."
"A nice face, but not so striking as the other," was Clare's comment.
"Well, Carlo, I am glad to have seen them. Perhaps you will some day
convert me altogether and make me approve of theatres."
The talk turned on other matters, and before they parted Clare made
Carlo promise to come over to Merlebank the next afternoon, and to
bring Gigi with him.
Curiously enough, however, the question of theatrical life was to be
handled once more that day, and not with Clare's moderation.
St. Cyprian's was some way from the Royal Hotel, but Carlo, having
chanced upon a very dreary service in the morning at a neighboring
church, was determined to go farther afield, and, hearing from
Sardoni that it was considered one of the finest churches in England,
resolved to seek it out.
"It's at least a mile," said Sardoni; "however, the choir is worth
hearing, and if you're going I don't mind going with you."
So the two set off together, arriving somewhat late, and having to
content themselves with places at the very back of the church. Carlo
felt strangely tired; but he was very happy in having met Clare and
Mr. Britton once more, and he was glad Sardoni had volunteered to
come with him. The beautiful building, and the music, and the
service, which was always associated in his mind with Naples and
Francesca, would, even in their mere external aspect, have been a
refreshment; and he was gaining the rest he much needed when the
sermon began, and startled him back into his working-day existence.
For the preacher, sitting in his country vicarage, and well
conversant with all the pleasures of the country, which seemed to him
the only pleasures worth enumerating, had written a fierce diatribe
against the pleasures of the town, and notably against theatre-going.
Perhaps it had not occurred to him that members of the obnoxious
theatrical profession might be numbered in his flock; apparently he
considered them all to be reprobates, for he spoke of them in no
measured terms, and denounced their profession as an unhallowed
calling. Carlo was the more pained by the attack, because the
preacher was evidently a man of great earnestness, a good, upright,
honest man, not a mere denouncer. It was hard, too, to have his
brief respite from work disturbed and spoiled by so untimely an
assault. He tried not to listen, but the mere desire not to hear
made it impossible for him to lose himself in other thoughts, and
whether he would or no the words fell upon his ear.
"My brethren," continued the preacher, "I look at the hoardings in
your town and see how, even in this solemn time of Lent, the world
seeks to ensnare you. I see that, not content with the usual number
of theatres, another must be opened for the performance of operas;
and I fear that you may be tempted perhaps to snatch at a passing
pleasure. Let me urge you to withstand the temptation; let me
implore you, as you value the health of your own souls, to shun this
false and ensnaring pleasure, the influence of which must be
harmful--may be deadly. Most truly, most wisely do we sing the
words--
"'Christian, dost thou see them
On the holy ground;
How the troops of Midian
Prowl and prowl around?'"
Carlo was for the moment so much tickled by the implied comparison
between the wandering troupe of Merlino and the prowling troops of
Midian, that he had some difficulty in keeping his countenance. He
did not dare to look at Sardoni; but, taking up a book, read the rest
of the hymn, reflecting sadly that even the much-abused members of
the "unhallowed calling," did sometimes try their best to overcome
"By the merit of the holy Cross." The attack grieved him; it seemed
like the embodiment of the cause which had separated him from
Francesca. He had learnt, moreover, to love his profession; he
believed in it with all his heart; he knew that it need no more be an
unhallowed calling than the calling of the poet, or the painter, or
the sculptor, or the novelist. This preacher clearly failed to
understand the highest meaning of art--he had no sense of the
artistic side of life; neither had he any sense of humor, or he would
instantly have perceived the ludicrous turn which might be given to
his application of the "troops of Midian."
This particular Midianite began to wonder whether, if he from the
stage had begged people to shun the church and to refrain from giving
at the offertory, the preacher would not have denounced him as a man
who wilfully robbed another of his daily bread. He went on to
picture to himself the immediate consequences of any marked
falling-off in the attendance at the theatre: he thought of the heavy
loss to Merlino, the severe trial to his temper, the consequent
misery and suffering of all about him, the possible effect on Anita.
Then he went on to generalities, and tried to imagine the effect upon
art if the best and purest followed the preacher's advice, and went
no more to the theatre. He saw how the good, and the elevating, and
the lofty in the drama would perforce fail for lack of support; and
how the only thing that would pay would be that which pandered to the
lowest and vilest tastes. He felt that the members of his
profession, in such a state of things, would be placed in a grave
dilemma; unfit for any other calling, they would be forced either to
let their talents rust unused, and to sink into poverty and distress,
or to debase themselves by taking work which they knew to be unworthy
of them.
He would have liked to put such a case to the preacher, and he felt
curious to see what sort of man he was; but they were quite at the
back of the church, and an intervening pillar hid the pulpit from
view.
Feeling, somehow, that the sermon had shut him out from the
fellowship which he expected to find in a church, and had made him an
alien even in the body to which he rightfully belonged, he made his
way out again into the dark, dreary street, up which the March wind
blew gustily. A sense of intolerable fatigue came over him.
"What a pace you are walking at, Jack!" he exclaimed. "One might
think you were blessed with the seven-leagued boots, and were keeping
up with Sirocco!"
Sardoni modified his pace; and Carlo, glancing at him, saw an
expression about his mouth which boded no good.
"I'm sorry we came in for that sermon," he said.
"Well, at any rate, it will serve to show you what British prejudice
is!" said Sardoni, speaking more fiercely than the occasion seemed to
warrant. "I don't know what effect it will have as to theatre-going,
but I know that I shan't darken the doors of a church again in a
hurry!"
Carlo was silent, knowing that his companion was far too angry to be
reasoned with; and not another word passed between them on their way
back to the hotel.