AN ENGLISH HOME.
"Nor hath thy knowledge of adversity
Robbed thee of any faith in happiness,
But rather cleared thine inner eyes to see
How many simple ways there are to bless."
LOWELL.
The next day, according to his promise, Carlo went over to Merlebank.
"How good of you to come," said Clare, hastening forward to greet him
as he was shown into the drawing-room; "I was afraid this gloomy
afternoon might frighten you away. I must introduce you to
Francesca's cousins whom you have so often heard of."
Carlo looked eagerly enough to see if he could trace any likeness to
Francesca in the four girls who came up in frank and friendly fashion
to shake hands with him. Kate, the eldest, was about her age, and he
instantly perceived that she had the same English gray eyes--dark
gray, with no blue in their depths. Though, however, she was a
nice-looking girl, she made no pretensions to beauty; but every now
and then a tone in her voice would thrill him by its likeness to
Francesca's and he felt much attracted by her, though he perceived at
once that she was passing judgment on him, and that her manner was
more critical and less friendly than that of the younger girls.
Lucy, the second sister, was fairer and prettier, and seemed to be
the sweet-tempered one of the family, but she interested him less
than Kate, whose slightly aggressive manner piqued him into
curiosity. Molly was a rather tomboyish young person of fourteen,
with a frank hail-fellow-well-met manner; and Flo, the baby of the
family, was just eleven, a slim little girl, with short, fair hair,
and very short petticoats, who enjoyed life in a kittenish sort of
way, and, while much petted by every one in the house, had somehow
just escaped spoiling.
Clare sat, looking wonderfully natural, in the corner of the big
Chesterfield sofa, and made him sit beside her, where they could talk
comfortably together, a little removed from the group of girls who,
on the other side of the hearth, clustered round Gigi and made much
of him. The drawing-room was such a room as Carlo had never before
seen, and after the weary round of dingy lodgings and second-rate
hotels to which he had of late been accustomed he could fully
appreciate it. It reminded him just a little of the _salotto_ at
Casa Bella in its air of comfort and homelikeness, but whereas the
Casa Bella room had a semi-Italian air, from its Cantigalli _plaques_
and pottery, and its striped silk _couvrettes_, this room was
thoroughly and typically English. A second room, visible by day, was
curtained off in the evening, when snugness reigned supreme; a fire
of coals, crowned by a huge log, burned in the low, wide grate, and
sent a ruddy glow over the brass fender and dainty brass fireirons;
while a warm-toned Persian carpet and wallflower-red curtains
harmonized well with the salmon-tinted walls, upon which were
gathered a wealth of pictures that at once attracted Carlo's eye,
though the names on the massive gilt frames Brett, Ansdell, Vicat
Cole, and Millais, conveyed to him as a foreigner, no special meaning.
Clare was a little afraid of alluding to Casa Bella after her rather
careless speech of the preceding day, but she spoke of the Ritters,
and of other mutual friends, and asked endless questions about Naples
and Pozzuoli which Carlo was enchanted to answer. For many months he
had been utterly cut off from all his old ties, and from the people
who could sympathize with them; it was delightful to him to go over
the familiar ground once more with some one who knew it and loved it
almost as well as he did. To be with Clare again made him feel
strangely young and light-hearted. He forgot Anita and Comerio; he
forgot all the petty jealousies and disputes of the company; he even
forgot his own private troubles, found genuine relief in speaking
Francesca's name, and could almost have fancied that he was once more
a boy, resolving to work and wait till he could present his name to
Captain Britton with the prefix of _Avvocato_.
"You can stay a nice long time, I hope?" said Clare. "Mr. Britton
will be coming in soon, I think, and he specially wished to see you.
He so much enjoyed your singing on Saturday."
"This is my off day," explained Carlo, "so I am not bound to be back
by any special time. It is _Fra Diavolo_ to-night, and I have no
part in that."
"Is that your only chance of a holiday? Do you mean that you sing
all the other nights of the week?"
"That just depends on whether the engagements dovetail into each
other. Very often they do. When the town is important we generally
stay a week, and then the round seldom varies. Arrive on Sunday,
_Faust_ on Monday, _Fra Diavolo_ Tuesday, _Somnambula_ Wednesday,
_Lucia_ Thursday, _Barbiere_ Friday, _Rigoletto_ Saturday, on to the
next place on Sunday."
"Is the travelling always done on Sunday?"
"Not always, but very frequently. You see it is the only day you
close your theatres. Now with us the theatres are shut on Friday,
but we play our best operas in our best style on the _Festa_. There
is something to be said for both sides of the question. Last week we
had engagements of two and three nights only at small places, and
travelled here in detachments, the bulk of the company by special
train on Friday evening, the rest of us on Saturday afternoon. So at
Ashborough the days are slightly varied, and on Thursday we move on
to Queenbury for two nights."
"It must be a very hard life," said Clare.
"It is no light work, as some people seem to fancy, specially when
the winter is so severe."
"Yes, you must have felt the cold dreadfully."
"I have at any rate learnt to appreciate warmth. The only drawback
is that in England it seems impossible to be warm on both sides at
once. You may scorch your shins at the fire, and yet the back of
your leg will still be frozen! But I see you understand here how to
build up a glorious fire. We don't come across such fireplaces as
that."
While he talked he watched with the interest of a foreigner all that
was going on, wondered for what reason the footman appeared with a
trivet and a bright copper kettle, and speculated as to the little
folding-table which was being set up on the other side of the
fireplace. A daintily-worked cloth was spread over it, then came the
explanation in the form of a beautifully inlaid ebony and silver
tray, with the most fascinating of silver tea-services, and delicate
blue and white china cups.
"This is just like Salem," announced Gigi. "We've never had real
proper tea since Salem."
Carlo, seeing that Kate had some unknown designs on the copper
kettle, hastened to offer his services.
"Tea-making is a process I have never seen," he said wondering what
on earth he was to do with the kettle now that he had valiantly
seized upon it.
"Thank you, a little in the teapot, please," said Kate. "That will
do."
He restored it to the trivet, and noticed that Kate's hands were
exactly like Francesca's. He could not take his eyes off them as she
measured out tea from a pretty little silver caddy with a silver
cockleshell. They were not luxuriously brought up girls, in spite of
their father's wealth. They were accustomed to helping themselves,
and did not care to have servants always at their beck and call.
Indeed, Kate was of so independent a nature that she would willingly
have dispensed with Carlo's assistance, and observing that the kettle
did not boil, she set it further back on the trivet, and with
something a little defiant in her expression, prepared to take it off
at the critical minute.
"What was the first edition for?" asked Carlo.
"Oh, that was to warm the teapot, a very important part of the
matter," she explained.
"Pray let me have my share in this mysterious process," said Carlo,
forestalling her as she was about to carry off the kettle in triumph.
"It has to me, you know, all the interest of a new experiment in
chemistry."
"You don't mean to say Francesca hasn't introduced afternoon tea yet
at Casa Bella?"
There was a general exclamation.
"You see in Italy we naturally enough go in more for cooling drinks.
She was very clever at making lemonade."
He felt himself coloring at the recollection of that hot summer day
in the Rose-room, and was glad to turn his back on the five pairs of
eyes, and to put the kettle again on the trivet. A further diversion
was made by the entrance of the servant with cakes and thin
bread-and-butter and a great dish of crumpets, which was set down in
the fender to keep hot. There was something charmingly easy and
informal in the whole thing, Carlo thought; he wondered what it was
that gave the English their special power of making homes, and once
more the tone of Kate's voice took him back with a pang that was half
of pleasure, half of pain, to the thought of Francesca. For a minute
he called up the picture of what might have been. He saw the Villa
Bruno with the alterations which she would have made in it; he
possessed in imagination the wife and the home which he had
renounced; and the dream was so sweet that it was almost worth the
revulsion of feeling which quickly followed.
There must have been a brain-wave between him and Kate, for at that
moment she startled him with the question. "I suppose they have new
neighbors now at Casa Bella? Who took your house when you left?"
"It was taken by Count Carossa," he replied. "Mr. Britton met him at
Naples on Whit-Sunday. He has a yacht not unlike the _Pilgrim_, and
was anchored close by."
"I remember now, father mentioned him. What sort of man is he? Will
Uncle Britton like him?"
"I believe he was much taken with him," replied Carlo, hearing his
own calm replies with a sort of astonishment.
"Uncle is dreadfully fond of people with titles," said Kate. "It is
his one weakness. Is Count Carossa really nice, do you think?"
"I have only met him once," replied Carlo. "He is quite young and
very rich, rather an original sort of man, has travelled a great
deal, and is a good _raconteur_."
He ran off the list of his rival's merits unfalteringly, but was
secretly relieved by an interruption.
"Don't you hear wheels?" exclaimed Lucy, opening the drawing-room
door that she might listen better.
"Yes, it is father!" cried little Flo, "for Bevis is waking up.
See," she said, drawing Carlo's attention to a very old deer-hound
which lay stretched out comfortably on the hearth-rug. "Bevis always
does that when he hears the carriage, but when it is only people
coming to call he sleeps right on."
In the hall there was a little bustle of arrival and welcome. The
return of the father and son from business made one of the
pleasantest of the daily events in that quiet country household.
They brought with them a sort of atmosphere of the world which was
refreshing. Generally there were commissions to be delivered, or
library books to be eagerly seized upon, and invariably there was
some sort of news to be discussed. Carlo realized something of this
as Mr. Britton came into the room with Lucy, his favorite daughter,
clinging to his arm, and the dog Oscar, son to the elderly Bevis, at
his heels.
The shipbuilder never showed to greater advantage than in his own
house. Looking now at his clear gray eyes, his refined face, his
thick white hair and snowy, well-kept beard, he seemed to Carlo the
perfection of an English gentleman. His manner was delightful, a
little more courteous than the manner of the Englishmen Carlo had
hitherto come across, but free from all suspicion of formality, a
manner that was genuinely friendly without being in the least
over-familiar. He gave Carlo a hearty welcome, and turned to
introduce him to his son, who seemed to be much what Mr. Britton must
have been forty years ago.
Harry Britton had not yet acquired, however, his father's easy,
genial way of talking; he seemed not quite at his ease with the
Italian; and, after the greetings were over, moved away with a
perceptible air of relief, which tickled Carlo not a little, and
began to open the shiny black bag which he held in his left hand.
From this he proceeded to dole forth various purchases which the
girls had asked him to make, ending with the evening paper, which he
as usual brought dutifully to Clare, with a little time-honored joke
which had for them all a halo of happy associations.
Carlo watched the little bit of by-play, and understood it all
perfectly. It brought back to his mind the old days when Clare was
in Italy, and had been to him just such a true, staunch, cheery
friend as she was now to Harry Britton. To his tired brain there was
something indescribably refreshing in that glimpse of home-life. It
was a scene which he never forgot, and which often returned to him
with a sense of comfort in his wandering, homeless life. For there
are people so genuine, so English, so whole-hearted, that they can
make even afternoon callers feel, for the time being, one of
themselves--can send them forth again with a pleasant, living picture
in their hearts, and a consciousness that there is true friendliness
and good fellowship in a world which had seemed to them for the most
part a place of weary formality and routine.
He felt a great wish to do something for these people, and knowing
that etiquette forbade them to ask him to sing, and that Clare was
anxious to hear him, he took advantage of some reference which Mr.
Britton made to his singing in Faust, to offer to sing them "_Dio
Possente_."
The unmistakable look of real delight which greeted the suggestion,
and the eager way in which Molly and Flo ran to open the piano,
pleased him more than the loudest public applause could have done.
He sang very well, and entranced his hearers, rousing even Harry out
of his shy reserve.
"Do you ever sing English songs?" he asked, when the chorus of thanks
had ceased, volunteering his first uncalled-for remark to the Italian.
"Not very often," replied Carlo, wondering whether he could get
through "Love for a Life," and, after a moment's debate, decided to
risk it for the sake of pleasing Francesca's cousin. "There is one
song by my old Maestro with English words. Perhaps you know it?"
He struck a few chords, then broke into the introduction to the song
which transported him once more to that first happy day of his
betrothal. To sing it was hard, and yet his very emotion gave him a
power which he would not otherwise have possessed,--it made him able
to bring tears into the eyes of more than one of his listeners--it
set kind-hearted Mr. Britton weaving plans for a reconciliation, and
imagining a happy ending to Francesca's love-story.
"I sang that for you," said Carlo, with a little bow of
acknowledgment for Harry's warm thanks. "Now, if you are not quite
tired of me, I should very much like to sing one song for Miss
Claremont. You must choose it, Clare," he said, turning to her, and
looking with a smile into her sympathetic eyes.
"May I really choose?" she said. "Then I should like that old
favorite of mine, 'The Pilgrim of Love.'"
"That will also be an indirect compliment to the yacht," said Carlo
laughing. "Or was that called after the _Pilgrim's Progress_? But
let me see, can I get through the words? How do you pronounce that
bit I always used to come to grief over?"
"'Nay, nay, courteous father'?" suggested Clare, recalling merry
disputes in the Casa Bella drawing-room.
"That was it! 'Curteous' or 'corteous'--how do you say it?"
They laughed over the old discussions, and discussed them over again,
and after some little delay Carlo sang the song, and finally left
them to be haunted for many a day to come by the refrain, "No rest
but the grave for the pilgrim of love."
"He seems a nice sort of fellow!" was Harry's comment, when, the
guests having departed, his natural manner returned to him. "I say,
it didn't matter, did it, my asking him if he sang English songs? I
thought none of those operatic fellows did."
"Oh, dear no," said Clare. "Nothing pleases Carlo so much as to give
pleasure."
"Well, it was awfully jolly of him to sing such a lot. He doesn't
seem a bit stuck up. But, I say, why on earth can't they be called
like ordinary Christians? Carlo and Gigi! Did you ever hear of a
more horsey and doggy couple!"
"That's just your narrow-mindedness," said Clare, laughing. "Carlo
is as good a name as Charles, and Gigi sounds no more foolish to an
Italian than Johnny or Tommy to us."
"Well, Clare, for my part I don't understand your Signor Donati. If
he is the sort of man he seems to be, why does he live such a useless
life?" said Kate, with the severity of three-and-twenty.
"He may have many reasons which we don't understand," said Clare.
"However, I candidly confess that I wish he would leave the stage.
He looks to me terribly delicate."
"He is far too good for that company," said Mr. Britton. "I
shouldn't be at all surprised if he did leave the stage before long.
I hope he may--I hope he may! There's something about him which
quite fascinates one, though I do wish he could have been an
Englishman."
The laughter evoked by this truly British remark was only checked by
the warning clock, which made Clare and the younger girls beat a
hasty retreat to the schoolroom, and sent Kate to read to her invalid
grandmother, and to moralize in her own mind over Carlo's mistake in
choosing so unworthy a profession.