A RESTORATION.
"Some say that the age of chivalry is past. The age of chivalry is
never past as long as there is a wrong left unredressed on earth, and
a man or woman left to say, 'I will redress that wrong, or spend my
life in the attempt.' The age of chivalry is never past so long as
men have faith enough in God to say, 'God will help me to redress
that wrong; or if not me, surely He will help those that come after
me. For His eternal will is to overcome evil with good.'"--CHARGES
KINGSLEY.
Kate Britton was an indefatigable worker; parish work was her
delight, and to her mind the luckless wight who did not go
district-visiting, who was not an ardent teetotaler, who could not
show a well-ordered Sunday-school class as the visible fruits of
persevering work, hardly deserved toleration. Like all workers who
are worth much she was full of enthusiasm, and would have been
greatly missed in the village; but she was "ill to live with" because
she had not yet learnt to see things from any point of view but her
own, and had an overweening idea of her own importance. Carlo Donati
was just now much on her mind; she had a feeling that he must have
been brought to Merlebank for some special purpose; and as it was
Kate's way to think always of the impression she might make on
others, rather than of the impression she might receive from them,
she began to consider how she could bring her influence to bear on
the Italian, and her enthusiasm was roused by an idea which came to
her one day as she mused over his life. What a glorious thing it
would be if she could convince him that he was leading a life
unworthy of a true man, and induce him to give up his profession!
With this in view, Kate put up with the infliction of the invalid's
presence, and when in a fortnight's time he was well enough to spend
most of the day in the morning-room, which adjoined his bedroom, she
was really glad to have an opportunity for beginning her operations.
As a rule she cordially disliked young men, and the one thorn in the
otherwise perfect bliss of her parish-work was the inevitable curate;
in her fear that she might be supposed to make her work an excuse for
flirtation, she ran to the opposite extreme, openly avowed herself as
a man-hater, and snubbed the entire biennial succession of deacons,
who were ordained to the title of the quiet little country parish,
but at the close of their two years' novitiate invariably passed on
to larger spheres of work.
The morning-room was a bright, sunny, cheerful room facing south, and
Carlo enjoyed his change of quarters very much; he was glad to see
Kate, too, for she interested him, and he delighted in tracing the
slight likeness to Francesca, which he had noticed when he first came
to Merlebank. Kate, who was inordinately self-conscious, quickly
perceived that his eyes followed her as she moved about the room
arranging flowers in the vases, and she felt provoked, for it would
be so horribly like a story-book if the invalid were to fall in love
with her; yet she could not snub him as she snubbed the curate,
because she wanted to influence him for his good, and longed for the
honor and glory of persuading him to quit the stage. Reflecting that
this was the Monday in Holy-week, she thought she would supply him
with suitable literature--at any rate the offer of books would make a
good opening for conversation. So she began boldly, yet with an
effort that surprised her; somehow, although she had astonishing
theories as to the universal depravity of young men, she had an
undefined consciousness that Carlo Donati was not so immeasurably
beneath her as the curates and the men to be met with at dances and
tennis-parties. This perception did not please her.
"Clare said your things had been put in here," she began; "but I
don't see anything but music, no books at all."
"I don't think I have any," said Carlo: "I am not much of a reader."
Kate felt dismayed, she could hardly conceive that any one could get
on in life without her particular little library of good books. It
was a slight relief to her to discover that among the pile of operas,
wedged in between _Masaniello_ and _Semiramide_, were a shabby little
Italian Testament and a very minute English Prayer-book.
Carlo on seeing this last gave a quick exclamation.
"Did I leave that out? Will you give it me, please?"
"And even this is not yours, but Francesca's!" she said, laughing, as
accidentally she dropped the book and noticed her cousin's name on
the fly-leaf.
He colored.
"She lent it to me the first time I went to the English church, and
since then I have always had it," he explained.
"It is dreadful print," said Kate, in her matter-of-fact way. "You
had better let me lend you a clearer one."
But Carlo held out his hand for it, and his fingers closed over it
jealously.
"It will do very nicely," he said. "I don't suppose I shall read it."
Which illogical statement would possibly have roused Kate's suspicion
had she not been racking her brain for the devotional books most
appropriate to his case.
She went across to her own particular bookshelf, and, to do her
justice, chose out a few books really worth reading, eschewed a
_Treasury of Devotion_ as likely to be uncongenial to one of Carlo's
turn of mind, and returned bearing _The Christian Year_, Taylor's
_Holy Living and Dying_, and a book of meditations for Holy-Week, of
which she was fond. He thanked her, but when later in the morning
she saw him again, she found to her great disgust, that he was poring
over _Les Huguenots_, and that her books were pushed aside.
"You didn't like them?" she said, with a touch of disappointment in
her tone.
"I'm afraid I didn't read much," he said, apologetically; "you see to
have this music within reach was more than I could resist. We have
not yet done _Les Huguenots_, but we shall rehearse it in the summer,
and give it in America this autumn. Do you know it well?"
"I have never heard an opera in my life," said Kate feeling annoyed
at his astonishment. "Do you really mean to go back to such a life?
It must surely be very bad for you."
"But you see the doctor quite gives me hope of being as strong as
ever again," replied Carlo, thinking she must refer to his health.
"I didn't mean that," replied Kate; "I meant it must surely be a very
bad life in other ways."
"It is very much like other lives, I fancy; it is what you like to
make it," he replied, quietly. He did not feel that he could very
well enter into a discussion with a young girl on the special
temptations of stage-life, and there was a silence.
"But surely all the applause and praise must be very trying?" said
Kate.
"Applause always makes me think of a _méringue_," said Carlo,
laughing a little; "sweet and evanescent, and leaves you longing for
more. I don't deny that it is a great pleasure, and a great help,
but I think it is a very innocent and legitimate pleasure."
"It must surely make you very vain?"
"Well, I hope not," said Carlo, smiling. "Of course, every artist
has to be careful not to get into the way of thinking that his powers
are merits instead of gifts. Years ago I heard Togni play at Naples,
and you know when our people applaud they applaud tremendously; I
shall never forget the deafening outburst; but it seemed to me like a
great thanksgiving to God who had given such power to men. It was
not Togni we applauded, it was the wonderful beauty and power which
he had unfolded for us."
"But clearly," said Kate, "the life must be full of excitement.
Surely your constant craving to get back to it again shows how
engrossing and dangerous it must be."
He could not explain to her that it was no anxiety for applause which
made him so eager to be back once more in Merlino's troupe, so he
turned the conversation, and Kate naturally concluded that her remark
had struck home. She despised him for evading the subject, but
noticing that he looked tired, offered to read to him.
He seemed relieved at the proposal, and opening the _Christian Year_,
asked her to read over again something which had taken his fancy.
"Exactly like his perverseness to choose the Tuesday in Whitsun-week
on the Monday in Holy-week," she reflected, knowing nothing of his
Whitsuntide associations. Moreover, the poem was the last one she
would have expected him to like; it seemed a mockery to her that a
man who was "fooling away his life on the stage" should be struck
with the lines,
"And whereso'er on earth's wide field
Ye lift for Him the red-cross shield,
Be this your song, your joy and pride--
'Our Champion went before and died.'"
It had never occurred to her as a possibility that an operatic singer
could appreciate sentiments of that sort. And she would have been
scandalized and dismayed could she have known of the unconscious,
matter-of-fact way in which Carlo would go from the altar to the
theatre, or, if it suited him better as to time, from the theatre to
the altar.
Very much perplexed as to the Italian's character, she walked that
afternoon down to the village, but had scarcely left the grounds when
she encountered the Vicar.
"I was just coming to your house," he remarked. "I hear you have a
young Italian staying with you, and was coming to inquire after him.
Is he better?"
"Oh, he is much better, thank you," said Kate. "I wish you would go
to see him, for perhaps you who feel so strongly about such matters
would be able to persuade him to leave the stage. I can't understand
him at all; he seems quite wrapped up in his profession, and it is so
sad to think of a really good man wasting his life in work of that
sort."
"I shall be very happy to see him," said the Vicar; "it will be quite
a treat to me to talk Italian again!" And without more delay he made
his way to the house, smiling to himself a little at Kate Britten's
eagerness to influence all she came across, and rather pleased at the
prospect of a new acquaintance in his small and not very interesting
parish. He had preached only a little while ago against theatres,
and it was satisfactory to be brought face to face in this way with a
veritable member of the profession.
Having received a message that Signor Donati would be very glad to
see him, the Vicar followed the servant upstairs to the morning-room,
where he found the invalid on a couch drawn close to the fire. He
was surprised at his fluent English; his accent, too, was perfect,
and it was only by a very slight peculiarity in the intonation, and
every now and then by some unusual little bit of phraseology, that he
betrayed his foreign birth. His face, however, was unmistakably
Italian, and, though he was evidently weak and tired the Vicar
thought him looking much less ill than might have been expected after
so serious an attack. The formal greetings were only just over when
Carlo, having thoroughly studied the strong, intellectual face of his
visitor--his calm, deep-set eyes, and the sort of general air of
"iron-gray" which characterized him--exclaimed, with an excitement
which surprised the Vicar,--
"I believe, sir--indeed, I am quite sure--that we have met before!"
Now, the Vicar had at that moment been thinking of his sermon at St.
Cyprian's, and admitting to himself that this actor, at any rate, did
not at all fit-in with his preconceived notion of the members of the
"unhallowed calling," so, naturally enough, he thought that Carlo
must refer to this occasion.
"Can you have been in the congregation at St. Cyprian's when I
preached there the other day!" he exclaimed. "I little thought I was
addressing any one connected with the stage."
"Ah! was it indeed you who preached that sermon?" said Carlo,
quickly. "Yes, I was there with my friend Sardoni, the tenor of the
company; but we were quite at the back of the church, and could not
even see the pulpit. Was it indeed you who preached? That is one of
the oddest coincidences I ever knew."
"But when can you have met me before?" said the Vicar, looking
puzzled. "Can I have met you in Italy and have forgotten?"
"Do you remember being in Naples last May, and going one afternoon
into one of the _cafés_ in the Piazza Plebiscite, and talking with
your companion as to the improvement of the world in general in the
nineteenth century?"
"With Stanley!--yes, yes, I remember it quite well!" said the Vicar.
"Do you remember how you said that men were not more willing to live
the life of the Crucified? Well, I was sitting close by and heard
you, and I owe you much, for those words haunted me continually,
and--but this will, I fear, shock you--they helped me to choose my
present profession."
The Vicar smiled a little. He could just perceive, though not so
clearly as Carlo perceived, the irony of the situation. Mr. Britton
had given him a hint as to Donati's motive in going on the stage, and
had expressed a hope that the Vicar, if he had any opportunity, would
do his best to dissuade him from returning to it, feeling convinced
that Madame Merlino's case was hopeless. And now to be told that it
was in some degree owing to words of his that the choice had been
made was, to say the least of it, startling, while the knowledge that
the Italian had been listening in St. Cyprian's to his tirade against
theatres vexed him not a little. The Vicar was a kind-hearted man,
though many people considered him hard; but, as a matter of fact, the
idea of having denounced such a man as Donati to his face, and having
probably pained him, caused him serious annoyance.
"I have always disapproved of the stage," he said after a brief
pause. "But I am exceedingly sorry that you heard that sermon the
other night, for it must have seemed hard and unjust to you, I am
afraid."
"I will tell you quite candidly just how it was," said Carlo. "It
did vex me, I must allow, but then I was beginning to feel ill and
overdone, and had had rather a rough time of it through the week, and
it seemed hard to lose the sense of fellowship which one counts on
getting, at any rate, in church. But what vexed me most of all, and
perhaps made me exaggerate your denunciation, was that my friend
Sardoni, who does not go in much for church services, happened that
night to have come with me."
"Did it do him harm, do you think?" asked the Vicar.
Carlo hesitated.
"He was very angry about it," he said, at length; "unreasonably
angry, I thought. But he has a good deal to trouble him, and there
were reasons which made any attack from the Church on our profession
specially painful to him."
He broke off as the door opened, and looked with feverish eagerness
towards the servant who entered with the afternoon letters. Just at
this time he seemed to live in perpetual craving for post-time; for
not only was he terribly anxious to hear from Sardoni how matters
were going on in the Company, but he had always an undefined hope
that some one at Merlebank would hear from Francesca, and that at
least some fragments of the letter might be read or quoted in his
presence. This afternoon there arrived the letter from Sardoni for
which he had looked and waited so long.
"Will you excuse me just for one minute?" he said. "This is from my
friend Sardoni, of whom we were just speaking. If you will allow
me--I am ashamed to ask such a thing--but I am very anxious to see
how things are going with them."
He opened the envelope, tossed it aside, and began to read eagerly.
Involuntarily the Vicar glanced at the handwriting of the direction.
It was large and marked--a peculiar and thoroughly characteristic
hand. The color rose to his forehead--his lips trembled. He waited,
partly to recover his self-control, partly to allow Carlo time to
glance through the letter, then, with undisguised eagerness, he
exclaimed--
"This friend of yours, Signor Donati,--what did you say he was
called?"
"Sardoni; he is the _primo tenore_ of our troupe. Such a
good-hearted fellow! I don't know what I should do without him."
"But that perhaps is an assumed name! What is his true name? Is he
not an Englishman?"
"He is English, but he keeps entirely to his _nom-de-guerre_," said
Carlo.
"Even you, his friend, do not know his true name?"
"Yes, I do know it; but he does not wish it generally known. Have
you any special reason for asking? Good heavens!" he exclaimed, as
an idea suddenly occurred to him; "can it possibly be that which
altered him so much after the sermon? Sir, I beg you to tell me your
name? I have only heard you spoken of as the Vicar."
"My name is John Postlethwayte," said the Vicar, watching with
anxiety indescribable the effect of his words on the Italian.
There was no mistaking the intense excitement which dawned in Carlo's
face.
"You saw and recognized this writing?" he asked, breathlessly,
pointing to the envelope; then as the Vicar signed an assent, "Thank
God, I have come across you! I see there can be no doubt that you
are his father!"
Tears started to the Englishman's eyes. Carlo observed this with
relief. The Vicar did not seem nearly so hard and uncompromising as
Sardoni had led him to expect.
"My son was here, then, in Ashborough!" he exclaimed--"was actually
in the church that night, and never came near me! I have spent my
life in looking for him!--have wandered all over the Continent in the
hope of finding him once more!--and does he now avoid and shun me
when we are in the same town?"
"It must have been that which made him feel the sermon so much," said
Carlo. "He knew you disapproved of the stage; he was afraid you
would not believe that he had turned over a new leaf--he told me that
long ago; and then, of course, when he heard you speak so strongly
against actors and their calling he would naturally be repulsed and
disheartened!"
The Vicar paced the room in great distress. It was indescribably
bitter to him to realize that his son should have happened to hear
that one sermon, and to reflect that the whole course of his life
might have been altered had his theme been of reconciliation and
charity.
"But all will be well now," said Carlo; "for, if you have searched
for him, then you must really care to be reconciled to him--and,
indeed, he wishes your forgiveness. The very first day after we
landed in England, he went straight to your old home, fully expecting
to find you there. It was then he told me all about it, and gave me
his true name. Poor Jack! I shall never forget his misery when he
found a stranger in your place."
"Did he go, indeed, to the old home?" said the Vicar, eagerly. "My
poor boy, if only I had been there to meet him! But surely he could
have found out in the village where I had gone to?"
"He did send me to make inquiries," said Carlo, "and the old sexton
told me you were at Cleevering, in Mountshire. But when Jack found
how, through his fault, your home had been broken up and your work
spoiled, he said he could not write to you or seek you out. Indeed,
I doubt if we shall ever get him here unless we take him altogether
by surprise. He would say that he would not come back to be a
disgrace to you in a new parish."
"Then I must go to him!" said the Vicar.
Carlo hesitated. He pictured to himself the sort of meeting that
might take place in one of the second-rate hotels, or in the dingy
lodgings which Merlino's troupe frequented, where privacy was out of
the question, and where Sardoni, because of his surroundings, would
certainly not show to the greatest advantage. He thought of the
gossip which would be set afloat in the troupe, and realized how
distasteful it would all be to his friend.
"If you don't mind," he said, "I think it would be much better if I
wrote to him and begged him to come down and see me; I think I could
write urgently enough to bring him, and on Good Friday there will of
course be no opera, and it is possible that he might even be able to
arrange to stay over Easter Monday. Will you mind just handing me
that pocketbook, and I will see where the Company will be? Ah, yes,
I thought so; they will be at Worcester, and on the Saturday will be
giving _Marta_. I have no doubt that Merlino will let Caffieri take
Lionello in Jack's place; he did so once in the autumn."
Spite of his excitement and anxiety the Vicar could not but perceive
that his visit was tiring the invalid.
"I am ashamed to have forgotten your illness in my own great joy," he
said, rising to go. "I little thought what news awaited me when I
came here."
"This is worth being ill for," said Carlo. "I shall write to Jack by
the first post to-morrow."
Probably the doctor would highly have disapproved had he known of the
little plot which was being worked out in his patient's room; but
only Clare and Mr. Britton were taken into the secret, and in truth
the excitement and hope acted like a sort of tonic, and Carlo forgot
for a time his own anxieties in planning his various arrangements for
that eventful Good Friday. Sardoni had written to say that he would
come at half-past three in the afternoon, and Carlo awaited his
arrival in some trepidation. Remembering the unpleasant sensation he
had experienced at Piale's house of having been entrapped, he
abandoned the rather stagey idea which had first suggested itself to
him, of allowing Sardoni to be shown in upon his father without any
preparation. Nevertheless, he was too thorough an Italian not to be
dramatic, and the Vicar was glad enough to trust the management of
all to one who really knew his son much better than he could pretend
to do. He listened to the Italian's ideas with some surprise, but he
did not call them in question. Sardoni might now be expected to
arrive at any minute, and the Vicar, waiting with Carlo in the
morning-room was enduring tortures of suspense and anxiety.
"When we hear him arrive," said Carlo, quietly, "I want you to go
through that inner door into the next room; leave the door ajar.
Then, when Jack comes, I will tell him the whole truth, and how I
came across you, and how you recognized his writing. That being
settled, I shall ask him to help me to my bedroom. When you hear us
get up, then leave my room where you have waited by the other door,
leading into the passage, and come back here. I know you are
thinking me like a stage-manager, but, don't you see, this is the
only means of getting me out of the way. You will now meet alone and
unobserved; Jack will have been prepared, and will not feel that we
have dealt unfairly by him; and yet he will in a sense be surprised
when he goes back to find you there, because he will have been
bracing up his mind to the idea of seeking you out at the Vicarage."
All these little considerations would never have occurred to Mr.
Postlethwayte; he was dreadfully afraid that something would not
work, that he should make a blunder and forget when to make his exit,
or by what door. But Carlo seemed to have perfect confidence in his
little plot; and when the supreme moment arrived, the Vicar, waiting
in the inner room, began to feel confidence in the man who had
planned all with such perfect appreciation of the feelings of others,
and whose sole thought of himself had been how, when his work was
over, he could best be got out of the way.
And now a brisk, familiar step was heard in the passage, the
maid-servant announced in the most prim and ordinary way, "Signor
Sardoni," and the next moment Jack strode into the room. The Vicar
bit his lip hard as he heard the hearty, cheerful voice which had
been silent to him for so many years.
"Well, old fellow, how are you? Why, you are looking almost yourself
again. This is a case of Mother Hubbard's dog; I thought I should
find you ready to make your last will and testament, as you were so
anxious to see me once more. I shall take back good news for the
troupe; we are all longing for you back again, though Comerio tries
hard to be civil, and to win golden opinions. And that reminds me,
Val; I've just hit upon a way of turning an honest penny."
"What's that?" said Carlo, getting in a word with difficulty.
"Why, I mean to write a sensational article for one of the Reviews,
on the Italian Character. The motto to be the old nursery rhyme,
adapted,
"'When they are good, they are very, very good,
And when they are bad they are horrid.'
That man is a fiend, his cunning and malice are beyond anything I
ever knew."
"Presently I want you to tell me all," interposed Carlo, seizing at
once on the momentary pause. "But, Jack, first of all, there is
something I must tell you. What parish do you think this house is
in?"
"Parish! How should I know?" said Sardoni.
"It is in the parish of Cleevering," said Carlo, quietly.
Sardoni sprang to his feet.
"Good God, Donati!--and did you bring me here for that reason? Have
I not told you that nothing will induce me to revive the old
disgrace? Look here! that attack we heard in the church the other
night on the stage--that was spoken by my father! Do you think,
after that, he would care to have me coming home?"
"I know he would," said Carlo. "Don't be angry, Jack; just hear me
quietly to the end. I did not betray you, but your father has found
you out." He told him graphically just what had happened, then
continued: "Do you think he was thinking of the 'disgrace' when he
threw up everything to go and search for you on the Continent? Do
you think he cares a rush for what people say when his first impulse
was to go straight to Worcester and see you? Perhaps it would have
been better, after all, if I had not suggested this other plan."
"No, no!" broke in Sardoni; "I could never have stood that. But yet,
I doubt if I can do it, Val. It was hard enough last time with you.
And alone! No, I can't do it! You'll never know what it is to an
Englishman--the mere walking up to the house and ringing the bell!"
"But you would at least do as much as that for one who has tramped
all over Europe for you?" said Carlo.
"It's not that," said Sardoni, brushing his hand impatiently across
his eyes. "It's not that I mean! Upon my soul, Donati, I think you
are too good to understand how it is with me."
Carlo replied only by one of his expressive gestures.
"Too tired to discuss the matter further, we will say. Give me an
arm, will you, Jack? I will go to my room and rest, and will see you
again later on."
"I forgot how ill you had been!" said Sardoni, with compunction.
"And now I have tired you, and thought only of my own affairs, like
the brute that I am!"
He helped him into the adjoining room, and Carlo, conscious of much
the same sensation about the heart as he had felt on the night of his
first appearance in public, dismissed him.
"If you ring the bell in the next room," he remarked, "they'll show
you to your room, or, if you make up your mind to go to the vicarage,
steer for the church tower, and you can't mistake the house, for they
say there is none other near."
"I wish you were about, and could go there with me," said Sardoni,
with a sigh.
"You are much better alone. I told you last time I should only have
been in the way. Now for my _siesta_. _A rivederci!_"
Sardoni turned away slowly and with a sort of reluctance--almost as
if he were already in imagination rehearsing that difficult return
which Carlo had spoken of. To steer straight for the church tower!
What a walk that would be!--what a fight would be involved in every
step! He closed the door, and once more re-entered the morning-room.
Was that Mr. Britton standing by the window? But at the sound of the
shutting of the door the figure turned, and crossed the room in eager
haste.
Sardoni's heart beat like a sledge hammer; the tears rushed to his
eyes.
"Father!" he faltered. "Did you come?--are you here?"
And Carlo himself would have been satisfied could he have seen the
manner of their meeting.
When they could speak, the Vicar replied to the incoherent question.
"It was your friend's doing! He thought this would be the best
place."
"It is all his doing!" said Sardoni, in a choked voice.
There was a pause, broken at last by the father.
"Let us come home together!" he said.
And Carlo, lying tired-out in the next room, heard the door of the
morning-room open, and knew that all was well, and pictured to
himself how the two would walk together towards the house by the
church, and how Sardoni would smile to himself when he found that
there was no question as to ringing of bells, since the father would
throw the door wide, and himself take him into the new home where
even dark memories would not be allowed to enter and spoil the peace
of their reconciliation.
But what passed he never actually knew, because there are things too
sacred to be put into words--things which men learn to take on trust
even with their closest friends.
Sardoni returned in the evening, and talked of Anita, and Comerio,
and Gigi, and of the various vicissitudes of the Company in the last
three weeks. But on Easter Eve, in the morning, when Carlo, like a
true Neapolitan, desired to begin the _Festa_, the Vicar came true to
his appointment, and with him came his son.
"You will have the necessary third without me," whispered Clare,
thinking they would rather be alone. "I will go."
"No," said Carlo. "I should like to have you both, if you don't
mind. Jack, this is my friend, Miss Claremont."
Clare welcomed him quietly, and the two friends just gripped each
other's hands, and not another word passed between them till they had
joined in their Easter communion.
The Vicar was a man of large experience, and he had learnt not to be
very much surprised at the extraordinary coincidences of life, and to
believe in the truth of the saying that it is the unexpected which
happens. But, with all his knowledge of life, he would hardly have
credited the words of one who had foretold to him that within a few
weeks of his denunciation of the stage he should be under the deepest
of obligations to an operatic singer, and should have joined with
him, and with his long-lost son, in the most sacred act of worship
and sign of fellowship.