AT PALAZZO FORTI.
"Love is enough: ho, ye who seek saving
Go no further; come hither; there have been who have found it,
And these know the House of Fulfilment of Craving;
These know the cup with the roses around it;
These know the World's Wound and the balm that hath bound it;
Cry out, the World heedeth not, 'Love, lead us home!'
"He leadeth, he hearkeneth, he cometh to youward;
Set your faces as steel to the fears that assemble
Round his goad for the faint, and his scourge for the forward;
Lo his lips, how with tales of last kisses they tremble!
Lo his eyes of all sorrow that may not dissemble!
Cry out, for he heedeth, 'O Love lead us home!'"
WILLIAM MORRIS.
On that Monday evening, after Carlo had started for Casa Bella, Nita
dined alone, Gigi hovering round, and always ready to accept
promiscuous mouthfuls off her plate like a pet dog. When the child
had gone to bed, she sat down to the piano, her fingers roaming over
the keys and playing a sort of subdued accompaniment to her reverie.
"I'm going to turn over a new leaf," she thought to herself; "it is
after all rather pleasant to be good, and not so hard as I thought.
I have enjoyed these days on the yacht with the Brittons; it was not
half so dull as I expected. There was something so peaceful and
quiet about it. I think I'm tired of being naughty. Now I'll be
like Carlo; that will be a novelty."
She was interrupted by the entrance of the servant with a visitor's
card. Holding out her hand for it carelessly, she glanced down at
the name and saw that it was Comerio's. A terrible fear seized on
her.
"Say I do not receive to-night. I am engaged--not well!" she
exclaimed breathlessly.
The servant retired, but in another minute came back still bearing
the card, on which Comerio had pencilled a few words.
"You must see me on a matter of life and death!"
Nita's color came and went, but to refuse now seemed to her
impossible, and the next minute she was alone with her lover. Yet,
after all, did she love him or hate him? Of one thing only she was
conscious--that with all her heart she feared him, and that over her
he had some strange, deadly influence.
"How can you dare to come here!" she cried, passionately. "Did I not
tell you I would never speak to you again?"
Comerio smiled.
"I come because I love you," he replied; "because I knew you would
not keep to your threat; because, happen what may, I will never give
you up. I have waited for you all these years, Nita, but now you
will be mine."
"Never!" she cried, vehemently; and, with a growing sense of terror,
she tried to pass him and reach the door.
"Do not speak too hastily," he said, intercepting her; "you are
altogether in my power. Your brother has thwarted me for long; now
it is my turn. If you wish him to die, to be murdered for your sake,
you will refuse to come with me. If you wish to save him you will
leave Naples with me to-night; we will fly to Australia and begin our
new life there!"
"Oh! it isn't true," sobbed Nita; "it can't be true! Carlo could
never be in your power!"
"Not true?" said Comerio, with a mocking laugh. "It is as true as
the Gospel. Do you think the Pozzuoli road is so much frequented
that I couldn't have him waylaid? I tell you his fate rests in your
hands. Now choose!"
"You must be a fiend!" sobbed Nita. "Only a fiend could make such a
plan!"
"A fiend or a lover," said Comerio. "All is fair in love and war,
Nita, and I love you--I love you,--and I will have you. You shall
not deny me!"
Again the old subtle influence crept over poor Nita's tempest-tossed
heart; it needed only half an hour of Comerio's impassioned pleading
to break down all her resolutions. After all, her life was hard and
weary, and her husband rough and overbearing, and goodness was dull,
and this scheme was exciting; besides, it would save Carlo--Carlo,
whom she really loved. Yes, she would save him at all costs; she,
too, would be self-sacrificing--she would give up everything to save
him from death.
It was all over very quickly--the dispute, the struggle, the
promise,--then once more she was alone with but a few hours in which
to make all arrangements for her flight, for Comerio had promised
that a carriage should be in waiting for her at twelve o'clock, and
had hastened off to see that all his plans were in working order. He
had absolute confidence in his own power over her, which was indeed
great; but there was another Power which he had forgotten to take
into account--a Power which could no more be laid hold of and shut up
with Carlo in the brigands' retreat, than the wind.
"He shall not die for my sake!" sobbed Nita to herself; "I will save
him by yielding. And yet--yet it is what he would say was wrong; he
would call it doing evil that good might come. Oh! What am I to do?
Why did I ever see Comerio?"
She was like a poor terrified bird in a cage, flying now to this
side, now to that, but meeting always with hard, inpassable bars.
The temptation to escape from her distasteful life, into a life that
was new and untried, was terrible. And yet, as in sick recoil she
looked at her past, there shone out in it always one bright light. A
hundred little details of Carlo's care for her flashed back into her
mind; scenes rose up before her in the green-room, at rehearsals, in
desolate lodgings, on tedious journeys; and always he was there as
her helper, the one perfectly reliable man in her world. He had
given up all to save her from sin. Should she now yield to the
temptation? Dared she delude herself into thinking that she sinned
to save him from death? Had not his whole life proved to her that he
would rather die than that she should so fall? Sobbing and trembling
she threw herself on her knees, crushed beneath that awful
realization of a decisive choice which must be made, maddened by the
consciousness that time was passing, tossed to and fro in the storm
of deadly temptation. It was not the breaking of a conventional law
which she was contemplating; it was not a mere offence against
society with which she had been dallying all these years; it was a
sin. And the full meaning of that word broke on her as she knelt
there. Sin was not a vague "something" to be comfortably confessed
and disposed of; it was a contradiction of good, which must work its
deadly course, inevitably bringing grief, and pain, and hardship on
the innocent and loving. To save her from this sin Carlo had
sacrificed his whole life; could she let that sacrifice be in vain?
And, after all, was it love which Comerio offered her? Could she
name it in the same breath with the love which had shielded and
guarded her through those three years? No: it was a hateful, vile
counterfeit of love, a ghastly parody of the truth, a veiled
selfishness, which could only drag her down to hell on earth. Carlo
would die a thousand deaths rather than let her sink to this! And
was it even now too late to save him?
In wild excitement she sprang to her feet, Comerio, in the heat of
the moment, had let something fall about the Pozzuoli road! Why
should she not rush to Casa Bella and prevent her brother's return,
and save him from the attack that had been planned? What gave her
strength for this desperate resolution she hardly knew, but the
thought itself seemed to lend her wings. She rushed to her bedroom,
snatched up a cloak and bonnet, drew a veil over her face, and,
without even pausing to close the door of the house behind her, crept
down the long stone staircase. The concierge was reading _La
Campana_ as she glided past his little office; he was so much
absorbed that he never even saw her.
And now she was actually in the street, and, for the first time since
her resolution had been made, a feeling of fear and perplexity
overwhelmed her, her brain seemed to reel. "Holy Virgin, protect
me!" she sobbed, and walked on blindly too much terrified to form any
clear plan of action. All at once she caught sight of a disengaged
carriage, and signed to the driver to stop. He looked at her
suspiciously, but she was far too miserable to resent that.
"Drive to Pozzuoli," she said; "to Casa Bella."
The man, however, grumbled. It was late, a long drive, his horse was
tired. Nita thrust two gold coins into his hand.
"Go! go!" she cried. "Another if you will drive fast!"
Then she leant back in the carriage and covered her face with her
hands, trembling in every limb, expecting each minute that Comerio
would find out all and pursue her. The drive seemed endless, but at
last Casa Bella was reached; she sprang out and asked eagerly for
Signor Donati.
"He is not here, signora," said old Dino, looking at her curiously.
"He has not been here at all."
Nita gave a cry that brought all the household flocking into the
hall. They took her into the Rose-room, and there gradually drew
from her the whole piteous story. Francesca, as she listened, turned
pale as death, but to endure a moment's discussion or delay was to
her impossible. Before the Captain or Mr. Britton could even recover
enough from the shock to frame a clear idea, she had left the room,
had run bareheaded out into the summer night, and was flying to the
telegraph-office. Panting, breathless, with a weight of torturing
fear at her heart, she yet ran like the wind. Carlo was in terrible
danger, but she might yet save him. The office was still open; she
wrote without a moment's delay the following words to the Chief of
the Police: "Signor Carlo Donati was waylaid on the road to Pozzuoli
this afternoon and has not been heard of since. The plot was
arranged by the singer Giovanni Comerio. Arrest him immediately."
In the meantime, Comerio, little thinking of the turn affairs had
taken, was making his arrangements with the utmost calmness and
deliberation. First of all he went to Brancaleone's agent, who lived
in one of the worst quarters of Naples. Here he deposited the white
handkerchief, which had been the token decided on, and the little
packet of notes for the payment of the brigand chief. Then he gave
his final orders about the carriage which was to take them out of
Naples; and afterwards, finding that he had yet time to spare on his
hands, he went into a _caffè_, where, to fortify himself for the
excitement of the evening, he called for a bottle of champagne. As
he sat there at his little marble table, he thought, with a smile, of
the great success of his plans, and a funny recollection came back to
him of the old days when he had lived at his father's country farm.
He remembered how he had once looked out on a moonlight night, and
had become so absorbed in watching the tactics of a fox that he had
not given the alarm to the household. The animal had set his heart
on a fine hen which had gone to roost in an olive-tree, and which,
roused from her slumbers, was watching the fox in deadly terror. He
could not reach her, but with deep cunning walked slowly round and
round the tree, the hen following him with her eyes in a sort of
deadly fascination, till at last, from sheer giddiness, she dropped,
and was carried off in triumph. The idea of punishing Donati and
altogether outwitting him was delightful, even more delightful than
the idea of winning Anita. But, after all, he reflected, it was
always so in this world. Right could make a sort of feeble
resistance but in the end Might always triumphed. And really luck
had been with him of late. His London engagement had been extremely
successful, while, to crown all, he had won enormously at Monaco, and
could well afford to gratify both his love and his hate.
Sauntering out of the _caffè_, and still musing over his good
fortune, he was a little startled when a passer-by thrust a note into
his hand, and walked rapidly on. He paused to read it under a street
lamp. It ran as follows:--
"Signor Comerio, be warned by a friend, and fly from Naples at once.
You are in danger of being arrested."
Though capable, in order to gratify himself, of a certain amount of
rash daring, Comerio was at heart a coward. He had a friend
connected with the police force, and did not doubt for a moment that
the warning came from him. He knew that he had not a moment to lose.
Still the mere hatred of being baffled in his plans induced him to
risk a call at Palazzo Forti. There was yet a chance that they might
be able to fly together, and now that all was known he risked little
more by making this final attempt. Breathlessly he made his way
through the dusky courtyard and up the long stone staircase. To his
surprise, the door at the top was open. He stole in and opened the
door of the ante-room, calling Anita in a low voice. He went into
the _sala_, but that, too, was empty and deserted. He knocked at the
door of the bedroom; that, also, was tenantless. Then, with a faint
suspicion dawning in his mind that Nita had played him false, he
ground his teeth together, and flung open the two remaining doors in
the suite. Possibly she was with the child. Snatching up a lamp
from a table in the passage, he went into the room to make quite sure
that she was not there,--looked with a sort of dumb rage at Donati's
various possessions which were strewn about,--then walked up to the
bed where Gigi lay sleeping with both arms flung up on the pillow
above his head, and his ruddy-brown little face the picture of sturdy
peacefulness. Comerio shook him by the shoulder.
"Where is your mother, child?" he said, in a voice that terrified
Gigi. "Can't you speak?" he reiterated. "Where is your mother?"
"I don't know!" sobbed the child.
"_Accidente!_ she has played me false!" cried Comerio.
Then, suddenly holding his breath, he paused to listen. Undoubtedly
men's voices and footsteps were approaching. Darting to the door, he
drew the bolt, then rushed across to the window, flung it open, leapt
out on to the balcony, and disappeared in the darkness.
Gigi's first impulse was to draw the bedclothes over his head and sob
for very terror, but some recollection of Carlo checked him, and
summoning up all his courage, he scrambled out of bed, unbolted the
door, and ran out into the passage, calling now for Carlo, now for
his mother.
Strange men whom he had never seen before were marching in and out of
the rooms; whether to run to them or from them he hardly knew.
"Here is a child!" exclaimed one of the detectives, picking him up in
his arms. "Tell us, little one, who is in the house?"
"Signor Comerio," sobbed Gigi.
"_Santo diavolo!_ where?" exclaimed the man.
Gigi pointed in the direction of his room.
"Through the window," he said, with a rush of tears.
For all answer, the man tossed him on to the bed as though he had
been an india-rubber ball, and leapt out on to the balcony, while the
rest rushed downstairs to cut off the retreat below.
But their efforts were useless; Comerio had got the start of them,
and with darkness to favor him, found little difficulty in making his
escape from Naples.
While the Neapolitan police were still searching high and low for
him, he was steaming down the Mediterranean, knowing that never again
could he dare to set foot in Italy, and baffled both in his love and
in his revenge.
"If only I had had time to go again to Brancaleone's agent, and
change the white token for the red, I could bear all else!" he
reflected.
But the white handkerchief remained just as he had left it with the
sealed packet of notes, and the true love had triumphed over the
false.
At Casa Bella all was confusion, and, afterwards, those fearful hours
seemed to Francesca like a long, hideous nightmare. She had vague
recollections of returning from the telegraph-office, and seeing
Clare and Kate bending over Nita's prostrate figure; of a discussion
with her father and Uncle George as to whether she should drive in to
Naples with them or not; of reaching Palazzo Forti in the dead of
night, and finding poor little Gigi sobbing and shivering; of driving
home with him on her knee, and feeling a sort of comfort in folding
her arms round him, and letting him talk on in his happy
ignorance;--then, of two fearful nights and days, while all Naples
was searched, and not the slightest clue as to Carlo's whereabouts
could be discovered. In the meantime, Nita lay in the guest-chamber,
and many times each day both priest and doctor passed in and out.
"Why do those men come so dreffly often?" asked Gigi, one day,
turning to his friend and playfellow, Sibyl, and forgetting for a
minute the sham-fight which was going on between his two boxes of tin
soldiers.
"Why, Dino says your mother is dying," said Sibyl, her eyes dilating.
"But, oh! Gigi, perhaps I oughtn't to have said anything! Don't tell
the others I told you!"
"But she _can't_," said Gigi, emphatically,--"not until Uncle Carlo
comes back!"
And so, while the elders of the household lived through their
terrible agony of suspense, the two children, who were much thrown
together and left to their own devices in those days, kept their own
counsel as children do, and waited gravely for Carlo's return.