The stars were crowding fast into the clear sky, and the moon was
shedding forth her pale rays, when Mr. Earnscliffe reached the boat.
Such a scene must be witnessed to be understood. To those who have seen
the Bay of Naples on such a night memory will hold up her mirror, and
they will see again the dim outline of the gracefully-curving shore,
Vesuvia's dark and awe-inspiring shadow, and the deep blue waters
upon which the moonbeams glance like silvery darts; and to those who
have not seen it imagination will paint a no less vivid picture--but
to them is unknown the balmy air, the charm, the beauty of an Italian
night, and nowhere, perhaps, as well as in Naples and Venice, is it so
completely seen and felt in all its unrivalled beauty. It is lovely,
too, in its inland scenes: how lovely those can truly say who have
known what it is to stand upon a balcony at "the witching hour," and
look down upon a woody dell with myriads of busy fire-flies gleaming
through the dark foliage, every branch, every twig covered with those
brilliant and living lamps,--'tis nature's illumination, and in what
does she not excel?
O Italy! thy beauty, thy poetry, thy loving memories are surely
more than adequate to counterbalance the many great but material
disadvantages which one meets with in thee....
But we have drifted away from the subject of our chapter, and deserted
Mr. Earnscliffe, to whom we must now return.
He got into the boat--the sails were filling, for with the fall of day
the wind had veered round, and promised them a quiet and favourable
passage--threw himself upon the cushions, and took off his hat, as if
he felt that he could more thoroughly enjoy the lovely night when there
was nothing between him and the starry world above. Paolo saw that he
looked strangely pale, and asked the same question which his little
daughter had done in the morning, "Is _sua eccellenza_ ill?"
"_Grazie, amico, sto benissimo_," told a different tale from the
listless abstracted one with which he replied to Anina. That smile, and
a certain softness in the tone of Mr. Earnscliffe's voice, made Paolo
feel that _sua eccellenza_ came back a happier man than when he set out
for Naples. And so he was, although pain and pleasure were closely
mingled in his sensations; but, at least, the future was no longer
quite a blank to him; there was something to hope for--something, as
Mary Elton had said to him, worth struggling for. He did not consider
himself in love with Flora Adair, but he felt that she _did_ occupy
his thoughts almost exclusively, that everything connected with her
interested him deeply, and he could not help smiling as he remembered
all the ingenious arguments which he made use of to account to himself
for that interest. Then, too, came the remembrance of the delight which
he felt when he heard that she had refused Mr. Lyne, and he murmured
to himself, "Yes, I will go to Venice, try to meet the Adairs, and
if----" Ah! what visions rose after that if?... They were like mental
lullabies, and under their soft influence he fell asleep and dreamed.
He dreamed of winning Flora's love, of the happy life which was to
begin for him with her at his side; ... but suddenly a change came over
the picture--Mary Elton seemed to stand between him and Flora, with a
countenance full of passionate anger and yet of triumph, as she cried
out, "I warned you!"... He made a movement to clasp Flora, but she
seemed to shrink away from him and fall. This startled and awoke him,
but so real was the impression which the dream left upon his mind that
he exclaimed in Italian, "Catch her, Paolo--she will be drowned!"
"What does _sua eccellenza_ mean? There is nobody drowning."
"Thank God!" he muttered, with a long-drawn breath of relief as he
reseated himself. Then he said to Paolo, "You see I have been dreaming,
_amico_."
"But not _un sogno sinistro, eccellenza_? that would be a bad omen
indeed, at this hour of the night, and by moonlight too," answered
Paolo, eagerly.
"It was probably the sleeping with the moon shining full upon my face
which caused me to dream," he replied, without saying whether the dream
was a sinister one or not. Paolo did not seem to be satisfied with this
answer, and said gravely, "Oh _eccellenza_, it is very unlucky!... May
you be preserved from all evil!"
Mr. Earnscliffe smiled, but he would have preferred that Paolo had
dwelt less upon his fears about the dream; for although not generally
superstitious, he could not shake off the gloomy impression which it
left upon him. All his bright visions had vanished, and in their place
came painful reminiscences of poor Mary Elton. He would have given much
to have been able to feel sure that she would forget him and be happy
again; but something whispered to him that it would not be so--that,
whether in good or evil, she was not one likely to change, and she had
given proof of how strong a woman's feelings can be. Perhaps, also,
there was mixed up in his pity for her a latent, almost a superstitious
dread of her as he had seen her in his dream. Then he thought of
Anina--of how he was to tell her that he intended to leave Capri
immediately, and the thought of the child's grief made him shrink from
facing it; yet he felt that it would be cruel in him to go away without
telling her: no, that could not be--and then it was that he felt _how_
fond he had become of the beautiful child.
Beauty in women had naturally a most powerful attraction for him,
yet for years he had been shut out from the enjoyment of it by
his blighting belief in their falseness. This, in his estimation,
overclouded all their loveliness. "Beauty in a woman," he would say,
"being so overclouded, is less worthy of admiration in her than in a
statue; in this, at least, there is no deception--we find here all that
we can expect, namely, regularity of outline and one fixed expression."
But in Anina he saw living beauty combined with perfect artlessness,
and it won his heart at once; then, too, her ardent affection for
himself and desire to be with him had its own charm for the lonely
rich man. She had been quite a companion to him in his wanderings
about the island; he had taught her to read, and with a feeling of
sadness he recalled the pretty lighting-up of her expressive face
whenever he praised her; and again, how charmingly penitent she used
to look when he chid her for inattention. And he had to tell her that
there must be an end to all this, and doubted that even the beautiful
present which he was going to give her would console her for his
departure. He felt that her grief would probably not be of very long
duration, but he feared that it would be sharp and violent, and it
pained him to think that he was to be the cause of it. All this brought
him to the conclusion that the sooner the leave-taking was over the
better; so he resolved to go the next day.
It was very late when they touched Capri. As Mr. Earnscliffe wished
Paolo good-night, he desired him to come to the hotel in the morning at
six, and to bring Anina with him.
But two hours remained before sunrise, yet even for that short time Mr.
Earnscliffe could not rest; his head was tossing about upon his pillow
until about four, when he got up--no unusual hour in Italy during the
fine season--and ordering his coffee at half-past five, he went out and
bathed.
Soon after his return, and by the time he had finished his light
breakfast, Paolo and Anina had arrived--he had learned from his master
that anti-Italian virtue, punctuality.
Mr. Earnscliffe told Paolo that he wanted to speak with him; as the
child left the room, he said, "Paolo, I asked you to come to me this
morning in order to tell you that I mean to give you my boat----"
Paolo looked delighted and exclaimed, "_Sua eccellenza, è troppo
buono_."
But Mr. Earnscliffe went on without noticing the interruption--"And if
you will name any means by which you can be permanently advanced in
your trade, it shall be done; but for this, perhaps, you would like a
little time for consideration--if so you can speak to Dr. Molini, and
he will communicate with me.... I am obliged to leave Capri to-day."
"_O eccellenza, questo maladetto sogno_--I knew it was the sign of
coming misfortune."
"Not so, _amico_; the dream has nothing to do with my going away, and
it shall not be a misfortune to you--you shall not lose by it."
"It is not that, _eccellenza_, which I meant by misfortune. It was
the Blessed Madonna herself who sent you to us; and now that you are
going, we shall feel as if she were taking something precious from us;
besides, what could ever be the same to me as being in your service?
You have treated me--the poorest fisherman in Capri--almost as your
equal; and that day when the _signore_ laughed at my story bound me to
you for ever. I felt that I could die for you, _eccellenza_. _Dio_, how
shall I tell _la moglie e la bambina_?"
Mr. Earnscliffe, with an Englishman's dislike to any show of feeling,
turned away his head to hide any traces of emotion which might have
been seen on his countenance, for he was deeply touched by Paolo's
sorrow. After a few moments' silence he said, "Believe me, Paolo, I
value your affection more than I can say, and I would do anything to
make you happy."
"Then, _signore_," interrupted Paolo eagerly, "let us go and live
near you in Napoli?"--poor Paolo never thought of anything beyond
Naples--"and I can be your boatman still."
"But, _amico_, I am not going to live in Naples; I am going to travel."
Paolo's head drooped, and Mr. Earnscliffe continued kindly, "But I
promise you that you shall see me again if I live. And now, Paolo, go
to Maria and consult with her about what you would wish me to do for
you."
"Ah! _signore_, we could not consult about anything to-day; we can only
think that the Madonna is taking one of her best blessings away from
us."
"Well, as I said before, you can speak to Dr. Molini after I am gone,
and he will write to me."
Paolo saw that Mr. Earnscliffe meant this to terminate the interview,
and he asked at what hour _sua eccellenza_ would want the boat; but Mr.
Earnscliffe answered that he would not require it, as he was going by
the steamer.
"Then I shall never row _sua eccellenza_ again," exclaimed Paolo,
giving way to violent demonstrations of grief.... This was all
extremely painful to Mr. Earnscliffe, and so contrary to all his
natural, or, rather, national, notions of what grief ought to be;
yet he could not be _brusque_ to Paolo, for he saw that, although it
appeared most unseemly to him, it was real and natural in the excitable
Italian, but he said gravely--
"Paolo, it is a man's part to be strong, and not to give way to feeling
as women do, and for my sake you must subdue all this. Think how you
grieve me by making me thus feel that I give you pain. Now _addio_, I
must go to the _bambina_."
"But I shall see _sua eccellenza_ again, surely? He will come to say
_addio_ to Maria?"
"Yes, but I shall expect you both to be very calm,--_al rivedersi
dunque!_"
Mr. Earnscliffe gently turned away, and taking the case which contained
the statue for Anina, he left the room. Paolo slowly followed him.
At the hall door they met the child, and taking her by the hand Mr.
Earnscliffe drew her on quickly so that she might not see her father's
emotion.
After a short walk along a pretty rocky path they came to a kind of
creek formed by the rocks, so as to be completely shaded from the sun;
here he sat down and opened the box, displaying to Anina's longing
eyes a little white temple; the roof was arched and supported by four
columns, round which ran scrolls of lilies painted on a blue ground and
bordered with gold; inside, on a pedestal, was a small, but, for its
size, beautiful figure of the Madonna, draped in a blue cloak starred
with gold.
Mr. Earnscliffe looked upon the Madonna as being nothing more than a
good woman to whom superstition had given an undue and almost a Divine
celebrity; but, in imagination, no one could form a more poetical idea
than he did of the purity and beauty surrounding the mother of an
incarnate God; therefore, he had chosen the best representation of this
idea that he could find.
Anina's delight was unbounded. She literally danced round it,
repeating, "_Come è bella, bellissima!_" Then throwing her arms round
Mr. Earnscliffe, she half smothered him with her gratitude.
"Listen to me, _carina_," he said, gently unfolding her arms from his
neck. His grave tone made her look up wonderingly at him, and he went
on. "I want you to give me a reward for having brought you the Madonna.
Will my little one give it to me?"
"Oh, _signore_!" and her little face was nestled on his shoulder.
"Then you _will_ give it to me, _carina_. But I am going to ask a great
deal. It is to promise that you will not fret very much if I tell you
that something you love dearly is to be taken from you."
"But what is it, _signore_, that you are going to take from me? Not the
Madonna?"
"Not the Madonna, certainly; but you have not given me the promise.
Will you not be very good, and not cry too much?"
"_Si, signore._"
"Then, _carissima_, you must remember that promise when I tell you that
I am going away to-day."
Alas for promises! Anina's answer was to burst out crying as though her
little heart would break, and then through her sobs she murmured, "_No,
no, non va via il caro signore_; he told me so yesterday?"
"Yes, _carina_, but afterwards I heard something which obliges me
to go. This is not keeping your promise, my child. I hoped that your
beautiful Madonna would console you, and I will come back some day,
_Anina mia, sia buona_."
He put his arm round her waist and kissed her, but she hid her face
on his shoulder, and sobbed so violently that he saw it was vain to
attempt to quiet her now, and that all he could do was to take her
home and leave her; time he knew would calm this violence of childish
grief. With his disengaged hand he put the little temple into the box,
and said, "Come, my child, take your Madonna, and let us go home." But
Anina made no movement to take it, and he said, "Then you do not care
for her. I may throw her into the sea."
"Oh, give her to me, _signore_," she cried, stretching out her hand for
it. "I will pray to her every day for you, and perhaps she will send
you back to me."
He had not told her before, and now he could not tell her, how worse
than useless he thought those prayers; yet her affection for himself,
mingled as it was with her devotion for the Madonna, touched him almost
in spite of himself, and giving her the box silently, he took her by
the hand and led her home.
It was the same path down which he had carried her when first he
saw her; and her parents, too, were sitting at the door as on that
evening; but now sorrow, instead of joy, was to be seen in their faces
as they rose to receive him. Maria threw herself at his feet, crying
and muttering a great deal, in which _la Madonna_ and _dolore_ were the
only words that could be distinctly heard.
"Maria," exclaimed Mr. Earnscliffe, "you are surely not going to give
_la bambina_ such a bad example!" and, turning to Anina, he added,
"Show your Madonna to _la madre_, my child."
The trembling little hands began to undo the lid, and Mr. Earnscliffe
said in a low tone, "I must wish you _addio_ now, _amici, siate
felici_." He pressed a hand of each; then bent down and gave Anina a
hurried kiss, and said, "Take her, Paolo." He turned and walked away as
fast as he could.
Paolo held Anina, who struggled to get free and run after Mr.
Earnscliffe, whilst Maria knelt down, and in an excited tone called on
the _Santissima Madre di Dio_ to guard and protect him in life, and
after death to lead him to her Divine Son in the bright heavens above.
Mr. Earnscliffe heard it, and for the moment their lively faith in the
influence of a mother, even over a Divine Son, appeared to him to be
strangely beautiful. That scene often recurred to his memory, and he
scoffed not at it, but his heart yearned towards the poor superstitious
Capri fisherpeople.
Two hours later the steamer was bearing him swiftly away from their
island....