Chapter III: Francesca

"Mortal! if life smile on thee, and thou find
All to thy mind,
Think, Who did once from Heaven to Hell descend
Thee to befriend;
So shalt thou dare forego, at His dear call,
Thy best, thine all."--
KEBLE.

While Carlo rode back from Naples, and while Signor Merlino and his operatic company steamed between the Pillars of Hercules into the blue Mediterranean, Francesca Britton sat in a little stone belvedere in the garden of Casa Bella, from time to time raising her eyes from her needlework to glance at that same blue Mediterranean, or at the lovely mountains in Ischia, which were plainly visible through the arched doorway.

Beautiful as a child, Francesca was more than beautiful in early womanhood--she was lovely. It was not alone that the outline of cheeks and chin was perfect, that the nose was finely chiselled, that the masses of dark hair drawn back from the white forehead were rich and wavy; all this might be set down in black and white without conveying the faintest idea of what she was. And in truth this had happened over and over again; the photographers had done what they could, but had failed grievously. Photography could not give the ineffable charm of her ever-varying expression, the depth and sweetness of her dark-gray eyes, the dimple in her cheek, which seemed indeed the sign and symbol of her sunshiny nature. It could not convey the least notion of her shy grace, of her delicate purity, or of that keen sense of humor which sparkled so deliciously in her home-life. Outsiders sometimes deemed the beautiful English girl cold and distant, and a country life had tended to increase her natural shyness; but even had she lived in the midst of the fashionable world, Francesca Britton never could have been thoroughly known out of her own circle,--she was one of those who keep their best for their own.

She was roused from a reverie by seeing a little miniature of herself flying down the straight, sunny walk which led to the summer-house, bordered on either side by azaleas glowing with crimson blossom, and tall, white oleanders.

"Dino sent me," panted the little girl,--"Dino sent me with this for father. Where is father? They thought he was out here. And only fancy! Dino says, Fran dear, that Carlo came and rang the bell just like a visitor, and handed in his card. Think of Carlo ringing the bell!"

And Sibyl broke into a peal of laughter as she skipped about the summer-house. Her sister let her needlework fall, and taking the card, glanced at it, smiling and blushing in a way that would have enraptured any one but unobservant Sibyl.

"Dino, he is nodding, and smiling, and looking so funny!" continued the little girl; "and he says Carlo has perhaps come a courting, but he won't tell me what it means. What is courting, Fran? Anything to do with the new tennis-court?"

"'Tis a game which you play for love, Sibyl dear. There, run and take the card to father, he is down in the orange-grove."

The little messenger flew off again on her errand, and Francesca sat musing, smiling to herself every now and then as she thought of the beloved name with its novel prefix. Carlo an "Avvocato;" it was too funny! And how like him to send in his card and be shown into the drawing-room so ceremoniously, instead of, as usual, just leaping over the edge of prickly pear which divided the gardens of Casa Bella and Villa Bruno. Then delicious tremors, that were neither hope nor fear, ran through her, and her heart beat fast and loud. She could bear the stillness no longer, and, rising, she left the summer-house and walked down the path between the oleanders and the azaleas. All at once quick footsteps fell upon her ear; then, through the trees, she caught sight of the lithe, graceful figure so familiar to her. Ah! how foolish she was. Had they not been the best of friends for years and years? Why could she not go and meet him naturally to-day? Scolding herself roundly, she stopped because her feet refused to advance another step, and, with fingers which trembled visibly, tried to break off a spray of the crimson flowers.

"It is too stiff for you!" exclaimed Carlo, turning the corner and hurrying towards her.

"No, no!" she protested, laughing; "you always misdoubt my powers;" and putting force upon her unruly fingers she broke off the spray. "Here is a buttonhole for the 'Avvocato,' with his friend's congratulations."

"The 'Avvocato' is not content, he craves something more," said Carlo, smiling.

"Very well; old playmates must not stand on ceremony," she said, gayly, well pleased that she had regained her self-possession; "come to the belvedere, and I will put some maidenhair with it."

They walked together up the path, Francesca pausing to pluck two or three pieces from a jungle of maidenhair growing about the old stones.

"There!" she exclaimed as they sat down in the cool little arbor while she twisted the ferns among the flowers; "now are you content?"

"Not quite," he said; "I am clumsy, you will put them in for me."

She fastened the flowers in his coat and again her tiresome fingers began to tremble. Carlo, blessing the sight, snatched her hand in his and kissed it passionately.

"Francesca, forgive me!" he cried, "I could wait no longer; you will not grudge me that one kiss. My darling, my darling, I have waited such years for you!"

His face, glowing with love, and devotion, and eager hope, was raised to hers. She only saw it for a moment, for something made a mist rise before her eyes, and when she could see clearly again she did not dare to meet his gaze; she looked instead out at the blue Mediterranean.

"I have loved you, Francesca, since you came back from England,--since you came and brought light and happiness to us after that dark time. I told your father,--begged him to let me speak to you, and he bade me wait. I have waited nearly five years, Francesca, and, oh! at times I scarcely knew how to trust myself here. Again and again I almost broke my word; but now your father gives me leave to come to you, to confess my love. My darling, look at me,--speak to me!"

She turned and gazed right into his eager, wistful eyes, a long, sweet, steadfast look; then her lips began to quiver a little, but thought better of it and smiled instead.

"What do you want me to say?"

"Say," he cried eagerly, "say, 'I will try to love you.'"

She shook her head.

"I can never say that," she replied, and once more looked out seawards.

But the vehemence, the fire of his Italian nature, half frightened her. Despair was written on his face, despair rang in his voice, he did not pause one moment to reflect.

"Francesca! Francesca!" he cried, "don't tell me I have come too late. My love! my love! I can't live without you. Unsay that 'never.'"

Grieved beyond measure that words so playfully meant should have called forth such a tropical outburst, she wreathed her arms about his neck, and pressed her face to his.

"Carlo _mio_," she sobbed, "don't break my heart by misunderstanding me, I can never try to love you--because--because--I love you already."

The depth of love and tenderness in her voice, the sweet abandonment of her manner--more really maidenly in its perfect sincerity than any coyness or hesitation--all this heightened to bliss Carlo's rapture of love. The momentary mistake, the cloud-shadow that had threatened his sky, made the sunshine all the more exquisite. He could not speak a word, but only clasped her close in the long sweet embrace which symbolized their betrothal.

"My own!" he murmured at last. "My own, you gave me one terrible minute. To be without you, Francesca, that would be to be crucified!"

He did not definitely think of the talk between the two Englishmen, but the thought suggested that afternoon had sunk deep into his mind, and the agony of the brief mistake gave the emphatic utterance of that last word a tenfold power. Francesca breathed fast; Love unfolded to her his wonderful face, hitherto veiled; she was awed by the thought of the immortal passion the undying devotion of her lover. The strength and sacredness of that last word he had used, filled her heart with a wondering love and humility. His happiness, his life, was in her keeping. And hers in his. Mortal man could never bear the strain of the one thought without the support of the other.

After a while they began to weave golden visions of the future; Carlo suggesting one place and another, for which he thought she had a fancy; a certain ideal nook, called Quisisana, on the other side of Naples, where once, years, before she had said she would like to build a house if some one would but leave her a fortune; a pretty villa at Posilipo, which she used to admire. It touched her to see how he remembered all her careless, girlish speeches, and had treasured them up for years.

"Ah," she said, smiling, "I used to think place would make such a difference; but now, Carlo _mio_, I don't care one bit. We will make a home in the wilderness, if it so pleases you, or at Naples, in a corner of an old palace--'tis all one to me so long as we are together."

He drew her yet closer to him. They went on weaving their plans unconscious of a small sprite approaching the summer-house. Sibyl stood composedly in the doorway for a moment, quite unnoticed by the lovers.

"Oh!" she ejaculated at length, "is that the game?"

Her perplexed and rather disappointed look was most comical.

"What game?" asked Francesca, laughing and blushing.

"The game you said people played for love!"

"Yes, this is it," said Carlo, laughing immoderately.

"Is that all?" exclaimed the sprite, in a tone of deep disappointment.

They only laughed.

"Well, for my part," said Sibyl, who had caught many old-fashioned little phrases from living always with grown-up people, "for my part, I think it's very dull."

She ran off. Carlo watched her out of sight, smiling at her quaint disapproval.

"She will miss you, poor little one," he said at last.

"Yes, that would be one reason for not going far away. And your mother, Carlo! How selfish of me not to remember her! You must never be parted from her--never."

"You will be to her in the place of Nita," said Carlo. "You will comfort her as I have never been able to do."

And so once again they plunged into the golden glories of the future. Clare must be persuaded to come back again, and take Sibyl in charge, and their paradise should be the Villa Bruno, already dear to them through many associations. That plan would obviate all difficulties, and render partings unnecessary; would be the happiest plan for others as well as for themselves.

"And we must not be selfish in our happiness," said Francesca.

"No," he replied, smiling as he remembered his friend's parting words, "we will prove to Enrico Ritter that love is not selfishness, and that egoism does not rule the world, as he thinks."

A gong sounding within the house warned Carlo that he ought to go. Together they left the little stone summer-house and wandered through the lovely garden,--a garden wholly un-English. The scorching sun would not admit of lawns, but nevertheless there was a great charm in the straight shady walks, with here and there an umbrella-pine, or a tall and sombre cypress mingling with limes, chestnuts, and camphor-trees. A long colonnade of white pillars was festooned from end to end with honeysuckle; vines linked together the bushy mulberry-trees; Indian corn grew green and ribbon-like beneath; while about all was that delicious sweetness only to be met with in the gardens of Italy. The house was solid and unpretentious, its whiteness relieved by masses of the feathery green pepper-tree, and a glory of climbing red geranium. Captain Britton sat in the loggia, which was wreathed with white roses. He looked up smiling as he saw the two drawing near, then came forward to bestow a kiss upon his daughter and a hearty hand-shake upon his future son-in-law. He was a large-limbed, strong-looking man, somewhat heavily built, with scanty gray hair and whiskers, and a broad smiling mouth. In manner he was kindly, genial, and patronizing. But, spite of some surface faults, he was a thoroughly good-hearted man, and there was no mistaking his genuine hospitality and anxiety to help his friends. If Carlo occasionally winced beneath his benign patronage, or was provoked to anger by some show of insular prejudice, such trifles were soon forgotten in the recollection of the thousand acts of kindness shown both to his mother and to himself by the neighborly Englishman. And then the Donati were proverbially susceptible, and Carlo had long been on his guard, and had schooled himself into thinking that the small discords and jarring notes which now and then occurred in the intercourse with the Brittons were really owing to his own ultra-sensitiveness. Such things were, after all, but trifles light as air, and were powerless really to disturb the bliss of being near his love.

"Hearty congratulations," said the old Captain, warmly. "I had not much fear that my little Fran would be unkind to you, and I suppose I must not grumble at losing her. I little thought that some day she would be changing into a Signora. But, there, we have made half an Englishman of you already; have we not?"

"No, no," said Francesca, quick to note that the last words brought a momentary gleam of anger into her lover's eyes. "Carlo will always be true to his country, though he speaks English almost like a native. That is because I taught you, Carlo _mio_; is it not?"

"Without love of the teacher learning his drudgery," said Carlo, laughing. "I enjoyed my English lessons."

"That reminds me of your old master, Signor Piale. Oh, what will he say to us, Carlo? What will he say?" and Francesca laughed merrily.

"My kind regards to Signora Donati," said Captain Britton, smiling. "And if I may be permitted to call and pay my respects--

"To-night," interrupted Carlo, eagerly. "Say you will come to-night, after dinner. My mother cannot leave the house, you know, and she will be longing to see Francesca."

"Well, well, no need to stand on ceremony even to-day; we are such old friends, are we not?" said the Captain, good-naturedly. "After dinner, then--after dinner. Come, Fran, my dear, no need to see Carlo off the premises, you'll meet again before long, and the soup is getting cold."

Francesca was borne off to the dining-room, and Carlo, turning away, cleared the prickly pears at a bound, and alighted amid a group of lemon-trees in his own garden.