Chapter V: A Threatening Sky

"Come all ye faithful, come, and dare to prove
The bitter sweet, the pain and bliss of love."
TRENCH.

Francesca came down one of the shady garden paths to meet her lover; she held in her hand a forked branch, on which, nestled among the pale green leaves, grew four fresh-looking lemons. For a moment Carlo forgot everything in the bliss of seeing her again. It seemed to him that they had been ages apart; that he had been toiling across a barren desert to reach this cool green retreat, in which his betrothed reigned supreme. How beautiful she looked in that familiar, soft, white dress, and with her white forehead and delicate coloring shaded by a large hat! The hat was one of those shallow white ones which can sometimes be bought for two or three _soldi_; it was not calculated, however, to sustain the embraces of a lover, and it speedily fell back, leaving Francesca with her wavy brown hair uncovered. For a minute, Carlo held her from him, that he might the better see her, with a datura-tree for background, and the soft, creamy flowers drooping over her head. Francesca, having known him and loved him for years, saw in one glance that he was in trouble.

"You are tired, my own," she said. "It was too hot for you to ride back so early; you should have taken your _siesta_ at Naples."

"I couldn't rest," he said, with a sigh. "I wanted to get back to you."

"Something has grieved you. Does Uncle Guido disapprove of our betrothal?"

"No, oh no. How could he do that? He treated me as though I had been his son."

"Yet something or some one has been troubling you. But we will not talk of it now; you shall rest first. Come into the Rose-room; it will be cool there, and the sun is not off the summer-house yet."

They went together towards the house. The Rose-room was Francesca's own little sitting-room. It had a ceiling painted after the Italian fashion with wreaths of pink roses; it had cool gray walls crowded with a most miscellaneous collection of photographs and water-color sketches; it had rose-colored curtains in figured muslin; and, after the manner of rooms, it betrayed its owner's chief failing--it was in wild disorder. Francesca was by no means immaculate; like other girls, she had her faults, and untidiness was one of them.

"Try my rocking-chair," she said, removing a guitar which reposed upon the cushions, and trying to find a home for it upon the crowded table. "I will be back directly."

Carlo, rescuing the guitar, which was in imminent danger of falling, lay back in the easy-chair, and waited, letting his hands wander idly about among the strings. It was sweet to feel already so entirely at home at Casa Bella--its very confusion was dear to him. Presently Francesca returned, bearing a big tumbler of St. Galmier, which she set down upon Dante's _Paradiso_, while she selected the finest of the lemons from her branch.

"Lend me your knife, Carlino," she said; "I've lost mine, as usual. There!" as she cut open the cool, ripe fruit; "isn't that a beauty? How much, I wonder, for this glassful? I should think half. Ah, how like me! I've forgotten the sugar." Then, running to the door, "Sibyl! Sibyl!"

The little sister came flying down the passage.

"Run and fetch me some sugar, will you, Sibyl dear? Oh, bother! Now, what have I done with the store-room key? Look, darling, I think it must be on my dressing-table, or, perhaps, in the pocket of my blue gown; or, if not, in my work-basket."

Sibyl ran away to hunt for the missing key, and Francesca searched among the contents of the table to see if by chance it had been left there.

"Ah, Carlo mio!" she said, with a pretty penitence, "I fear I am not, as the ladies say who advertise in the newspapers, 'thoroughly domesticated.' I shall have to mend my evil ways now."

Carlo pretended not to understand what "domesticated" meant, and they had much merriment over a dictionary, which declared that it was to be "tame" and "not foreign."

Sibyl at last returned with the sugar-basin, claiming one lump as wages and accepting another to run away. Then Francesca began to stir the contents of the tumbler with an ivory paper-knife, since spoons were not handy; and in much laughter and lover-like teasing Carlo forgot all about the cloud-shadow which had arisen.

The ring fitted to perfection, and Francesca's delight was pretty to see; she was not above a womanly weakness for jewelry, and frankly owned that she always had longed for just one diamond.

"And what about the old Maestro?" she exclaimed at last. "You never told me how he bore the news."

"Well, dear old Piale was, or pretended to be, a good deal depressed. It seems that he really had set his heart on my going on the stage, and had not at all realized how impossible that would be."

"Yet you do not feel as my father does about theatre-going?" said Francesca. "And Clare! Don't you remember what arguments we used to have with dear Clare about it?"

"Yes, she was dead against it; but then she was brought up in a Puritan family, and the old prejudices lingered with her. For me, I have no feeling whatever of that sort, but nevertheless the life of an operatic singer is quite the last I should willingly choose. Piale talks scoffingly of the humdrum life of an advocate; but for my part I shall be very well content to stay at home, with the hope of some day following in my father's steps and doing a little for my country. Think of the wretchedness of a wandering life! It's all very well to talk about delighting Europe--practically one would be little better than an exile--and into the bargain Piale owns that art requires the sacrifice of domestic life."

"I knew he would not approve of me," said Francesca, laughing. "We must have him to our wedding, Carlo, and he shall make a speech. What fun he will be!"

Just for a minute, as they talked of theatrical life, Carlo's thoughts had reverted to Nita, but Francesca's reference to the wedding soon dispersed the cloud. He had most markedly the Italian faculty of living wholly in the present, and enjoying it much as a child enjoys life. They lingered long in the Rose-room. Later on, when the heat of the afternoon was past, they walked through the garden and down the vine-clad slopes to the beach, where old Florestano sat smoking his pipe with his back against a boat. He sprang up, on seeing them, as quickly as his rheumatism would permit.

"Going for a row, signor?" he said, when he had finished his lengthy congratulations, and had made Francesca blush deliciously.

"Yes," said Carlo, flinging his coat into the stern; "but we shan't want you, Florestano; we shall never want you any more," and, with a laugh, he shoved the boat down to the water's edge.

"Ah, signorina," said the old fisherman, chuckling, "he is one to be proud of, that he is. Why, I do declare, he might be a fisherman. Look at him now."

And with delighted pride the old man watched the skill with which the strong, active figure in straw hat and shirtsleeves set to work. Carlo looked round with a bright, glowing face. "Come, Francesca, let us be off. Good-bye, Florestano. Ah, wait a minute, though! Have a cigar?"

He handed his case to the old fisherman, who helped himself with a smiling face, then he shoved the boat into the water, sprang in, and, taking the oars, rowed off towards Ischia.

The fisherman stood on the quiet and lonely beach watching them, and meditatively stroking one of his huge, projecting ears.

"Well, well," he remarked, shrugging his shoulders, "some of us be born to happiness and some to sorrow, there's no helping that. But all of us ought to be born to a fair chance of living somehow. So says the young signor, but I doubt me if, for all his hot words and his seeming near as much of a Socialist as any of us, he'd care to act it out in his life. Eh, eh! we be all of us ready enough to talk about others, but to live for them that's another matter."

And, with a grim chuckle, Florestano pulled out a number of _La Campana_ from his pocket, and, stretching himself on the pebbles, began to spell out more lessons in Socialism.

The sun was low in the heavens when the lovers returned from their row. Carlo had to hasten home to his mother, but later in the evening he once more appeared at Casa Bella. Apart from Francesca all his restless apprehension had returned.

Captain Britton was asleep in the dining-room. Francesca was in the dusky drawing-room seated at the piano, where two candles under rose-colored shades made a little oasis of light. She was trying over her favorite of all Carlo's songs, "_Dio Possente_," but broke off with a little cry of surprise and delight as he came towards her.

"I shall think that my ring is a fairy ring," she cried, "and brings me all I wish for. I was just longing to hear you sing this."

Carlo had not felt in a singing humor, but her words drove everything else from his mind, and he sang perhaps all the better for the real care and anxiety which were oppressing him, certainly he sang as she had never before heard him sing.

"Piale is right," she said at the close, brushing away the tears from her eyes; "nature meant you for a singer; you were Valentine then, and no one else."

Carlo did not speak; she looked up at him quickly, and again saw that look of care which he had borne back with him from Naples.

"My darling," she said, making room for him on the ottoman beside her, "you are keeping something from me; you are unhappy, Carlo _mio_, and yet you will not let me know."

"Yes," he said sadly, "I must let you know; that is what I came back for. You remember Nita?"

"Your sister? Yes--oh, yes. What of her. Has she written?"

"No, but to-day in Naples, as I walked down the Strada S. Trinita, I saw that she was to sing the week after next at the Mercadante."

Francesca look startled. All in a minute it flashed upon her that the perfect peace of their betrothal was disturbed, and that it could never return.

She knew enough of Nita'a story to be aware how painful it would be for both Signora Donati and Carlo to have her as the prima donna of a Neapolitan theatre; but she tried hard to see gleams of possible good in the news.

"She may be sorry, and come to see you," she suggested. "Oh, surely she would come back to Villa Bruno when she is so near to it as Naples?"

But Carlo was not hopeful. She listened to all his doubts and fears with tender, womanly sympathy. She was no spoilt child caring only for the pleasure of her betrothal; perhaps, indeed, notwithstanding the ruffled peace, she had never been so happy as she was that evening when Carlo told her his troubles, and then, with his arm round her, whispered sweet words about the comfort of telling her.

Francesca quite agreed with Enrico that it would be better to say nothing as yet to the Signora Donati; and even in her anxiety there was keen pleasure in feeling that she had a right to share her lover's cares.

The next day was Sunday, and Carlo, as usual, drove in to the English church with the Brittons. But after the service he left them, pleading an engagement, and went off to see if Merlino's Company had arrived.

The Palazzo Forti was in a gloomy side street, he entered the courtyard, and found his way up a very dirty staircase to the third floor, where he rang and inquired whether Madame Merlino had arrived. An answer in the affirmative from a bright-eyed little servant made his heart leap into his throat. He had not expected it. He had walked to the old Palazzo in the firm conviction that his sister would not yet have reached Naples, and to be told that she was actually close to him almost took away his breath. He hesitated a moment.

"Is she within? can I see her?" he inquired.

The servant seemed a little doubtful, but said she would ask, and, taking Carlo's card, she disappeared, leaving him in the doorway. In all his life he had never felt so uncomfortable. He had never known Anita well; her convent education had made her practically a stranger to him, and now years had passed since their last meeting, and between them was the shadow of her wrong-doing. Then, too, he was not even sure whether he should see her alone, her husband might be there; and Carlo, being Italian and hot-tempered, was not quite sure how the sight of Merlino might affect him. He breathed quickly as the servant returned.

"Would the Signor step this way for a minute?"

Setting his teeth, he followed the maid down a passage, and was ushered into a good-sized but comfortless-looking room. He was surprised and relieved to find within it neither his sister nor Merlino, but a young Englishman of about eight-and-twenty with fair hair and moustache, arched eyebrows, and keen light blue eyes, in which there was no mistaking the sparkle of genuine wit; but the face was a restless one, and the expression of careless good-humor was sometimes slightly tinged with bitterness. He bowed, then glanced again at the visitor with undisguised curiosity.

"You are Madame Merlino's brother, I think?"

Carlo assented.

"I should have known you anywhere, the likeness is so strong."

"I speak English, if you prefer it, sir," said Carlo, noticing that the stranger's Italian was far from fluent.

"Do you? that will be a great relief, then. The patience of you foreigners amazes me. How you can learn our barbarous tongue I can't conceive. For me, I only learnt enough of yours to satisfy my singing-master."

"May I ask whom I am speaking to?" said Carlo.

"I am Sardoni--that, at least, is my professional name--_primo tenore_ of 'the happy band of pilgrims' who patrol this wicked world under Merlino's care. When they brought me your card just now I thought I might ask to see you, although Madame Merlino is out, for, to tell the truth, signor, it is quite time that Madame Merlino's friends and relations did something to save her. You must pardon the liberty I am taking, but, indeed, it is little use mincing matters in an affair of this kind."

Carlo took a long look at the speaker. He was evidently an English gentleman--a man doubtless with faults enough, but yet, he instinctively felt, a man to be trusted.

"My sister is out, you say," he began, with a troubled look.

"She went out driving this morning," said Sardoni, promptly, "with her usual cavalier, Comerio, our first baritone. But I know Comerio well, and he will not long be content to be a mere hanger-on. Every day Madame Merlino gets more under that man's power. He and she----"

But here he hastily broke off, for Carlo sprang forward with a gesture so threatening that any one but an Englishman would have recoiled a pace.

"Be silent," he thundered; "how dare you couple my sister's name with the name of that brute?"

His dark eyes were all ablaze with anger. Sardoni was silent, not because he doubted the truth of his own words, but because he was obliged to pause and admire.

"I see you are the brother whom Madame Merlino needs," he said, quietly; "and it is in order that those two names may not with just cause be coupled together all the world over that I speak to you plainly."

The glow of color had faded from Carlo's face, and had left him unusually pale. He turned away with a groan as Sardoni ended. Vaguely as he had dreaded his sister's arrival, he had never dreamed that it would be so bad as this.

"Her husband?" he said at length.

"Merlino is a brute, but many degrees better than Comerio. 'Tis a sort of lion and unicorn business, with your sister for crown. But you spoke as though you knew Comerio?"

"I only know what report has to say of him," replied Carlo. "He was singing here five years ago; his wife and children, I believe, still live here."

"Report says nothing of him that is not strictly true."

"But how is it, then, that Merlino is so blind to his own interests as to keep him in his troupe?"

"I can't say, unless it is that tyrants always believe in their own superiority. And then, too, Comerio is such a wily devil, he always manages to keep in Merlino's good books. There has never been the least apparent reason for getting rid of him; and, besides, Merlino is not so over-burdened with wealth that he can afford to cancel an engagement. Italian opera is not such a paying concern as people think."

"I must try to see my sister," said Carlo, with a sigh, "or write to her."

"Then if you see her allow me to suggest that you do not call on her here, where ten to one you will fall foul of her husband; and if you write, do so now and entrust the letter to me, for Merlino watches her correspondence with lynx eyes, and does not scruple to open every letter."

Carlo uttered an impatient exclamation of disgust. Every sentence which the Englishman let fall seemed to reveal to him a fresh glimpse of the intolerable life which poor Nita was leading. He accepted the pen and ink which his companion offered him, however, and, drawing a chair to the table, began with deepening color to write.

Sardoni glanced at him from time to time; he had taken up a newspaper, and made as though he were reading it, but in reality his mind was full of his Italian visitor. Carlo's face was almost as easy to read as a book, and Sardoni could not help feeling sorry for him. He had just witnessed one of the most painful sights imaginable, that of a perfectly unsullied nature being brought for the first time into near connection with a network of evil. There was something, too, in the implicit trust which Donati had reposed in him which appealed to him strongly. What a wretched position to be in! Powerless to help his own sister without trusting to the help and believing in the honesty of a stranger and a foreigner! Carlo in the mean time had finished his letter, and, folding it up, handed it unsealed to Sardoni.

The Englishman put it in his pocket-book, remarking as he did so, "For a perfect stranger you trust me with a good deal, Signor Donati."

Carlo looked troubled as it flashed across him how unsuspiciously he had believed the stranger's words. It had never occurred to him that Sardoni could possibly have any reason for misleading him. He looked at him searchingly.

"But then, you are an Englishman," he said, in a tone of relief.

Sardoni laughed. "That is a compliment to my nation which I shall not readily forget. But look here," an expression of great bitterness stole over his face, "there are many of my own countrymen who would snap their fingers at my word of honor."

Carlo again looked him through and through, and, as he looked, the blue eyes seemed to grow less hard, to appeal against that harsh opinion which had just been mentioned.

"Oh, as for that," said Carlo, with the expressive gestures of a Neapolitan, "that is just nothing at all to me. I trust you, signor."

Sardoni smiled and grasped his hand.

"I'll not betray your confidence," he said.

And with that the two men parted.

Carlo went down the dirty stone stairs, looking pale and harassed. Sardoni with a flushed face returned to his newspaper, but still did not take in one word.

"He trusted me," he thought to himself--"he really did trust me. Oh, God! if I could only change natures with a fellow like that!" Then, as some painful recollection brought hot tears to his eyes, he sprang up, and flinging aside his newspaper, strode across to the piano and began to play a waltz. "You are a fool, Jack! a fool! a fool! Why should that Italian make you think of it? A mere countrified innocent!"

And with that he played on recklessly, doing his best to forget Donati's eyes.