Chapter X: The Pilgrim

"Joy, so true and tender,
Dare you not abide?
Will you spread your pinions
Must you leave our side?
--Nay; an Angel's shining grace
Waits to fill your place!"
A. A. PROCTER.

"Very odd of Carlo not to come in to-day," remarked Captain Britton from the depths of his easy-chair. "I suppose the heat was too much for him. Have you heard from him, Fran?"

"I had a little note from him yesterday, father, only to say that he wasn't well and that the Ritters insisted on keeping him, but that he would be sure to be at home again on Saturday. I daresay Frau Ritter made him stay; it was so sultry, you know, and since Herr Ritter's illness she is always in terror of sunstrokes."

"Well, one thing is, this thunder-storm will clear the air," said the Captain, rubbing his large hands together contentedly. "If I could be sure your uncle was safely in port, I should feel more comfortable, though. What did I do with his letter? Ah, here it is! 'The yacht is to leave Leghorn on Wednesday,' he says. They certainly ought to be at Naples by this time."

"I looked out for the _Pilgrim_ yesterday," said Francesca, "but to-day I forgot all about it. How I wish Clare and the girls were coming too; it was very benighted of them to like a stupid visit to the North Cape better than a cruise in the Mediterranean."

"No accounting for tastes," said the Captain, smiling. "If it were not for this engagement of yours, I should feel sorely tempted to get your uncle to give me a berth. There is nothing, after all, like the sea. You smile, Fran. Why, bless your dear little heart! I wasn't wishing things otherwise with you and Carlo. On the contrary, I think the sooner you are married and settled the better for both of you. He has looked sadly worn and out of spirits lately, poor fellow!"

"There has been so much to trouble him," said Francesca, with a sigh.

"Ay, and he is unfit to be left all alone in that dreary house. Really, I don't see why there should be any more delay. Now that he has got rid of that sister of his, why shouldn't you be married quietly and have done with it? No disrespect to the mother in that, poor soul! Why, it is the thing of all others she would have wished. I tell you what, Fran, here is such a chance as is never likely to come again. Your uncle is unexpectedly coming out here, he is sure to give at least a week to Naples--why should we not have your wedding while he is here? Upon my word!"--he rubbed his hands with greater satisfaction than before--"that's the happiest notion that has come to me for a long time, Fran. You and Carlo shall be packed off on your honeymoon, Sibyl and I will console ourselves with a cruise in the _Pilgrim_, and we'll all forget that provoking Madame Merlino, who has made such a storm in a teacup."

Francesca blushed vividly.

"If you really think--if Carlo----," she broke off in confusion.

Captain Britton patted her head caressingly. "Why, of course, my love, of course I would take good care that Carlo thought the suggestion his own. To prolong the engagement would be bad for both of you. Nothing in the world more trying than long engagements. Not that you are to think I am in any hurry to get rid of you; but, after all, we shall scarcely be separated, and an engagement is somehow neither one thing nor the other. I should like to see you married, my dear; this sad affair of poor Carlo's has been an annoyance to me--such things are unsettling, they interrupt the steady routine of daily life. I confess I shall be glad to go away for a time with your uncle, and then, later on, to come back and begin our ordinary life once more."

Francesca felt like a cat rubbed the wrong way, but knowing that the rubber meant it all very kindly she bore it with composure.

"A cruise in the _Pilgrim_ would be the best possible change for you," she said, laughing lightly, though not altogether without an effort. "I shall go and see if she is anywhere to be seen; and really, since you are in such hurry to be off, I shall have to think about my wedding-dress."

Glad to put an end to the conversation, she crossed the room, threw open the window, and stepped out into the _loggia_. The night was deliciously fresh after the storm; she felt an inexpressible sense of freedom and relief as she closed the window behind her, and drank in deep draughts of the cool, moist air. Though her father's words had grated upon her, there was, nevertheless, a certain amount of truth in them which she could not but recognize. She, too, had that longing to go away, to escape from the scene of all the trouble and sorrow which had lately invaded their home. It would be like escaping from the hot, lamplit drawing-room into this cool out-of-doors. And then, perhaps Carlo would begin to be himself again. Surely, though, she had not liked the way in which the idea was expressed, the idea itself was a good one. They would go away--right away from Naples--away from the region of theatres--away from all that could recall Carlo's loss, and she would comfort him. Then, later on, they would induce Merlino to let Anita come to them; she should stay with them at the Villa Bruno, should be made perfectly happy, should have all kinds of little English comforts which would be new and delightful to her after her wandering life. And so her troubles should somehow conveniently disappear, and she should find that their home was her home. If her trouble was connected with money, as Francesca fancied, why then Carlo would somehow manage to clear off her debts, and she, too, should start life afresh, and they would all live happily ever after. So she dreamed in her girlish fashion, knowing nothing of the real state of the case, only fully convinced that this dreary state of things could not last forever, that somehow it would all come right in the end like the books. And in that belief no doubt she was right; wrong only in this, that "coming right in the end" meant to her coming right in these threescore years and ten.

To be married, perhaps, next week! How calmly her father had suggested the idea, and how her heart throbbed as she recalled his words! She would lay aside her mourning for that one day, would be dressed, spite of the sadness which had heralded in her marriage, "as a bride adorned for her husband;" and therewith she began, after the manner of girls, to picture the dress to herself; it should be long and white and shining; and as for orange-blossom, why, there was no lack of that in the garden, always supposing this heavy rain had not dashed it. Thinking of the orange-blossom, she turned from those inward visions and looked down into the dusky mass of trees and shrubs below, starting a little at sight of some one approaching, but quickly recognizing her lover.

"Carlo! why, Carlo! is it really you?" she exclaimed, an ecstasy of happiness in her voice, for she had not in the least expected him.

He looked up. She was leaning on the rail of the loggia among the climbing roses, her eyes bright with joy, her sweet face a little flushed, her white neck and arms gleaming through the black lace of her dress. He trembled from head to foot. It was too late now to tell her all--and had he strength to meet her? Would it not be better just to kiss that hand resting on the white balustrade, and excuse himself for the evening? But Francesca, who had never since her betrothal been so long parted from her lover, turned and flew down the steps to meet him.

"Oh, I had quite given you up, darling!" she cried. "And are you really well again--quite well?"

A terrible pang rent his heart, but he trembled no more; all the man in him rose up to meet this sore trial.

"Quite well, _carina_; only wet through, and not fit to touch you," he said; and by an impulse which he could hardly have explained he checked the hands which were stealing round his neck, drew them down, and held them fast in his while he bent forward and kissed her.

A shade passed over her face. Why did he stop to think about his wet clothes? What lover ever deigned to bestow a thought on such prudent considerations?

He read her thoughts in a glance, and therewith saw a vision of the future--the shadow deepening on that dear face, the eyes dim with tears, the brow contracted with pain. To hide his agony from her he let his head droop forward, resting his burning forehead on her shoulder.

"I have been so dreadfully anxious about you, Carlino," she said. "And, oh! it is so beautiful to have you back again!"

He did not speak, only his cold hands held hers more tightly; his face was hidden on her breast. But, though he could hide from her the sight of his anguish, he could not deceive her; she knew intuitively that it was no physical pain which made a man like Carlo bow his head like one overwhelmed. It must surely be that he was thinking of his mother--and it must have been terribly dreary coming back from Naples that stormy evening--coming home for the first time to the empty house.

"My own dear one," she said, all the deep tenderness in her heart stealing into her voice, "you'll not shut me out from your sorrow. What is yours is mine, Carlino. I was so happy when I saw you, I forgot what a sad home-coming it must be. But, darling, it wasn't that I forgot her, for I, too, loved her."

"Pray that I may keep my promise to her," he whispered. "Pray! pray!"

There was a silence. The tears welled up in Francesca's eyes, not because she understood his sorrow, but because the sorrow was his, and because she loved him. She prayed obediently like a little child. After awhile he raised his head, looked for a moment into her eyes, then pressed his lips to hers in a long, lingering kiss.

"Dear love," he said, gently, "we will keep our Whitsuntide together."

He watched her up the marble steps, then turned away, walking home through the wet garden paths. And even in his great sadness he could not but smile faintly as he reflected what Piale's feelings would be could he now see him, cold, and weary, and wet to the skin. "The singer keeps his shop in his throat," he said to himself, with a pathetic little effort to persuade himself that he was now quite accustomed to the idea. "I must not indulge any more in evening storms."

The next day was Whitsunday. Carlo, as usual, drove in to Naples with the Brittons, and was very glad that the great excitement in "Uncle George's" probable arrival, excluded all other topics of conversation. It lasted throughout the drive, and, indeed, engrossed Captain Britten's thoughts so much during church-time that he was glad to effect his escape with Sibyl after the sermon, leaving Carlo and Francesca to the second service, while he hastened to make inquiries as to the _Pilgrim_.

To his surprise and delight, he was greeted just outside the church by his brother.

Sibyl, who had very vague recollections of her uncle, studied him with a child's keen criticism.

"He is like papa," she reflected, "but smaller and finer; his beard is beautiful, and white, and curly, like a Father Christmas; he laughs with his eyes. I like him."

Having satisfied herself on this point, she began to listen to the conversation.

"Yes, we got in early this morning," her uncle was saying. "We had very light winds all the way from Leghorn--in fact, yesterday we were becalmed, but after the squall we got on better. What a paradise you live in, to be sure! Ah, is this your little one? Why, Sibyl, you have grown out of all knowledge! And what have you done with Francesca?"

"Francesca will be here directly," replied the Captain. "We may as well wait for her, if you are not in a hurry. By-the-by, George, I think you have not heard that she is to be married shortly."

"What high and mighty nobleman has been so happy as to meet with your approval?" said Mr. Britton, well aware of his brother's weakness for titles, and convinced by his beaming face that the marriage was desirable in his eyes.

"A young Italian neighbor of ours, Signor Donati; not a noble at all, but of a good old family, and likely to do well at the Neapolitan Bar. Oh, I am thoroughly pleased with the affair--thoroughly pleased, and Donati is heir to a rich old uncle, so it is satisfactory in every way.

"I hope he is good enough for dear little Fran," said Mr. Britton, dryly. Somehow the notion of his pretty niece marrying the first foreigner who proposed for her did not please him.

"Well, as to that, I doubt if there is any one in the world quite good enough for her," said Captain Britton, rubbing his hands, but slightly embarrassed by the presence of his Prayer-book. "You will like Donati, though, I am sure of that. He is a fine fellow. Just now, poor boy, he is in great trouble--lost his mother quite suddenly, and, of course, he's dreadfully cut up. In fact, I think the only thing will be to hasten on the marriage, and get him right away from the place for a bit. Ah, here they come! that's right!" and he hurried forward lest Sibyl should forestall him as news-bearer.

Mr. Britton glanced quickly at Francesca's _fiancé_, and felt his insular prejudice melting away. A more beautiful face he had never seen. Something of its serenity vanished, however, as Captain Britton approached,--a sort of shade passed over the forehead, and he evidently came back to the present with an effort. The Captain brought him forward, and introduced him in his usual rather boisterous and patronizing way. Mr. Britton was all the more struck by the grace and dignity of the Italian, and he held out his hand cordially.

"I have been hearing of you, Signor Donati," he said, pleasantly. "You must let me congratulate you, for, indeed, I think you are a very happy man."

The Italian smiled, surely the saddest smile ever seen, as he bowed his acknowledgments. Mr. Britton was startled and perplexed, but Francesca's happy face reassured him, and had not the Captain said that his future son-in-law was in trouble?

"I want you all to come and spend the day on my yacht," he said, turning to his brother. "The gig is waiting down by the Arsenal. Come! you must really take compassion on my solitude. Signor Donati, I hope you'll put up with that barbarous custom, an early dinner; but the fact is, our cook's cuddy is so near the men's quarters that if I dine late the poor fellows are half-grilled at night."

After a little more discussion, they all set off for the Arsenal, where the "gig," a term which had baffled Carlo altogether, resolved itself into a four-oared boat, manned by trim-looking English sailors, who bore the name of the _Pilgrim_ in red letters across their blue jerseys, and in gold letters round their hats. Mr. Britton took his place in the stern, insisting that his brother must sit beside Sibyl to trim the boat, and, having thus managed that the lovers should be side by side, gave the word to start. Sibyl gave a cry of delight as the golden-brown oars were promptly raised in the air and simultaneously lowered into the water.

"Oh, Uncle George!" she cried, "how happy you must be with this dear little boat always waiting for you, and men to do so beautifully just what you say!"

"Ah!" said Mr. Britton, laughing. "Wait till you are on board the _Pilgrim_! I see," he added, turning to Carlo and Francesca, "that you two have already taught this little one to understand the proud sense of possession."

Francesca smiled and blushed. Carlo appeared to be engrossed with a vessel which they were passing, the huge _Duilio_, then not quite completed.

"I suppose," he said, turning back with a bright smile which veiled the pain at his heart, "I suppose there is no need to introduce you to our monster vessel, you probably know much more about her than we do."

The shipbuilder was not above appreciating the compliment thus delicately conveyed, and Francesca looked up at the unwieldy form with its dull red color and its six funnels, and tried to seem interested in the discussion which arose upon its merits among the men; its only merit to her was that it seemed to be interesting Carlo and taking him out of himself. The _Pilgrim_, a pretty, schooner-rigged yacht, of about 150 tons, was anchored off the Military Mole, and, like all the vessels in harbor, was gayly dressed with flags in honor of the _festa_. A somewhat smaller yacht was anchored close by.

"They tell me our neighbor the _Aida_ belongs to an Italian Count or Duke, or something of the sort," said Mr. Britton. "What was the name, Oxenberry; do you recollect?"

"Count Carossa, I believe, sir," said the coxswain.

"Count Carossa!" said Captain Britton, with a beaming face. "The name seems familiar to me. A friend of yours, perhaps, Carlo?"

"No, sir; I have never even met him," said Carlo repressively.

"But the name is familiar to you, surely?"

"It is certainly a well-known name," said Carlo, still in the same tone.

Mr. Britton was a little puzzled, he could not make out whether the Italian knew of something not to the credit of Count Carossa, or whether his tone merely implied a great distaste of the Captain's love of the aristocracy.

By this time they were alongside the yacht, and the Captain, forgetting all about the Count, began to admire his brother's latest toy.

"A very pretty little vessel indeed, George! I confess I envy you. Sibyl, what do you say? Shall we not sell the villa and live afloat? Now, Carlo, don't forgot to take your hat off to the deck, it's a mortal insult to forget that!"

Carlo laughed; just for a little time he forgot his cares, and his first thought, as he glanced round the deck, with its exquisitely smooth and white boards, its shining brass work, its cunningly arranged skylights and companions, was this:--

"A yacht is the last place in the world for private conversations. One more day of freedom! One more day's peace of mind for my darling!"

As for Sibyl, she was wild with happiness, now watching the gig as it was hauled up, now trotting off hand in hand with the coxswain to the forecastle, looking with longing eyes at the rope ladders, and chattering without intermission.

It was not without difficulty that Francesca bore her off to be washed and brushed before dinner, and had it not been for the fascinations of the shifting table in the saloon, she would hardly have been induced to stay down below for so dull a duty as eating.

"Uncle George," she said, leaning forward in her quaint way, "it would have been nice to come on board the _Pilgrim_ any day, but being Sunday it's just perfect."

"Eh--how's that?" said Mr. Britton. "The better the day the better the deed, is that your idea?"

"No; but don't you see on weekdays we can have games--different games every day, if we like, but Sundays are always--always the same. Now this makes such a beautiful difference. I am glad you asked us on Sunday!"

Carlo, to whom the rules of the English Sunday had always been incomprehensible, could not repress an amused smile, but he wisely avoided taking part in the discussion which ensued on modern Sabbatarianism, being, of course, ready enough to speak out his own opinion if it were asked, but not feeling bound to volunteer it. The argument was at last interrupted by the entrance of the steward.

"A boat has just come across from the _Aida_, sir, with Count Carossa's card, but the Captain can't make out what the men say, all of them being Italians."

Carlo at once offered to act as interpreter, and ran up on deck, returning with the message, which he delivered with an impartial face.

"Count Carossa presents his compliments to the owner of the _Pilgrim_, and it would give him much pleasure to make his acquaintance. If quite convenient to Mr. Britton, the Count will call upon him in the afternoon."

"Very happy to see him, I'm sure," said Mr. Britton, who was the soul of hospitality. "Perhaps, Signor Donati, you would be so good as to frame a polite message for me and deliver it to the messenger; or stay, I'll write it on my card."

This done, they all adjourned to the deck, where, before long, they were joined by Count Carossa, a fine-looking man of two or three-and-thirty, to whom Captain Britton took very kindly. There was much amusing discussion as to the merits of the two yachts, then of Mr. Britton's homeward route, during which the Count discovered that Francesca and her father were living in the neighborhood, and did his best to push the acquaintance, eliciting very easily an invitation to dinner on the following Wednesday.

Carlo, after the Count's arrival, had kept sedulously in the background, and had said but little. Happening to glance at him once, Mr. Britton was struck by the strange expression of his face. He hastily turned his eyes towards Francesca; she was smiling in answer to some polite nothing addressed to her by the Count.

"I believe that fellow Donati is jealous!" he thought to himself. "My poor little Fran, you are altogether too good to be left to the tender mercies of an Italian husband. I wonder if the marriage is, after all, so advisable as they seem to think."

Afterwards, when the Count was gone, he said, casually, to Carlo,--

"By the way, Signor Donati, I suppose this Count Carossa is a decent sort of fellow; you don't know anything against him, do you?"

"Nothing whatever, sir," said Carlo, emphatically,--"nothing whatever. I only know that he is very rich, and that he leads a wandering life; I have often heard people wonder why in the world he does not settle down."

"Then he is unmarried?"

"Yes, he is unmarried."

At that moment Sibyl ran up to beg Carlo to look at "some dear little tortoises in the dinghy." Mr. Britton nodded to himself with the air of one who has surmised rightly.

"Just as I thought," he muttered, "as jealous as he can be."

The afternoon was spent in rambling about Naples, showing Uncle George as many lions as he cared to see; then they returned to the yacht to that curious English meal called "tea,"--a new experience to Carlo, and it was arranged that they should drive home in the cool of the evening, taking Mr. Britton with them.

"It has been such a delightful day," said Francesca; "I think I agree with Sibyl that being a Sunday it has been all the nicer."

The lovers were standing near the wheel in the dim starlight; perhaps Carlo was glad that the light was no clearer.

"See," he said, "there is Venus just setting; not there; look, out yonder behind St. Elmo."

Francesca was just in time to see the last of the planet; after it was set, the Castle on its lofty height seemed to stand out more darkly against the evening sky. The harbor was very quiet, but from the shore came sounds of laughter and merriment, a confused roar of many voices, and now and then in the distance a line or two of Garibaldi's hymn floating on the wind.

"How still and peaceful we are out here!" said Francesca, "and how noisy and horrid it seems in Naples. Why does a Babel like that always sound so wicked, I wonder? It makes me think of Vanity Fair in the _Pilgrim's Progress_."

"And yet through the uproar we can make out Garibaldi's hymn," said Carlo.

"Ah," she said, laughing, "I know you would like to be in the thick of it all, fighting against the evil as your father and grandfather fought in their day. Oh, Carlino, what a good thing for me that there are no battles now!"

"Yet in a good cause you would not have hindered me, I think, _carina_? Tell me," his lips trembled,--"tell me, had we lived then would you have begged me to stay at home?"

"No, Carlo _mio_," she said, raising her sweet eyes to his; "I would have told you to go and help your country; I wouldn't have cried till you were out of sight."

They were interrupted by a summons to get into the gig, and the four trim-looking sailors rowed them swiftly across the quiet harbor, the only sound being an occasional "_Qui va la?_" from the watchman on board one of the anchored vessels, and a ringing reply from the coxswain of "Yacht's boat."

"The peace of my life is over," thought Carlo, as he glanced back across the quiet waters to the _Pilgrim_ with her golden harbor light; "now for Vanity Fair."