Chapter XIV: The New Baritone

"Small spheres hold small fires.
But he loved largely, as a man can love
Who, baffled in his love, dares live his life,
Accept the ends which God loves for his own,
And lift a constant aspect."
E. B. BROWNING.

It was a hot summer morning, and two ragged little Neapolitans were sauntering along the Chiaja; the elder had flung his arm caressingly round the other's neck, the younger held in his hand a ragged cap full of cherries, from which they were eating contentedly as they walked. A carriage rolled past them, and both boys looked up with sharp, eager eyes.

"_Gran Dio!_" cried one. "Look! yonder goes Comerio the singer."

"'Tis he himself," said the other, with a look of interest; "and in a vile temper, too; his brow is black as a starless night!"

"They say he beats his wife," said the elder boy, with a laugh, which was only checked by the offer of a ripe red cherry which his brother held up to his mouth.

Meanwhile the carriage had gone by, and Comerio was, before long, set down at the entrance to Palazzo Forti. He paid the driver, and then, with no very amiable expression, made his way up the long stone staircase and rang the bell.

A maid-servant, whom he had tried unsuccessfully to bribe on former occasions, opened the door to him.

"Is Signor Merlino at the theatre?" he asked, anxious to know whether the coast was clear.

"Yes, signor," replied the girl. "What message can I give him?"

"I will give it to Signora Merlino," said the visitor, preparing to enter.

The maid showed all her teeth in a merry smile.

"But the Signora is still at rehearsal."

"_Orsù_!" exclaimed Comerio, impatiently, "I might have known. Well, I will come in then, and wait till they return."

He was shown into a little ante-room, where for a few minutes he paced to and fro, but suddenly becoming conscious that in the next room some one was monotonously humming _La donna è mobile_, he hastily entered and glanced round. At first nothing was visible, but after a moment or two he discovered the singer, a little brown-eyed boy of four years old, who was perched on the window-still, and half hidden by the curtain.

"Good-morning, Gigi," he said pleasantly.

The little fellow flung aside the curtain; he seemed very glad to see the visitor.

"Good-morning, signor," he said, smiling till his sallow little face looked almost pretty. "Are there----" he looked longingly, yet hesitatingly, in the direction of Comerio's pocket,--"are there any bonbons?"

Comerio made a gesture of mock despair.

"Why, Gigi, how can I have forgotten? I promised you some _marrons glacês_, did I not? but, indeed, the bad news of this morning drove everything out of my head."

"What bad news?" said the little boy, with an anxious look that seemed to be beyond his years.

"I am going away, Gigi; I shall never travel about with you any more. There will be a new baritone,--one who is not likely to carry _marrons glacês_ in his pocket, or to play games with you, for he sets up for being a saint."

"A saint?" said the child. "What is that? I thought they were things in the sky."

"A saint is one who is fond of keeping other people in order. San Carlo will spy out in no time what a naughty little monkey you are."

"I wish he wasn't coming," said the child, looking ready to cry. "I don't see why saints want to sing in operas; they should stop in heaven."

Comerio laughed.

"Quite right, little one, so they should," he said, patting Gigi's head. "But look, my Gigi, will you do one little thing for your old friend, to please him for the last time?"

The boy nodded and looked up with bright, intelligent eyes into the wily face of the baritone.

Comerio drew out a letter and placed it in his hands.

"When your mother comes home, run after her into her room, and when you find her alone--quite alone--give this note to her. Do you understand? It is a secret; no one else must know--no one at all."

"I know, I know; I can keep a secret!" cried Gigi, gleefully. "Mamma and I often keep secrets from papa, she taught me how, soon as ever I left Salem."

Comerio gave a cynical smile.

"Mind you do," he said, commandingly. "I shall find out if you play me false. And look here, little one, here are two _lire_ for you, and you can tell any one you like that Comerio came to say good-bye to you, and told you to spend that at Caflisch's. There, I must go now. Don't forget me."

He stooped and kissed the little sallow face, then hastily took his departure, having seen that the letter was securely stowed away in the child's pocket.

Gigi, with a thoughtful look, poked his closely cropped head out of the window and watched Comerio as he walked down the street. He was hardly out of sight when a carriage drew up at the door,--a carriage with one gentleman seated in it, and with luggage on the box. Gigi's head was promptly withdrawn, and, in a sudden access of terror, he wrapped himself round in the curtain.

"I do b'lieve," he said to himself in English, "I do b'lieve it is San Carlo."

After a time he heard the door of the ante-room opened and the servant's voice saying that the Signora would soon be back from rehearsal; then another voice, so clear and sweet that the child almost forgot to be afraid, said in reply, "Very well, I will come in here, then, and wait."

The footsteps drew nearer. Gigi shook in his shoes, yet felt a burning curiosity to see the new-comer--this dread being who was to be ever on the watch to spy out his faults.

The stranger seemed to walk up to the piano and to turn over the books lying upon it; then there was such complete silence that Gigi felt sure he must be reading, and ventured to peer out from his hiding-place.

He saw that the visitor was leaning in an easy attitude over the piano, his head propped up by his hand, and his eyes bent upon the score of some opera. Gigi could only see his side face, but that fascinated him, and somehow he did not feel any longer afraid. He was impatient to attract the stranger's notice, but, though he moved the curtain, it was of no use, the new-comer seemed quite absorbed in the music he was reading. At last, in despair, Gigi resolved to speak.

"San Carlo!" he said, timidly thrusting his head a little further forward.

The stranger looked up in surprise, and when he saw the quaint little face peeping out from the curtain, he came forward a few steps, looking very much puzzled.

"I don't know," said Gigi, politely, "but I think you are the new baritone."

Something in this address so tickled the stranger that he began to laugh. His laugh was a very pleasant one.

"You have guessed rightly," he said, "but I am not so clever, and cannot guess your name at all."

"I am Gigi," said the child, gravely. "Signor Sardoni laughs at my name and says it is only fit for a pony, but then he is only an Englishman and knows no better; though, after all, I like him, and I like to talk in English, as we did at Salem."

As he spoke, the little fellow lifted a pair of beautiful dark eyes to the stranger's face; his eyes were his only beauty, they were wonderfully expressive, and something in their depths was familiar to the new-comer. He came closer and studied the child's face more attentively.

"Gigi," he said, "I think you must be my little nephew, though no one has taken the trouble to tell me of your existence."

"Oh, no," said the child--they were talking now in English--"I have an uncle, but he is not like you; he is not the new baritone; he is rich, and lives in a beautiful villa in the country."

"He lives there no longer; the villa is to be let, and he is coming to live with you," said the stranger, taking the child on his knee. "Come, tell me the rest of your name, Gigi."

"I have three," said Gigi, with dignity, "though they alluse call me Gigi for short. My whole name is Luigi Bruno Merlino, and I shall be four next month."

"Then there is no doubt that I am your uncle," said Carlo, kissing the child on both cheeks.

But Gigi, with a shrewd look much beyond his years, shook his head emphatically.

"If you are the new baritone, then you are San Carlo, and San Carlo could hardly be my uncle. You set up for being a saint, you know, and are fond of keeping other people in order; and you will never play games, but will alluse know when I do what is wrong. I badly wished you weren't coming, but somehow you are not quite what I thought."

The child's words were so comical that they carried no sting; Carlo could only smile at them.

"I am glad of that," he said, patting the closely cropped head. "You must have been expecting a regular ogre."

"No, not an ogre, but a saint. It was Signor Comerio that told me about you."

"Ah," said Carlo, unpleasantly enlightened; "you see, as Signor Comerio and I have never met, he can only have drawn a fancy picture of me."

"I am sorry Signor Comerio is going, he was to have given me some _marrons glacês_, but he gave me two _lire_ instead just now--at least he said so. It was a bit of paper, but he said I was to spend it. In America we alluse have proper money. Do you think this paper will really buy me _marrons glacês_ at Caflisch's?"

He began to grope in his pocket, and drew forth an envelope. Carlo could not help seeing that it was addressed to Signora Merlino. A sudden recollection flashed across him of his interview in that very room with Sardoni, and of the Englishman's assurance that Merlino watched his wife's correspondence with lynx eyes, and did not scruple to open all her letters. And Comerio had apparently just been to Palazzo Forti.

"How stupid I are!" said Gigi, thrusting the envelope back again. "Did you see, San Carlo?"

"Yes, I did," said Carlo, without any comment.

"Signor Comerio said you would always spy out everything," said the child, pouting. "It was a secret, and I promised to keep it; and he will be so angry when he finds out."

"If you promised to give the letter, you must do so," said Carlo, gravely.

"Yes, but no one else was to see it," said Gigi, beginning to cry. "Oh, dear San Carlo, do promise not to tell, for when Signor Comerio is angry he looks so fierce, and it does frighten me."

"No one shall hurt you," said Carlo, putting his arm round the child. "Don't cry, Gigi; I am very fond of you. No one shall hurt you at all."

"And you won't tell papa?" said Gigi, still sobbing. "You see there are things that must be kept from papa, and mamma taught me how when I came away from Salem."

Carlo felt sick at heart; he remembered how on that Sunday a fortnight ago he had first felt the sensation of coming unexpectedly into a network of evil; now he realized that it was in the very midst of this that he had ordained to live, and he shuddered as the little child composedly described his training in deceit.

"Why do you sit looking so silent, San Carlo?--I mean, looking so grave?" said Gigi, drying his eyes. "Are you angry with me?"

"No, I am not at all angry; but I am very sorry you promised to give that letter and to keep that secret."

"Are all secrets wrong?"

"No, there are some things we cannot tell to every one, but they must never be things of which we are ashamed. Suppose you had a beautiful diamond, and were travelling along a road where you feared brigands, you would hide your treasure quite away, and that would be right and wise; but, if you had stolen a diamond from a shop in the Toledo, and hid it for fear of having it taken from you, that would be wrong; do you see?"

"And was Signor Comerio ashamed of his secret, and afraid that it would be found out and taken away from him?"

"Yes, he was," said Carlo; "and that is why I was sorry you had not said 'no' when he asked you to help him."

"I will say 'no' another time," said Gigi.

"That's right," said Carlo, kissing him, and then he quickly turned the conversation, afraid that the child might question him further, and lose faith in his mother.

They were still sitting in the window when Anita returned from rehearsal. She gave a little cry of astonishment when she saw her brother, and came forward quickly to greet him.

"Carlino!" she exclaimed, in her excitement returning to his old childish name. "Are you come already? My husband has only to-day told me of your decision." She drew him a little away from the child, and the tears rose to her eyes as she said, with more solicitude than she had ever shown for him, "Dear Carlo, do you realize what you undertake? I know you want to help me--I understood it in a moment--but do you know what this life is? It is no play-work, as some people think; a public singer leads the life of a cart-horse."

"Plenty of work is what I shall like best," said Carlo, kissing her. "If only I can shield you, Nita, I shall be well content."

She shivered a little, and went on in an undertone,--

"I saw him for a moment at the theatre, after he knew he was to leave the troupe; his face terrifies me to remember, for I know he understands why it is you have taken his place. But Merlino suspects nothing--that is the one great comfort."

At this moment Gigi trotted up rather shyly.

"Mamma," he said, pulling at her dress, "I promised Signor Comerio I would give you this when you were alone, but I forgot, and pulled it out of my pocket just now, and San Carlo saw it; so I may as well give it you now, directly."

The color rushed into Nita's face; she made as though she would tear the letter in pieces without opening it, but Carlo checked her.

"Return it just as it is," he suggested. "Direct it to him yourself, and I will see that it reaches him safely."

Nita hastily crossed the room, and enclosed the letter in an envelope; she knew that Comerio would recognize her writing in a moment, and directed it hastily, perhaps hardly considering that by doing so she had crossed the Rubicon.

But Carlo understood, and knew well that only by showing her all possible love and tenderness could he hope to fill this blank in her life.

"You never told me of this little man's existence," he said, glancing at Gigi, when she had handed him the letter and he had put it away in his pocket. "You should have brought him with you to Villa Bruno."

"He had the chicken-pox," said Nita, indifferently. "I suppose he took it on board the steamer--indeed, I always thought it a great mistake to bring him away from America, but Merlino was set upon having him; he is very fond of the child."

Carlo felt discouraged; it was quite clear that Nita did not even pretend to care much for her little son. She went on in a complaining voice,--

"He was happy enough at Salem, and, indeed, is always begging to go back again. The people there had brought him up, for, of course, I couldn't drag a baby all over the States with me."

"It was a farmhouse," put in Gigi, "and I alluse went out with the pigs every day. I wish there was pigs here."

Carlo smiled, but thought Gigi deserved better companionship.

"Merlino knew that we should be in America again in another year," continued Anita, "but he had some foolish feeling against leaving the child so far off, and so I suppose we shall have to take him about with us for the present. Men don't realize what trouble a child gives. Merlino likes to play with him now and then for ten minutes, but he would never be bothered with him, and he won't let me have a nurse even. It is absurd to expect me to see to him when already I am almost worked to death."

Carlo thought there was some truth in this, though he was sorry she seemed to have so little motherly feeling; but that her life was very hard he could well believe, and she looked delicate and overwrought.

"How do you manage?" he said. "Is there no one to help you with him?"

"The stewardess was kind to him when we crossed, and then, when he was ill, the servant saw to him; but really, poor girl, the landlady leads her such a life that she can't spare time to make him look respectable. He hasn't been out since we came to Naples; I couldn't take such a little scarecrow with me."

"Maria doesn't do anything for me now," put in Gigi. "I can dress myself, mamma, quite well, and I haven't been washed at all just lately."

"You would have been far better with your pigs at Salem," said Nita, laughing a little, while Carlo, though perhaps not quite so much disgusted as an Englishman would have been, began to revolve schemes for tubbing his small nephew.

"Then you have really made up your mind to stop here as long as we are at Naples?" asked Nita. "You will find it a contrast to Villa Bruno."

"Piale will prefer to have me close at hand." said Carlo. "And, indeed, I think it will be better every way. Is there a room for me here?"

"Yes, you can have the room where Gigi was ill; there is no need for him to have a room all to himself now that he is well again; he can sleep on the sofa in the ante-room."

"Oh, don't turn him out," said Carlo, and the matter ended in a small bed being extemporized for Gigi in a corner, much to his contentment.

"For you know," he said, trotting after his uncle, "when it is all dark, I feel so alone; and last night I really think there was a cow under my bed."

Nita retired before long for her _siesta_, and Carlo, with the assistance of Gigi, took possession of his new quarters, and unpacked his worldly goods. When all was done, he flung himself back in an arm-chair to rest, and Gigi curled himself up like a little dog at his feet. For a time there was silence, then Carlo was struck by a happy idea.

"Gigi," he said, "would you like to come and walk with me in the Villa?'

"What's the Villa?" asked the child. "Do you mean Villa Bruno?"

"No, I meant the Villa Nazionale,--a garden, you know, with beautiful trees. Would you like to come with me?"

"Oh, yes!" cried Gigi, with a beaming face; "it will be almost like being at Salem again."

"With the pigs," put in Carlo, laughingly. "But look, before I take you we must make you tidy and clean, don't you think?"

"Perhaps," said Gigi, with a sigh.

"Are there any baths here?"

"Signor Sardoni has one; he is English, you know, and takes it cold every morning--quite cold; he asked yesterday whether he should lend it to me, but I guess he was only in fun."

"Run and ask him, with my compliments, if he will really do so," said Carlo, much amused.

There was an interval in which he dozed a little; presently back came the child, dragging after him an indiarubber travelling-bath, and followed by Maria, whom he had induced to bring a can of hot water, fearful lest San Carlo should expect him to plunge into cold like the English.

Maria, with a broad smile, suggested that he had better have clean clothes as well, and managed to find some for him; she might even have offered to tub him had not the padrona's voice been heard calling her impatiently, and, with a saucy retort to her mistress, she ran off, leaving Carlo and his victim to manage as they could.

Very slowly and reluctantly the tiny fellow divested himself of his clothes, and stood shivering on the brink; Carlo, had he been of an introspective nature, would have been amused at the thought that his first piece of work in his new career was to scrub a grubby little child; being not at all introspective, but extremely practical, he only wondered how in the world he was to do it, and where he was to begin.

"Come, Gigi," he said, encouragingly, "I shall pretend you are a pony, as Signor Sardoni says you ought to be; get in quickly and I will groom you."

Gigi was imaginative, and this notion suited him very well; he began to kick and prance, but no longer objected to the soap and water; indeed, after the first shock he rather liked them; and the scrubbing was at any rate satisfactory work--more promptly visible in its effects than any of Carlo's other work was likely to be. Gigi, who had gone in grim and shivering, came out a beautiful white, wet, little mortal, with sleek, shining skin, and cheeks glowing like ruddy apples.

"I like it," he said proudly, "I like it very much. If I'm good, San Carlo, will you groom me again some day?"

"Every day, till you can do it yourself," said Carlo promptly, at which Gigi clapped his hands.

"At Salem," he said, "we only had Saturday for tub night, and it was so cold in the back-kitchen."

Carlo, after this remark, thought that whatever the drawbacks of travelling in Merlino's company, the child was better off than in the primitive farmhouse with his four-footed friends.