Chapter XV: A Dear Adventure

"Next .... I betook me among those lofty fables and romances which recount in solemn cantos the deeds of knighthood.... There I read it in the oath of every knight that he should defend to the expense of his best blood, or of his life, if it so befell him, the honor and chastity of virgin or matron. From whence even then I learnt what a noble virtue chastity ever must be, to the defence of which so many worthies by such a dear adventure of themselves had sworn.... Only this my mind gave me, that every free and gentle spirit without that oath ought to be born a knight, nor needed to expect the gilt spur, or the laying of a sword upon his shoulder, to stir him up, both by his counsel and his arm to serve and protect the weakness of any attempted chastity."--MILTON.

Gigi, much pleased with his appearance, and with the novel feeling of cleanliness, capered away to the sola to relate his experiences to Sardoni. Carlo followed him, and found Merlino just awake after his _siesta_, and looking rather more like a surly bear than usual as he yawned and stretched himself. He roused himself, however, to introduce his brother-in-law to the tenor, not knowing that the two had met before; and they thought it best not to explain, but bowed ceremoniously to each other.

"Papa," said Gigi, gleefully, "San Carlo is going to take me to walk in the Villa!"

"San Carlo! what do you mean, child?" said Merlino, his voice softening as he patted his son's head.

"Why _him_," said Gigi, with an expressive gesture; "Signor Comerio told me he was San Carlo, and I wondered what saints wanted with operas; but he is oh! ever so much nicer than Comerio said."

The three men laughed involuntarily.

"Comerio did not at all like getting his _congé_" said Merlino. "This is just a little display of spite on his part. When did you see him, child?"

"He came in to say good-bye to me this morning while you were at rehearsal, and he gave me this to spend. Oh, dear, San Carlo, might we go to Caflisch's now?"

"You must not call your uncle by that name," said Merlino; "it is rude."

"Why, I thought it was a kind of politeness," said Gigi, with a puzzled face; "and that it was only for the very best things."

"In that case you had better not uncanonize Signor Donati," said Sardoni, who had watched the scene with a sort of careless amusement. "If you'll allow me, Gigi, I will also come with you."

Carlo looked pleased; he could not have explained why Sardoni attracted him, but already he felt that the Englishman would be his friend. His discovery of Gigi that morning had broken the blank desolateness which for the last four-and-twenty hours had overwhelmed him, and the sight of Sardoni somehow cheered him yet more. Possibly the mere fact that the tenor was Francesca's fellow-countryman prejudiced him in his favor; and then, although the Englishman's careless, witty-looking face was perhaps not of the very highest type, yet there was something winning about it,--something which interested Carlo and took him out of himself and his own cares.

"So you have changed your mind since I saw you the other day," said Sardoni, as they walked down the Toledo, "You think stage life may, after all, bear comparison with private life?"

"I am going to try my fortune as a singer," said Carlo lightly, but revealing in his face all that he strove to banish from his tone. Sardoni drew his own conclusions, but had too much tact to ask any questions.

"I was never more astounded than when Merlino told me the news," he remarked; "and I think seldom more pleased; the Company will be well rid of Comerio, who is a double-dyed villain such as one seldom meets."

"I must own that in looks he gives one the impression of being less of a brute than Merlino himself," said Carlo, lowering his voice cautiously.

"Looks are not everything," said Sardoni; "there are some faces--yours for instance--which can be read in an instant; but there are others which baffle one altogether. Merlino is not so bad as he seems; at any rate while he is a brute the other is a fiend."

"How did he take his dismissal?" asked Carlo.

"I heard very little about it, but apparently he has taken good care not to quarrel with Merlino. No doubt he'll move heaven and earth to get into the troupe again, he is not a man who will stand being beaten."

"Yet Merlino would never have us both, I suppose?"

"No; so it will now be to Comerio's interest to oust you. Don't think me a brute to speak out plainly, but when I caught sight of Comerio's face as he left the theatre I thought I wouldn't be in your shoes for a million of money. That fellow is your enemy, and he may nurse his revenge for years, but sooner or later, he'll have it."

A feeling of vague discomfort crept over Carlo; for a minute he was silent, then, with a look in his face which startled Sardoni, he said cheerfully,--

"I owe you a great deal; it was through you that I first knew there was a chance of helping my sister in this way, and now you have taken the trouble to warn me of a danger. One must not dwell on such things, though perhaps it is well to know of them."

"I should have thought," said Sardoni, smiling, "that you would be more likely to curse me than to bless me for having first put into your head a notion that must have cost you dear."

Carlo gave a quick glance at his companion, wondering whether he had the least conception how great the cost had been. Perhaps he was glad to be spared any direct answer to the remark by their arrival at Caflisch's and the necessity of helping Gigi to lay out his two _lire_ to the best advantage.

Afterwards they strolled on to the Villa, and, while Gigi played about happily, the two men sat under the trees, Sardoni finding a sort of idle pleasure in studying his new companion.

"Do you mean to sing under your own name?" he asked, after a time.

"Yes," replied Carlo; "I have no object in taking a _nom de guerre_; with an English name, of course, it is different--you were almost bound to do so."

Sardoni gave a sarcastic smile.

"It was most necessary," he remarked, dryly. "Did my own people know how I gained my livelihood they would be even more ashamed of me than they are already."

Carlo looked surprised, even a little anxious. His interest in Sardoni grew deeper.

"They do not then know where you are?" he asked. "That is surely very hard on them."

The tenor gave a short laugh.

"Not at all; I am silent purely out of regard for their feelings. Do you know what the old Puritans used to call actors? They called them 'caterpillars of the Commonwealth' and 'vagabonds.'"

"That may be, but family feeling must in the end be stronger than such prejudice."

"You judge others by yourself," said Sardoni. "All families are not so devoted as yours seem to be." Then, his brow contracting sharply, "Besides, did I not tell you when we first met that in my own country, men would no longer trust my word as blindly as you seem inclined to do?"

"Why will you always force that upon me?" said Carlo, looking full into his companion's eyes. "Do you wish to make me doubt you? That is hardly a friendly act, since you are the one light just now in my dark sky."

The words sounded strangely in Sardoni's ear, the simile was so un-English, but the tone touched him more than he would have cared to own.

"I force this upon you because I like you," he said, with some effort. "You are the first man I have seen whose friendship I could have wished. But I will be friends with no man who does not know the truth about me; and whoever knew the truth would not care to be my friend."

"I should care," said Carlo, quickly.

The Englishman shook his head. Then, suddenly resuming his usual reckless, nonchalant manner, he said with a laugh, "Few men, I fancy, have managed to sustain their _nom de guerre_ so completely; Merlino himself has not even a notion of my true surname."

"What induced you to take the name of Sardoni?" asked Carlo.

"Well, according to the character of my questioner I have two replies," said Sardoni. "Matter of fact: It occurred to me one morning while I was breakfasting off sardines. Poetic: I assumed it in a sardonic mood, while contemplating a journey to Sardinia. We have some funny improvements on names among us."

"Are they chiefly Italians in the company?"

"Oh! we are a very mixed multitude," said Sardoni. "I'll prepare you for your future lot and give you a faithful description of the 'happy band of pilgrims.' Let us be more courteous than the playbills, and take the ladies first. Top of the list stands Madame Merlino, who needs no description. Next comes Mlle. Elise de Caisne, a little French flirt. Then the two mezzos, Mlle. Lauriston, ditto, ditto, and Miss Robinson, who hails from New York, but sings under the name of Duroc; she is an average American girl, and can be pleasant enough, also, which speaks well for her--she is hand in glove with Domenica Borelli. The Borelli is a Maltese lady, in reality Borg--every one is a Borg in Malta. She is a contralto with a wonderful compass, a real good painstaking artist, the joy of Marioni's heart; there exists between them a platonic friendship. Next we come to the tenors."

"Headed by Signor Sardoni," put in Carlo, with a smile.

"And close on my heels," continued the Englishman, "follow my two rivals, Crevelli and Cafferi---awfully jealous of me--awfully; not of each other, that's the odd part; but then they are so much alike that it's always a case of 'Which is which?' and when one is praised the other thinks it was a mistake and really meant for him; those two are _bona fide_ Italians, and as like as two peas,--broad forehead, straight, black hair, correct profile, big moustache, great expanse of cheek. You'll find some trouble in knowing them apart, but at last I've induced Crevelli to keep his hair an inch longer than the other's, just for convenience' sake.

"That brings us to the basses, and to your brother-in-law; we won't discuss him: you'll find that he gets well treated because they all live in mortal terror of him. Then, Gomez. Gomez has raven hair and a sad cast of countenance, he hails from Seville and stands much on his dignity. Tannini, alias Joshua C. Tanner, is a jolly Yankee, and has a keen eye to the main chance. A very practical man is Tanner; he'll soon be 'calc'lating that he can't understand such a knight-errant' as you. Next comes Bauer--a good solid lump of humanity, always in at dinner-time and to be found at odd hours tucking in, regardless of the coming opera. He reminds me of an old nursery song of ours, about--

'A duck, who had got such a habit of stuffing,
That all the day long it was panting and puffing.'

Bauer's often out of breath on the stage, you'll find. Then there is Donati, the baritone, whose character I have not yet fathomed; and Fasola, a miserable stick, capable only of third-rate parts, but supposed to be your under-study; and, finally, our little conductor, Marioni, who wears himself to fiddlestrings, all out of devotion to the muse, and tears his hair--you'll see presently how ragged it is--because he can't get things done as he would wish."

"I have heard Piale speak very highly of him," said Carlo, and then he sat silent for a minute or two, musing over Sardoni's odd description of his future companions, and wondering what this strange new life would be like.

"Was Comerio a favorite?" he asked at length.

"He was hated by some and liked by others; Domenica Borelli, for instance, was not on speaking terms with him."

"And yet travelled in the same company."

"Oh, that is perfectly possible! I don't think she has spoken to him since we were at San Francisco, a year ago, yet of course they had to act together. The Borelli is extremely fastidious, she will highly approve of the change of baritones. But Gomez will hate you, for he is Comerio's friend; I shouldn't be surprised if he got up a cabal against you."

Again Carlo was silent, he looked down the long, shady walk with its sombre ilex-trees; the prospect of his new life had never before seemed so distasteful to him, and it was with a sense of relief that he caught sight of Enrico Ritter coming towards them with his usual long, imperturbable stride. Enrico seemed his last link with the past, and he was glad to be able to introduce him to Sardoni.

"I have just met your uncle," said Enrico, abruptly, as he took the vacant place beside Carlo.

"Then, of course, you know all?"

"Yes, and I find it hard to forgive you," said Enrico.

"To forgive?" echoed Carlo, questioningly.

"Yes, to forgive. You have falsified my pet theory," said the egoist. "Here, give me one of your cards and I'll tell you in two words what I think of you."

Carlo, not without a pang, as he remembered how at first sight of those copper-plate words, "Avvocato Carlo Poerio Donati," he had felt himself the happiest man in Naples, handed the card to his friend, and Enrico, crossing out the "Avvocato," scribbled above it the words, "Knight-Errant."

Sardoni glanced at it with a smile.

"You couldn't have put the case more tersely," he said, rising to go, because he thought the two friends would rather talk out the matter alone. But before he turned he glanced searchingly at Carlo, and again surprised on his face the look which had perplexed him before.

"Does the fellow actually take pleasure in giving up his life to the service of that chit?" he thought to himself as he walked away. "If ever there was a commonplace, uninteresting woman in the world, it is Anita Merlino; she'll not even have the grace to be grateful to him."

Late in the afternoon of the following day, Carlo, returning from a long lesson with Piale, happened to meet, in the Piazza Municipio, a handsome English sailor whose face seemed familiar to him. He glanced hastily at the name embroidered on his jersey, and read the word _Pilgrim_. With a great hunger in his heart to know Francesca's whereabouts, he turned and accosted the man.

"So the _Pilgrim_ is still here," he said, courteously. "When does she leave?"

"To-night, sir," said the sailor, looking pleased at the recognition. "Captain Britton and the young ladies came on board an hour ago, and we are only waiting now for the caterer; and there he comes yonder."

Carlo, glancing round, saw another of the yacht's crew, a bluff-looking, elderly man, whose duty was to buy the food for his mates.

"We shall sail now as soon as we get on board, sir," said the coxswain. "Can I take any message for you?"

"None, thank you," said Carlo, and bidding the man a courteous farewell, he turned quickly away. Hurriedly he walked towards the Strada Nuova, and looked across the blue waters of the bay. There was the _Pilgrim_, anchored to the Military Mole, her beautiful white sails all set, and only waiting for the return of the dinghy to raise anchor. Carlo saw the little boat threading its way between the vessels in the harbor, saw it round the yacht and disappear, then descried Oxenberry's lithe figure springing on board. For a few minutes all seemed haste and confusion; he could hear the rattling of chains, and could even make out the figure of the steward seated on the capstan with his concertina, while the sailors heaved up the anchor, swinging merrily round to the familiar strains of the "Shanty." Their hearty voices reached him even at that distance, and he remembered how as a child Francesca had proudly taught him to sing the "Shanty" with a proper English accent. Fragments of the the words seemed now to float across to him, and the tears started to his eyes.

"Hurrah, my lads! we're homeward bound,
We're homeward bound for Plymouth Sound;
Up with the sail, and off goes she.
Hurrah, my lads! hurrah! hurrah!"

The cheerful old tune seemed to him now like a dirge,--the dirge for his old life which was passed and over, the dirge for his betrothal so swiftly ended.

All at once his heart began to throb wildly, for he saw a slim, dark figure come on deck with a white shawl wrapped about the head and shoulders. Francesca stood with her face turned towards him, looking to the shore and away from the blithe sailors, whose merry song, perhaps, brought to her mind the very thoughts it had suggested to Carlo. He gazed on, hardly knowing whether the sight comforted or tortured him, but, in any case, unable to move, unable for one instant to relax the strain.

At last the song ceased, the chain rattled no more, the yacht began to move, and Francesca shifted her position a little, but still kept aloof from the rest, still gazed shorewards. And thus she remained while the summer wind filled the white sails, and the _Pilgrim_ glided out of the harbor, gently, proudly, but relentlessly, moving out seawards.

To the very last, his eyes rested on her till the slim, black figure became a mere speck in the distance, and finally was lost to sight. He lingered still for the last glimpse of the _Pilgrim's_ sails, on which the afternoon's sun glinted with dazzling brightness; then, when those, too, had disappeared, he became conscious of a creeping chilliness, which obliged him to grope his way to one of the seats and wait till he had recovered his self-control.

It was a vision of Piale's reproachful face which finally roused him. What would be the Maestro's horror could he see his pupil sitting there regardless of the dangerous hour of sunset, which was fast approaching? He drew himself together and walked slowly back to the Palazzo Forti through the narrow, picturesque streets, so familiar, but now so desolate to him. Never in his life had he felt so hopelessly lonely as when he mounted the dirty stairs and reached the suite of rooms which, for the time being, made his home.

In the ante-room Gigi was crying piteously; in the _sala_ Merlino, in one of his worst tempers, was arguing with Anita; while Gomez, who had just arrived from Seville, stood glowering darkly at the new baritone.