Chapter VII: "no One but You."

"You like to behold and even to touch the Cross, but, alas! when the command comes to you to bear it!"--FENELON.

Francesca had lived many years in Italy, and had more than once witnessed the passionate demonstrations of sorrow in a bereaved household; nevertheless, it was something of a shock to her to leave the quiet room of death and to go to Anita, whom she found surrounded by the weeping servants. They evidently took a melancholy pleasure in watching her violent paroxysms of grief.

To the English girl such a state of things seemed dreadful; she did as she would have been done by, and induced the noisy mourners to go away, thinking that poor Anita would find whatever comfort there was for her in silence and solitude. She could not understand that total absence of the consciousness of others, which to a northern nature is so utterly foreign, and she would have left Anita with a few tender words and a long, close embrace, had not the poor girl clung to her like a child with such wild sobs and tears, such loud, unrestrained crying, that Francesca began to understand that she must be comforted much as Sibyl needed comforting after some dire disaster.

At length, words began to frame themselves amid the sobs, a constant repetition of the one bitter regret which overpowered everything else--"I have killed her! I have killed her! It is all my doing!"

"You could not tell--you could not know," said Francesca, feeling it hard indeed to find words to meet so terrible a grief, and weeping, too, for sympathy. "She has been so much weaker of late--unable to bear any shock--but how could you know? And, oh, Nita, she must have been so glad that you came!"

"No, no," sobbed Nita. "I might have stayed away, and then she would have forgotten."

"Never, for she loved you," said Francesca. "Her last words almost were of you. Oh, if you could but have heard how she begged Carlo not to leave you!"

But at this Nita only wept the more.

"Carlo will hate me," she cried. "Oh, let me go! let me go! Tell them to put in the horses. I can't stay here any longer."

"He does not hate you; he loves you," said Francesca, warmly. "He promised the Signora that he would always take care of you."

Something in her tone quieted Nita. She lay musing over the words, wondering if, indeed, her brother knew all and would yet help her, trembling with fear at the thought of meeting him, and yet trembling still more when she thought of going back to Naples to face temptations too strong for her.

Francesca watched her tenderly, aware that some conflict was going on in her mind, though wholly ignorant of her story, and far too young and innocent to dream of the meaning which lay in the dying words of the Signora. Nita was in trouble, and in some sort of difficulty, and Carlo had promised to help her. Francesca did not curiously wonder what the difficulty might be, nor did she for one moment doubt Carlo's power of saving her. She accepted everything with the quiet confidence of a child who is vaguely conscious that there is trouble in the house, but is quite certain that its elders will soon make all right. Looking at Nita, she saw how strong a likeness existed between the brother and sister; and even if she had not felt drawn towards her before by her loneliness and her grief, this would have appealed to her. The fine profile and the warm, bright coloring were exactly alike, but the mouth was disappointing, and had the same weakness which had slightly spoilt the expression of Signora Donati; while the eyes, though large and beautiful, were lacking in soul, and might almost have been the eyes of a doll, so little did they vary. But yet, as Nita lay there in her grief and self-reproach, trying to make up her mind between two evils, wondering which fear was the least intolerable, there was something about her which pleaded for pity. She was so young, so weak--a parasite by nature, she seemed ready to cling to anything, no matter what it was, so long as it had the strength which she lacked.

She was afraid of sleeping in the same house as her dead mother, but then she was yet more afraid of confessing to her husband where she had been. She dreaded meeting Carlo, but she still more dreaded meeting Comerio. All at once it occurred to her to wonder who her companion was.

"I have forgotten your name, signorina," she said, looking into the sweet, pure face above her; "but I think you must be Carlo's English playmate from Casa Bella."

"Yes; I am Francesca Britton," she replied quietly, not liking just then to speak of her happy betrothal.

"Ah! how shocked I was in the old days at the games you and he played together!" said Nita, wistfully. "And now--now it is I who have shocked you all. But you were quite right all the time. I have seen American life since then, and if we Italian girls had something of their liberty, there would not be so many broken hearts among us."

The words reminded her of her grief, and she again burst into tears.

"Let me fetch Carlo," said Francesca. "He will comfort you as no one else can. Oh, you must not say you are afraid of him, that is only because you have forgotten. And I may tell him that you will stay, may I not?--you could not leave him all alone."

Nita sobbed out something inarticulate, which Francesca took for a consent, and hurried away in search of her lover. She found him in the _salotto_, but the body of the Signora had been carried to her own room, and Carlo, looking broken-hearted, was trying to write a letter to his uncle to tell him the news. Softly passing her arm round his neck, and with her cool cheek leaning against his heated brow, she stood by him for some moments in silence.

"I must go home, my own," she said, at length. "Father will have come back, and will not know where I am. May I ask him to come in and see if he can help you in anyway?"

Carlo thanked her. He felt dazed and bewildered; he thought it would be a comfort to have the help of the kind-hearted Englishman, who delighted in managing other people's affairs.

"And then there is Nita!" he exclaimed, with a look of perplexity. That promise which he had made returned to him. It lay like a heavy weight on his burdened mind; he had promised to save her, but how to perform that promise he had not an idea.

"It was about Nita I wanted to speak to you," said Francesca. "She said at first that she must go back to Naples at once, and seemed to dread meeting you. But I think--I really think she would stay if you went to her and let her see that you care for her still. She is in terrible distress, and no one but you can comfort her, Carlo _mio_."

"No one but you!--No one but you!" The words haunted him as he turned to go to Nita. His mother had trusted all to him; Francesca, too, seemed to think that with him lay the sole chance of reaching his sister. Their very confidence seemed to crush him; he was utterly at a loss to know what he should do or say; he could not even feel acutely, sympathy seemed dead, his heart cold and numb with suffering, and yet impelled by the truth of those words, "No one but you!" he entered Nita's room. Her face was buried in the pillow, she was sobbing aloud, and took no notice of his presence. He sat down by the bed and mechanically took her hand in his: her sobs did not move him, and no words of comfort came to his lips.

But all at once, as he watched the little hand which lay in his, a keen pang of pain shot through his heart. The hand was like his mother's hand, so much like it that he could hardly believe it was not hers; he pressed it to his lips with love and reverence, for the first time in his life fully realizing the meaning of brotherhood. With that pain and that new vision his heart awoke once more, his work lay before him, his perplexity melted in a rush of love and pity, and that eager longing to help which swallows up diffidence and proves its own guide.

"Nita _mia_!" he said, his tears falling fast on the little white hand, "do not cry like that. She is at rest--at rest, and very happy; we dare not wish her back again."

"But I--but I have killed her!" sobbed Anita.

"No, never say that--never think it," he cried; "you did right to come home, quite right. It is the will of God."

No contact with Enrico's sceptical philosophy had been able to mar that wonderful child-like faith which is one of the most beautiful characteristics of an Italian. _E volete di Dio_. The words were spoken with a grave simplicity which would have startled an Englishman. He did not pause to think of the proper thing to say, or reflect for one instant how his words would affect others, he just spoke out the perfect assurance which, in his terrible grief, had been his own refuge.

"You must know, Nita," he resumed, as she grew more quiet, "that I have heard all; she told me; and she died happy because she was sure you would be saved from this. You will not let her hope be vain."

"If you would help me," faltered Anita.

"I will--I will!" he cried eagerly. That was no time to think of details or of difficulties, he could only give her his unqualified promise. Then, when the two had discussed things a little more, it was arranged that Carlo should write a note to Merlino, and tell him that Anita would remain for a few days at the Villa Bruno.

"And, oh! write carefully," exclaimed Nita; "see that you do not offend him."

Carlo wrote a cautiously worded letter, and sent it in to Naples by old Florestano, who also bore the ill news to Guido Donati and to the Ritters, and, that he might make all the more speed, was prevailed on to accept a seat in the carriage which had brought Nita that morning.

Thus in a weary round of petty duties the time wore on, and at length night came. Carlo slept little, however, and rose the next day but ill prepared for the work before him. Nothing but the life-long habit of making his own needs stand second to the needs of others, kept him up. With regard to the funeral there was little for him to arrange, as all was managed after the usual custom by one of the _congregazione_, the relatives not even going to the church or the grave. But he had to interview Father Cristoforo, to talk to Captain Britton, to receive Uncle Guido, who drove over from Naples at noon, and to do his best to shield Anita from reproaches, taking good care that the elder Donati should not hear one word about Comerio.

And always through the livelong day, above his grief, above the well-meant condolences of his friends, there rang in his head one unanswerable question--how to save Nita and with that Francesca's words, "No one but you!" In the evening, when all was over and the sad coming and going had given place to a terrible, oppressive quiet, his grief and perplexity made him turn to Enrico Ritter, with the feeling that unless he unburdened his mind to some one he should lose his senses. It was true that Francesca partly divined his trouble, but he could not discuss his difficulties with her, could not bear to unfold to her so dark a page. Sardoni, his informant, was a total stranger; Captain Britton was the last man to whom he could turn; while Uncle Guido, with his uncertain temper, and his wrath at the stain which Anita had already brought upon the family name, was little likely to give helpful counsel in this matter. Enrico, "purely to please himself," had hastened over to Villa Bruno, and now inevitably Carlo turned to him, and, exacting a promise of secrecy, told him everything that had happened since their last meeting.

He had chosen his confidant well. Enrico could be trusted to keep perfect silence; moreover, his sound common sense, his cool, calm, practical way of looking at things, was precisely what Carlo needed. His own brain was so over-wrought, so confused with the sudden calamity which had befallen him, that he was not in the least capable of seeing any matter in its true light. And then, too, the mere relief of sharing his perplexities with another was an inexpressible comfort. Not that Enrico had many suggestions to offer; he listened for the most part in silence. But then there are times in life when the silence of a friend is the one thing for which we crave; and Carlo turned to the unspoken sympathy of the man who really cared for him when wearied with the condolences of outsiders. Guido Donati had spoken of returning the next day to discuss the future, but the really perplexing future was discussed with the German pessimist.

"There is only one thing I would advise you, and that is, have no personal communication with Comerio," said Enrico, at length. "I have seen him, and, into the bargain, know a good deal about him, and he's the veriest devil you can conceive. Pay him back the money, but do so through some third person."

"I'm sure I have no wish to see him," said Carlo, sighing. "If only I could think of some way of getting rid of him."

That there would be any difficulty in raising the money had not as yet occurred to Carlo. He had been extremely careless about money matters all his life; and though leading too secluded a life to be precisely extravagant, he had allowed things to drift, well content so long as he received his small annual allowance from his mother, and never troubling his head about the amount of their actual income. He knew that he was to be his uncle's heir, and to receive a very comfortable allowance from him on his marriage, therefore he left all details to his mother, took what came to him, and lived on in serene comfort. Compelled now to face the situation, he was startled to find how entirely dependent he was upon his uncle; the income upon which they had lived had been derived from an annuity, and, of course, ceased at his mother's death; the Villa Bruno was only rented by the year, and, though its furniture belonged to him, it was worth but little. His only other possession was his horse, and he could not well part with that to raise the necessary money, for not only would it at once have provoked a question from his uncle, but it was indispensable to him so long as he lived in that remote country place. In the end Enrico, becoming aware of his embarrassment, said that he should ask his father to advance him the money; and as the need of a loan was quite comprehensible to Herr Ritter at such a time, he very willingly acceded to the request, and Enrico himself was charged with the disagreeable errand of conveying the money to Comerio.

This was one step in the desired direction, and one care off Carlo's mind; but his perplexity about Anita only increased, for, as each day he learnt to know her better, he was forced to own to himself how utterly unfit she was for the difficult life before her. Her beauty, her weakness, her moral cowardice, her miserable marriage, all were against her. She seemed incapable of really loving, capable only of a sort of desire to be caressed and shielded. Carlo gained a certain amount of influence with her, just because she trusted like a child to his strength, and was quite certain that he would do what he could for her; but she left everything to him, and, in those bitter days of his grief and perplexity, lived on in a placid, restful state which was almost happiness.

At length an interruption came to this state of things. One afternoon Sardoni drove over from Naples; Carlo was heartily glad to see him, and received him with a warmth which seemed to please the Englishman.

"I was afraid you would always dislike me as the bearer of ill news," he said; "I came partly to give you back your letter, which, of course, I have not had a chance of giving to Madame Merlino. She is still with you?"

"Yes, she is still here," said Carlo, tearing the letter in pieces, and stifling a sigh as he remembered how different all had been when he wrote it.

"I came partly to warn you that Merlino intends soon to send for your sister," said Sardoni; "indeed, it is really a necessity that she should come back, for the first rehearsal is on Monday, and the theatre is to open next Thursday."

"So soon! And as yet I have done nothing!" exclaimed Carlo.

"Are you so sure of that?" asked Sardoni, with a keen glance at him. "You have at any rate succeeded in making Comerio your bitter enemy; and, by-the-bye, I have discovered one thing which may, perhaps, be of service to you; Comerio's engagement was for three years, but may be terminated in half that time either at Merlino's option or at his own."

"When does the first half expire?"

"In three weeks' time," said Sardoni.

Carlo thought for a few minutes in silence; then he said somewhat abruptly, "I wish you would just tell me plainly what sort of a man Merlino is; I can gather but little from what my sister lets fall about him."

"I can't draw a very pleasing picture of him," said Sardoni, with a smile, "for, truth to tell, there is no love lost between us. He has very little education, but that is a subject of regret to him; since his marriage he has become moral and respectable, but he is the most awful tyrant I ever had the misfortune to meet with. Of course his position tends to foster a love of power; for don't you see the manager of an operatic company is like a king, not a constitutional one, but a despot--an autocrat. Then your sister, if you will pardon my bluntness, was the very last sort of wife he ought to have had. She is afraid of him and has no notion of holding her own, and he--great brute--treats her abominably. Why don't you persuade her to try for a separation?"

"I could not be a party to that," said Carlo, "so long as he is faithful to her. That a man has a bad temper is no fit reason for breaking the marriage vow."

"Those notions are old-fashioned," said Sardoni, with a rather pitying smile.

But the smile quickly died away; for Carlo, with a dignity indescribable, made him a little bow and dismissed the subject with a calm--"That is very possible, signor."

There was a world of expression, both in tone and gesture, and Sardoni saw that to argue about his suggestion would be useless.

"If you reject that idea," he said, after a silence, "there is only one alternative--Comerio must be got rid of. I have thrown out as many hints as I dare to Merlino, all to no purpose. To tell him the truth plainly would make him ten times more brutal to your sister, and is altogether out of the question, even if one had the right. Why, he would be a fiend incarnate! You know what Italian husbands are when once their jealousy is stirred up."

Carlo involuntarily smiled, then, tickled by the speaker's ingenuous remark, fairly laughed.

Sardoni looked confused.

"I beg your pardon," he said; "but indeed I had forgotten that I was not talking to a fellow-countryman--a compliment to your accent, you see. Where did you become such a proficient?"

"Our nearest neighbors are English," said Carlo, not caring to explain any further, though instinctively his eyes turned towards a photograph of Francesca which stood on the mantel-piece. Sardoni's keen eyes noted this. He observed the photograph with secret admiration and drew his own conclusions.

"Then how do you propose that Comerio shall be got rid of?" said Carlo, breaking the silence. "You do not imagine, signor, that we Italians--about whom, it appears, you are in the habit of generalizing--carry stilettos and conveniently dispose of our foes by a stab?"

"There is only one way of getting rid of him," said Sardoni. "Merlino is always trying to cut down expenses, and with very good reason, for, as I told you before, the opera is not always a paying concern. Now, if before the agreement with Comerio is renewed you can find a baritone with as good a voice who will sing on lower terms, then I have little doubt that Merlino would settle with him and give Comerio his _congé_."

"You must have been talking with Piale, signor?" said Carlo, conscious of a vague feeling of discomfort.

"Piale?" said Sardoni, looking puzzled; "I do not know any one of the name."

"Ah! then it was only an odd coincidence. But he is a well-known professor, and he has a pupil--a baritone--whom he is very anxious to bring out; he was talking to me about it only a few days ago."

"Why, then, there is good hope for our plans," said Sardoni. "A beginner would expect far less than Comerio, and, if he really has a good voice and some dramatic power, no doubt Merlino would catch at him. What sort of looking fellow is he? Have you seen him? Is he presentable?"

A bright, sudden smile lit up Carlo's sad face for a minute.

"Of that I am no fit judge," he said demurely, "for I am the pupil in question."

"You!" ejaculated Sardoni, in amazement. Then, recollecting his question, he began to laugh. "Well, I have my answer in an unmistakable form. There can be no doubt that you are well fitted for the stage."

Again his companion made that funny little Italian bow, in which there lurked so much dignity. There was just a shade of irony in his expression.

"I see the prospect does not attract you," said Sardoni; "yet I should fancy you might do great things on the stage, from the look of you."

"But I hope for a very different life, signor."

"I see. Well, I would be the last to tell you that our life is an enviable one. Some people seem to fancy that an actor's life is 'all beer and skittles'--I thought so once myself, but I can tell you that's a confounded mistake."

Carlo had never felt less inclined to discuss the merits of theatrical life; he devoutly wished that Sardoni would go; that feeling of vague discomfort grew upon him.

"Well," he said, "I will see if possibly Piale may know of some one else capable of taking Comerio's place; and I am greatly obliged to you, signor, for your suggestions and your help."

Sardoni perceived that he wished to be alone, and, leaving a message of inquiry for Madame Merlino, took his departure.

But the discomfort which his presence had kept vague and undefined, broke into a clear, torturing perception when Carlo was once more alone. Over and over the words rang in his head--"No one but you!--no one but you!" He tried to stifle them, he argued with himself on the folly of the idea--he said it was impossible, Quixotic, preposterous. Finally, he hurried off to Casa Bella.