KNIGHT-ERRANT

BY

EDNA LYALL

AUTHOR OF "DONOVAN," "WE TWO," "A HARDY NORSEMAN," "IN THE GOLDEN DAYS," ETC.

NEW YORK: W. L. ALLISON COMPANY, PUBLISHERS.

TO

EVANGELINE JAMESON

"Searching my heart for all that touches you, I find there only love and love's good-will."

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I.—"The Happiest Man in Naples" II.—A Goodly Heritage III.—Francesca IV.—A Cloudless Betrothal V.—A Threatening Sky VI.—The Storm Breaks VII.—"No one but You" VIII.—Piale Schemes IX.—The Olive Garden X.—The "Pilgrim" XI.—A First Encounter XII.—A Troubled Night XIII.—"Pazienza" XIV.—The New Baritone XV.—A Dear Adventure XVI.—On the Stage XVII.—A Farewell XVIII.—Francesca's Autumn XIX.—In England XX.—A Return XXI.—Wintry Weather XXII.—A Rescuer XXIII.—"Clare" XXIV.—An English Home XXV.—A Last Struggle XXVI.—Behind the Scenes XXVII.—"High Failure" XXVIII.—A Restoration XXIX.—Convalescent XXX.—Bitter-Sweet XXXI.—A New Proposal XXXII.—After Two Years XXXIII.—Genoa XXXIV.—Yachting XXXV.—A Final Choice XXXVI.—"All Goeth but God's Will" XXXVII.—At Palazzo Forti XXXVIII.—At Casa Bella XXXIX.—Afterwards

CHAPTER I. "THE HAPPIEST MAN IN NAPLES.

"They came at a delicate plain called Ease, where they went with much content; but that plain was but narrow, so they were quickly got over it."—Pilgrim's Progress.

"Presto! off with the paper! let us see how they look!" exclaimed a fresh, mellow voice.

"Permit me, signor," interposed the Neapolitan stationer who presided behind the counter of a shop in the Toledo, and taking the little white packet from the hands of the speaker he slipped the blade of his penknife through the wrapper, drew forth with a flourish one of the cards within, and, bowing and smiling, handed it to his customer. "There, signor, and accept with it my sincere congratulations."

The young man glanced eagerly at the card, upon which was engraved in copperplate the name,—

"Avvocato Carlo Poerio Donati."

It was to him the sign and symbol of manhood, of freedom; it meant that he turned his back upon examinations and tutelage; it meant that he was at length free to declare the love which for many years had been the great guiding influence of his life.

"Ah, Signor Pietro," he replied, turning to the friendly old shopkeeper with a smile which illumined his whole face; "I am the happiest man in Naples to-day! Come, Enrico, you are not half enough excited!" and turning to his friend, who stood beside him watching the scene with good-humored indifference, he caught a similar little packet from his hand, and, tearing it open, produced a card bearing the name,—

"Avvocato Enrico Ritter."

Enrico was of German parentage, but the Ritters had lived for half-a-century in Naples and were naturalized; nevertheless, spite of his Italian education, Enrico remained German to the backbone, and presented in every way a most curious contrast to his friend and companion.

"Why, devil take the cards! they're not so much to me as to you," he exclaimed, with a laugh. "Signor Pietro does not expect to see me wild with excitement over a trumpery piece of pasteboard."

"Most matter-of-fact Enrico! Where is your imagination?" cried Carlo, laughing. "Can the magic word avvocato call up to your German brain no visions of the future?"

"Visions!" grumbled Enrico, with assumed despondency; "ay, visions of hot courts, long cases, rusty gowns, and scant fees."

Both Carlo and the stationer laughed heartily at the serious face of the speaker.

"Well, Signor Pietro, it was ever the same story; was it not? He is prosaic now as when we came to you years ago for note-books and pens on our way from the Ginnasio. But come, it is getting late; I must be off, Enrico. Good-day to you, Signor Pietro, and many thanks for your congratulations."

The two friends left the shop and walked on through the busy, crowded streets to the Piazza del Plebiscito. More than one passer-by turned to glance at Carlo's beautiful face; for, truth to tell, good looks are the exception, not the rule, in Naples, and among the swarthy or sallow Neapolitans his rich, ruddy-brown coloring could not fail to win notice. The face was singularly attractive, not only from the beauty of its well-cut features, but from the unaffected modesty of the expression, and the sweetness of the dark, liquid eyes. He looked what he had termed himself—the happiest man in Naples. If in appearance he lacked anything it was height; but we cannot all be heroes of six feet, and Carlo, though small and slight, was so well proportioned, so lithe and active, so imbued with the grace common to most Italians, that it was impossible to wish for any change in him. He might that day have stood as a true impersonation of Optimism, while Enrico Ritter, on the other hand, might well have posed as the ideal Pessimist.

Enrico was of the Germans, German; there was no mistaking that fair, straight hair and moustache, that light coloring and broad face, those small, light-gray eyes, honest, hard, yet with some good-humor in their expression which contradicted the cynical mouth. What had first drawn two such curiously contrasted men together it was impossible to say; scientists might have argued that it was the very fact that they were polar opposites. But, whatever the cause of their friendship, friends they were in the best sense of the word, and their friendship had stood the wear and tear of ten years.

By this time they had reached the Piazza; the afternoon sun was shining on the red walls of the Palazzo Reale, lighting up the heavy arcades of the San Carlo, glorifying the dome and stately front of the Church of S. Francesco di Paolo. It seemed a strange medley of ancient and modern, haunted by memories of King Bomba's cruelties,—haunted by visions of Garibaldi and Carlo Poerio, while hither and thither plied the busy tramcars, and amid a gay throng of people dressed in the latest Parisian fashion there filed slowly past a procession of white-robed monks.

"Ten minutes to spare before my horse is ready," said Carlo, looking at his watch; "let us have some coffee;" and so saying he led the way into the nearest restaurant. Enrico paused to buy an evening paper, then followed his friend.

The place was crowded, and there arose a confused babel of voices, a mingling of French, English, and Italian. Carlo had seated himself at one of the small marble tables, and, since Enrico seemed more inclined to read his paper than to talk, was fain to listen to the discussion going on between two English tourists close by.

Possibly they thought themselves practically alone in this foreign assembly; certainly it did not occur to them that their very Italian-looking neighbor understood and spoke their language as well as his own, for they were talking freely on subjects which Englishmen are not wont to speak of in public.

"But, really now," urged the younger of the two, with some warmth, "you can't possibly maintain such a notion. Do you think we are not improved,—vastly improved, in the last two hundred years?"

"The increase of civilization gives us a better appearance, I grant," said the elder, "but I do not believe the sum total of evil is lessened."

Carlo listened attentively, for this dreary doctrine was opposed to his whole nature.

"Why, turn to history," exclaimed the younger man, "see how indifferent people were to suffering, and then look at our nineteenth century, with its innumerable charities, its missions, its hospitals, its guilds."

"True, quite true," said the elder man, quietly; "a wave of philanthropy is passing over us; there is much talk—even, I admit, much good work, but men are not more willing to live the life of the Crucified."

The younger man was silent. Hitherto he had been very ready with his replies, now he fell into deep thought. Carlo Donati, too, was struck by those last words. They broke in very painfully upon his rapturous happiness, his joyful anticipations. He had been spared most of the usual doubts and fears of a lover; he was practically sure of Francesca Britton's love, and already he had received her father's permission to propose to her, Captain Britton having only stipulated that he should wait till his education was finished.

Now his time of probation was over; within a few days, nay, perhaps within a few hours, Francesca might be his own. Could he bear on that day, of all others, to dream of the possibility of a cloud arising? His sky was so clear, his life had been so happy and successful, the very thought of gathering darkness on the horizon was torture to him; "Let my happiness last! oh, let it last!" was his inward cry, and, as if in answer, there floated hack to him the stranger's words, and he knew that they were true: "Men are not more willing to live the life of the Crucified."

Involuntarily he turned to glance at the man who had disturbed his peace, and saw a strong, intellectual face, which, notwithstanding traces of deep thought and hard conflict, bore a calm and tranquil expression. But the conversation had been checked by those grave words, the stranger called the waiter, paid for his coffee, tucked his "Baedeker" under his arm, and rose to go.

Carlo followed him with his eyes as he left the restaurant; he felt strongly that curious conviction which comes to some people when a stranger has unconsciously influenced them, that in this world, or some other, they will infallibly meet again.

So engrossed had he been with the two Englishmen and their talk that he had not heeded his friend. He had not seen the start of surprise and dismay with which Enrico had noted a paragraph in the Piccolo. What was there in those brief lines which filled him with apprehension? Why did he glance with such anxiety and regret at Carlo, and then once again read that unwelcome paragraph?

"We understand that the season will be commenced at Whitsuntide at the Teatro Mercadante, with the operatic company of Signor Merlino. Madame Merlino, whose singing has created a very favorable impression in America, will be the prima donna."

All the indifference had vanished now from Enrico's face. A dreadful annoyance awaited his friend, and that it should reach him to-day of all days seemed to him intolerable. He would at any rate do his best to give him a respite, Carlo should at least propose to Miss Britton, and enjoy if it were even but a few hours of unalloyed happiness. Seizing his opportunity, when his companion turned to watch the Englishmen as they left the restaurant, Enrico tore off the corner containing the unwelcome news, and was about to thrust it into his pocket when Carlo checked him with a question,—

"What is it! About our examinations?"

"No," said Enrico, composedly; "I saw nothing about them. I only wanted a scrap of paper to wrap up these confounded cards; thanks to your eagerness to see them, they're all loose in my pocket."

So saying, he deliberately wrapped the cards in the paper containing the bad news, and pushed the rest of the Piccolo towards his friend. "Take it home with you if you like, I have done with it."

"And I," said Carlo, laughing, "hope to have little time for it." He took it nevertheless, stowed it away in his pocket and got up to go.

"I'll walk with you as far as the stable," said Enrico. "Now follow my advice and ride home calmly. If you go on in this state of fever you will not be fit for your interview with that stately old Englishman, upon whom you have to make a good impression as future son-in-law."

"Stuff and nonsense!" said Carlo, laughing gayly. "Make an impression, indeed! Do you forget that we have been next-door neighbors this age, and that he knows me as well as you do?"

"An impossibility," said Enrico, smiling, "for with me I have taught you, as we say in Germany, to be as you are to yourself. Now with that old English captain you walk as though treading on eggs, you are courteous and deferential; you never forget that you hope to be his son-in-law, and you'll never quarrel with him,—at any rate not until the hope has become a tame reality."

The dry, sardonic tone in which this had been spoken, turned Carlo's indignant protest to laughter.

"The only topic on which we are likely to quarrel is politics; and as he knows nothing of Italian affairs, one needs now and then adroitly to turn the conversation. But don't make me speak against Captain Britton, to-day, amico mio."

"Ah, poor fellow!" said Enrico, pityingly; "I knew he would prove the crumpled rose-leaf to destroy your perfect bliss. There is always a father-in-law, or a mother-in-law, or a cantankerous relative, who kicks up a row about the settlements. Don't you expect the course of your true love to run smooth—that's against nature."

As he spoke he glanced rather anxiously at a large hoarding which they were approaching, rapidly running his eye over the theatrical posters, but, much to his relief, the Mercadante bills were not yet out.

"You are as depressing as a funeral!" said Carlo, much tickled by the notion that the substantial Englishman was a crumpled rose-leaf; "and, indeed, if I have no worse crook in my lot than Captain Britton, I shall farewell. No one could have been more courteous and helpful to my mother all these years, no one could have been more genial and hospitable to me. Of course we all have our faults."

"Too true!" said Enrico, mockingly. "The Englishman loves a lord, and has an eye to the main chance, and knows that you are heir to a certain rich uncle, and that unless the money is secured and tied up in the orthodox English fashion, it will be flung away upon 'Young Italy,' or some hare-brained scheme for educating organ-grinders."

"If we were not in the public street I would punish you well!" cried Carlo. "There never was such a fellow for imputing low motives to all the world."

"Well, well, rail at me as you like," said Enrico, indifferently; "but as yet I have never found myself at fault in assuming that egoism rules the universe. Ah, your horse is waiting for you, I see, and the ostler tries to look hot and tired to cajole a large coin from you. A rivederci! But I advise you to avoid Naples for the next few days; don't come to me for sympathy in your rapture, for I've not the smallest doubt that love is egoism, and marriage is egoism, and——"

"You are incorrigible!" cried Carlo, as he mounted the beautiful Arab which was waiting for him. "I'll not wait to hear you out." And, with a wave of the hand, he rode off, looking back laughingly at the interrupted egoist, who, with a shrug of the shoulders, turned away.

And yet it was something quite other than egoism which brought a grave look to Enrico's face as he walked home through the sunny streets. Suddenly perceiving an upright, alert-looking old man on the opposite side of the way, he crossed the road and hastened after him.

"Pardon me, Signor Piale!" he exclaimed, "but may I ask you a question? You are probably acquainted with all that is going on in the musical world. Is this true that I see to-day in the Piccolo? Is Merlino's Company really coming to the Mercadante?"

"Diavolo! it is true enough, more's the pity," replied the old man; "but I have not said a word of it to my pupil. Carlo is over-sensitive, he felt that affair too much; only of late has he seemed to have forgotten it somewhat. He is one whose life should have been exempt from shadows."

"I should have thought common decency would have kept Merlino away from Naples," said Enrico, hotly.

"Merlino does not care a fig for common decency," said the old musician. "He is no credit to our profession. Probably he knows well enough that the Merlino-Donati scandal is just fresh enough in men's minds to make his operas draw well."

"Let us, at least, do our best to keep back the ill news as long as possible," said Enrico; "it will be a frightful annoyance to Carlo just now, and I do believe it will be the death of his mother."

"'Tis always the innocent who suffer for the guilty," said the old singing-master, giving a fierce rub to his parchment-like cheek. "If ever there was one who deserved to be free from care, why it is Carlo; there are but few nowadays who could show so blameless a life."

"You speak very truly," said Enrico. "Let us hope his blameless life will weigh with worthy Captain Britton, and prove heavier than the family skeleton."

CHAPTER II. A GOODLY HERITAGE.

"It is not best in an inglorious ease To sink and dull content, When wild revolts and hopeless miseries The unquiet nations fill; * * * * * Nay, best it is indeed To spend ourselves upon the general good; And, oft misunderstood, To strive to lift the knees and limbs that bleed. This is the best, the fullest meed. Let ignorance assail or hatred sneer Who loves his race he shall not fear; He suffers not for long, Who doth his soul possess in loving, and grows strong." LEWIS MORRIS.

The old singing-master had not exaggerated matters. Though inclined to see everything connected with his favorite pupil through rose-colored spectacles, his words were in this instance strictly true. Carlo had passed scathless through all the temptations of Neapolitan life; his history would bear the full light of day; it was impossible to imagine any one more strictly honorable, more simple and open-minded. But then, certainly, Nature had been to him almost prodigal in her gifts. To begin with, he came of a good family, and that not in the vulgar acceptation of the word. The Donati were not of noble birth, but for five or six generations they had been well educated, and had earned quite an unusual reputation in the various learned professions which they had followed. Faults of temper or of judgment they might have shown, but no Donati had ever been guilty of an act of meanness, nor had there been in anyone of them a single grain of insincerity. To belong to a family which has earned well-deserved respect, to be able to look back

upon forefathers who have lived well and bravely, to know that before you existed your father, and his father before him, spoke for freedom and pleaded the cause of the people, this is indeed a birthright worth having. An inheritance of money may or may not be a desirable thing, but an inheritance of character, an ancestry of generous, true-hearted men, who did justly, and loved mercy, and walked humbly with their God, this is a thing that kings might covet.

Carlo had undoubtedly inherited a noble character, or rather had inherited certain tendencies, and as yet, by his life, had helped to develop, not to arrest, their growth.

At the close of the last century there had been born a certain Bruno Donati. People had prophesied great things of him; he had established, with almost unheard-of rapidity, a great reputation as an advocate, he had married a beautiful heiress, he was assuredly a man who would "rise"—so said the world. He did rise, but not in the way predicted. Regardless of his reputation, regardless of self altogether, he joined the patriot party who were struggling to overthrow the hated tyranny of the Neapolitan Bourbons. Leaving his home, and taking a tender farewell of his wife and his little children, he set off one June morning for Cilento, the place which had been chosen for a small rising. At first a certain measure of success encouraged the patriots; they were able to take the little fort of Palinuro, and to hoist the tricolored flag.