Out of their Element. A novel

Chapter I. VI

L youth that thou art! I tell thee that thou shalt not do it !' ' I do as I will.' Mariuccia and her son stood together at the door of the house in the Via Ceretani, just as the hot summer day was cooling into evening. Ceccho held a basket in his hand full of vegetables, and crowned by a huge orange-coloured gourd ; he wore no coat, and his black mop of hair was covered by a cook's white cap of office. ' I must be gone,' he said. ' Zitto, mother ! vol. in. do not keep me all night long with thy re proaches. My dinner must be got ready. I take a pride in my dinner — via ! Not for the sake of the padrone whom I hate, or for the sake of the padrona whom I do not love, but for the sake of the dinner itself : the brown roast, the delicate little birds, the new way of dressing fowls — white and beautiful !

It is the happiest moment of the day when it is sent up, looking as perfect as a work of art can be !' ' Do they dine so well at the Signor Avvocato's ?' cried Mariuccia wonderingly. ' The time is not so distant since Annibale Baldova was glad enough to dine off a fritata fried in oil, and a salad. He ate the fritata, and his wife the salad ! So they live well now, hein ?' ' Should I serve them otherwise ?' said Ceccho superbly. ' It is since we have had a Montenero in the family the time for fritata and economy is over — nothing is too good for her. Her apartments are furnished in yellow satin and gold ; her carriage is superb. The padrone has not now time to enjoy his wealth ; as for the padrona, the old habit remains, she still dines on the salad ; but Donna Colomba ! she did not eat so well at the Marchese's house, I warrant .: she enjoys that which is good.

She is the best comfort I have. Signor Giuseppe — Capitano he calls himself when out of his father's house — has no thought for anything but Donna Colomba, and he sits and makes eyes for her.' ' And the padrone ? does he vouchsafe no word of commendation ? no buona-mano from time to time ? The wages are not great — eh?' ' The padrone grumbles — he grumbles at everything ; nothing is right — nothing is good ; no one does their business well. Life is not long enough to bear it ; he himself wished to send me away six weeks ago, but I forgave him then ; but now ' 1 Thou shalt not leave ! Ceccho, good places are not to be had every day.' ' Bah ! I am not without a few pauls. I 43—2 shall leave. I am no slave ! I will be free while the money lasts ; and I wish to spend it.' ' All ?' ' Why not ? Youth is the time for enjoyment ; when I have spent, I can make more.

But I must go ; the padrone will be like a mad bull with rage if the soup is not oft the table at the right moment. So, little mother, dear mother, good mother, thou wilt not tell me when the young Conte comes home ? Diamine ! one does not gain much advantage when one fights against the Holy Father.' ' I will tell thee nothing, unless thou pro mise me first, evil boy that thou art, that thou wilt not leave thy situation.' ' Willingly ; I leave it not,' he answered, lying glibly. ' I endure all that is said to me with a gracious " Thanks, Signore." ' Thou art so hot, so impatient, Ceccho ; foolish that thou art, what are words ? Do they break bones ?' ' That's as may be. Let people say what they will. While I want money I will put up with that ; but hands off — via /' His black eyes gleamed, and his right hand sought something in his breast. ' Our young Conte is as quick as thou art, Ceccho, yet he bears no malice ; he forgives.

Would that thou wert the same !' ' He has nothing to forgive.' ' Nothing to forgive ? Think you he knew not of that letter, my wise one ? The letter that found its way into the gendarmes' hands ? Eh, eh ! he knew how it was lost.' ' Truly ?' And Ceccho's face grew pale. ' Fortunately it was the wrong letter, as thou knowest, and thou got no thanks ; but the deed was the same. Twice he had found thee listening at the door ; twice he had warned thee that he knew thy evil ways, that he would protect the next contadina that refused to listen to thee and loved thee not ! Who can wonder ? All his family are alike — too good for secrecy. He scorned to injure the son of his old Mariuccia.' ' Injure ! He insulted me — basta, I will say no more ! but where is my honour ? — the honour of a Roman ?' ' Zitto, foolish child ! you attract attention !' Ceccho's manner changed instantaneously. ' Now, mother, dear little mother,you would not dream that I could hurt him ?

Bah ! are we not his servants ? Have we not been with his family for a whole generation ? Let him even trample or beat me if it suit his gracious humour. I will say nothing more. Tell me, for charity, when does he come, and where will he take apartments ? I die for news. I have told thee I will be good. I will be patient ; I will endure still the grumbles of the padrone, and will say nothing. Have I not earned that thou shouldest tell me what I ask ?' ' Count Camillo is here Ceccho started, and a strange look came over his face — the look of a cat that has caught sight of her prey. The pupil of the eye dilated and closed again, and once more he softly handled something secreted in his breast. ' Dear little mother/ he said, in his softest, most oily voice, ' only tell me — where does he lodge ?

When did he come ? How long has he been here ? Is he, then, with Count Giacinto ?' ' I will not tell thee where he is,' said Mariuccia, more startled than she liked to confess even to herself, and fully aware that she had disobeyed her old master's strict commands in speaking to Ceccho at all of Camillo's arrival. ' But I will tell thee this,' she continued, ' that we are in great con fusion to-day, and I stand gossiping here while I have a hundred thousand things to do in the house, and two gossiping girls to help me, who spend all their time with their heads out of the window.' ' Truly ! but what is it ? Does Count Giacinto take a wife ?' ' Wife ! bah ! he knows better. Signora Bianca and her English sposo come to-day, and the padrone, he is wild with excitement. He paces now the salone.

He cannot be quiet !' Ahimi ! I hear no news. My padrone is OUT OF THELR ELEMENT. so particular that I labour from morning till night, and Signor Giuseppe eats for three.' ' Is it true ? He is a fine, well-grown man. Our Camillo will never be so stout. Does Signora Baldova get on well with her new daughter ?' ' Not badly. Now that our Signorina is gone to San Gemignano she goes back to the old politics, and Signor Giuseppe meets with scant sympathy. So Signora Bianca comes home ?' ' Yes ; they say she has become English altogether. Ah ! it will be like fresh dew in the morning to see her sweet face again. Coming, padrone ! coming !' Count Giacinto came out on the balcony and shouted. Mariuccia answered him at the top of her voice, and hurried indoors. Ceccho raised his basket to the top of his head, and resting one hand on his hip while he beat time with the other, he walked off, singing an air from the ' Barbiere.' About seven o'clock in the evening there was quite a little commotion in the Mercato Vecchio, for a large vetturino carriage, drawn by four steaming horses, pulled up at Count Giacinto's door in the Via Ceretani.

The anxious faces of Giacinto and Camillo, Mariuccia and the new women who had been engaged to help her, had long been watching from balcony and windows ; now all rapidly descended to the door. Arthur and Bianca were in the coupe" in front, the two servants in the carriage itself. Arthur was the first to descend, and to lift down Bianca. Rapid footsteps came running up. There was a cry, almost a shout. ' Bianca ! Bianchina !' ' Lillo ! oh, Lillo !' And the brother and sister were once more in each other's arms. They were kissing each other, hugging, caressing, looking into each other's eyes, then kissing again. Bianca had forgotten the very existence of her husband. Like children they rushed upstairs. Bianca threw herself into Count Giacinto's arms. She could not speak, she could only look round her in ecstasy.

Mariuccia had captured her hands, and was covering them with kisses. ' Bianca ! my little Bianca !' cried the old uncle, the tears of rapture in his eyes. ' At last I have my children with me again. God is good.' Bianca sank down on the old hard sofa, holding both Lillo's hands ; her voice came back. ' Ah, this is home ! home at last !' she cried. ' But there is your husband, Bianca !' exclaimed Count Giacinto. ' He will not know where we are. Shall we not fetch him ? You must present us — we die to know him !' Bianca rose up and went to the door. Willing not to disturb the first rapture of their meeting, Arthur St. Leger had remained below, giving directions about the luggage. He wished the English servants to take part of it to an hotel ; an intuitive feeling told him that they would be out of place here.

He finished giving his orders, and then slowly mounted the stairs. Bianca met him at the door. 'Arthur/ she said in Italian, 'come in! here is Camillo, and this is my uncle Giacinto.' The two Italians held out their hands eagerly, and kissed him on both cheeks. Arthur became crimson, but looking up at the faces beaming with welcome and good will, he felt touched, and would willingly have said some pleasant words of thanks ; but they would not come easily to his lips in Italian, and he stood feeling shy and embarrassed beyond measure. Camillo drew forward a chair for him, and he and Bianca sat down as before, their arms entwined. Old Count Giacinto ambled backwards and forwards, with the erratic delight of a dog that has but just discovered the return of a long-lost master. A most extraordinary sensation had come upon Arthur at the sight of Camillo, a feeling that never till this moment had he under stood what an absolute Italian his wife really was.

Camillo was not tall, but very slight and well made, with a dark -olive complexion, and perfectly black hair ; his hair fuzzed out naturally, being exceedingly thick and curly, and it was brushed well upwards ; he wore a black moustache, which did not hide his finely chiselled mouth ; his small nervous hands gesticulated vehemently, and he could scarcely speak one word of English. Except that both faces were of the same delicate oval in shape, at first sight there was no actual likeness between the young officer and his twin-sister ; only the feeling of familiarity with a face which strikes the beholder, with out exactly knowing why, in the appearance of near relations. Count Giacinto was still more Italian, if possible ; and now Arthur St. Leger saw his bride seated between these two men, talking to them and caressing them, her own nearest and dearest kinsmen, and an almost agonized sense of incongruity came over him, and a certain seeling of a kind os rueful amusement at his own odd situation which made him smile involuntarily.

Bianca's face was literally transformed with happiness ; she spoke in her own language, and with such rapidity that, with his newly acquired and still somewhat imperfect know ledge of it, he could hardly understand one word. They all spoke at once ; the three Italian voices made a noise to which he was quite unaccustomed. He sat watching them, till Lillo, with gentle courtesy, suddenly perceived by the bewildered look of his eyes that their con versation was incomprehensible to him, and he immediately addressed Arthur in very broken English : ' I do grieve,' he said, speaking slowly, ' I can talk not English. Have the journey good been ?' ' I am afraid Bianca is very tired,' answered Arthur, feeling attracted by the manner of his young brother-in-law. ' It was a long day crossing Mont Cenis, the roads were very dusty, and it was slow travelling.' ' Ah !' said Camillo, who had not understood. ' You say very good ?

I rejoice myself.' Arthur felt despairing, but he laughed kindly. ' Pray speak your own language,' he said in Italian. ' Do not mind me. I un derstand pretty well. I shall soon learn.' ' Yes, very soon,' said Camillo, with a little nod of friendly encouragement. He seemed to burst into Italian — manner, voice, everything changed as he joined in the eager conversation between his uncle and sister ; and Arthur smiled and listened and nodded, and made-believe that he un derstood quite well everything that was being said. Presently, in spite of the excitement in her face, Arthur saw that Bianca was growing paler and paler. ' My darling,' he said, bending forward and speaking to her in English. How precious it seemed to him to speak to her in English — a sort of link between them ; for, after all, was she not his — his own ?

But Bianca, perhaps, also felt that, and it was to her as a little clank of a forgotten chain. She looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with excitement. ' Bianca,' he said, ' will you not rest a little while, and take off these things ?' and he touched her travelling-wraps, that she had not yet removed. ' I am not tired,' she answered in Italian ; ' I have yet ten thousand things to say and hear before I move.' Lillo looked up ; a curious intuitive tact made him see that Arthur had hoped that Bianca would come away with him one little moment — only one — just to let him feel that she was not leaving him quite alone outside her own world. Arthur would have been grateful for so little, but there was nothing to show it but the instinctive feeling in Camillo's breast that he also would have felt the same. ' Let me show you your room,' he cried, rising and passing his arm through Arthur's. ' They are very poor,' he said, a little wistfully. ' But you know we have not much money among us, we Italians, in these times ; but if there is anything you want that we could get for you, you will ask me as a brother.

Is it not so ?' and he looked up into Arthur's face with a kindly, rather anxious look. His heart was full of anxiety about this strange new brother in-law, and he wanted to read in his eyes whether he meant to take Bianca from them, and keep her all to himself or not. Undoubt edly Lillo felt that he had the right to do so, if he chose ; but would he have the heart to do it ?' Then when Lillo saw the look in Arthur's blue eyes that just glanced at Bianca as they left the room, a sudden new idea flashed into his mind ; the whole was reversed. It was he, Camillo, who must be generous ; he must not let his twin-sister starve out so great a love as this ; the power lay in his hands, not Arthur's, to make or mar their lives. Lillo passed his hand through his black hair ; all was evidently not so simple as he had imagined it to be.

Chapter II. Rthur St

LEGER had come to the Via Ceretani of his own free will and choice. Mrs. Dalton, with some idea in her mind that Bianca might become altogether reabsorbed into her own family if they went there, had tried to per suade him to take her to an hotel ; but he had preferred his own plan. Bianca also had set her heart on returning to her mother's old apartments and the old mode of life, at all events for a time, and he himself had a strong wish to realize to the full what the charms of the old home had been which made his young wife so utterly unable to reconcile herself to a new one ; he wished to share it to the VOL. III. utmost, to understand and put himself into sympathy with all the past years of her young life, before he had known and loved her. Arthur had often pictured the situation before, and in the picture he had always seen Bianca turning to himself, and, with her face radiant with joy, thanking him for her happiness.

He was determined to hope for this still — it would be so after the first excite ment was over ; he had so long schooled him self to patience, and only a very little more patience was needed now. All was curiously different from what he had imagined ; there was nothing romantic about the appearance of the rooms, everything was very hot and oppressive. Arthur threw open the closely shut persiennes when he found himself alone, with an Englishman's idea that cool fresh air would stream in ; but it was even at eight o'clock too soon, for the stone pavement had been baking all day in the sun, and the window-sill was still burninoft hot. The street was full of life and motion. Arthur leant out of the window and looked to the left-hand side, and his eye was suddenly filled with a sense of beauty and colour, as it fell on the glorious marble-encrusted Duomo standing up against the deep blue of the cloudless sky.

The bells of the convent on the opposite side of the street suddenly began to ring ; then from all round in every direc tion bells took up the chime, some with a loud harsh clang, some with full musical notes, some with a modest tinkle ; and through the many voices boomed out the huge bell of the great Duomo, deep and low, and of wonderful richness of tone. The world seemed vibrating and throbbing, everything all round ringing with sound. The air seemed emptied and quiet when it died into silence. Arthur drew in his head : he looked all round the room in which he stood ; it was un carpeted, but the wooden floor was waxed and polished till it shone like a mirror ; there were two or three hard chairs covered with yellow damask ; a little vessel for holy water hung beside the bed, which was shut in by 44—2 mosquito-curtains as white as snow.

His portmanteau had been brought in. Arthur did not wish to go back at once to the studio ; he had a vague little hope that Bianca might think of him, might come to look for him for one moment. He began to unpack his portmanteau himself, and to get out some books. Presently he was rewarded, for Bianca came gently through the rooms that all opened one into the other, and came up to him. He looked at her ; he saw her eyes first glance all round the rooms with a look of bitter grief. ' These were mamma's rooms,' she said, speaking in Italian; 'here we used to live. We were so happy ; oh mamma, mamma!' ' My darling !' said Arthur gently ; ' you are glad to be back again ? Are you very tired ?' He was looking wistfully for his reward. ' I am not very tired,' she answered. ' The rooms are cool. I shall soon be quite rested again.' ' Tell me,' he said, drawing her to him, ' you are happy, are you not ?

Tell me, you are happy ?' ' Happy ? It is like heaven — it is home !' For the first time she turned of her own accord, and held up her sweet face to him to be kissed. A little curl of her fair hair had become loosened, and was straying on her neck. Arthur's heart was bounding within him with joy and gratitude for her answer. He drew a penknife from his pocket, and cut off the little curl. Bianca looked down at it and laughed. ' But why ?' she said. ' Because I love you, anima mia /' he said. Then she went away, with her eyes shining, singing to herself. Camillo was waiting to ask Arthur to come and smoke a cigar with him. He looked a little anxiously in his brother-in-law's face to see what expression it wore. Lillo could not be quite happy unless he felt that the strange Englishman, to whom he owed so much in the bringing home of his beloved sister, was happy also.

He was satisfied, for the wistful look had quite gone ; Arthur looked bright and joyous, and Lillo, putting his dark slender fingers through his arm, gave it a little squeeze of pleasure like a boy. Arthur had recovered the use of his Italian also, and his ear began to get accustomed to the rapidity of Lillo's speech ; they were able to talk together quite comfortably, to the great content of both. They did not stay out very long, for both were anxious to get back to Bianca. Innumerable acquaintances spoke to Lillo, but he only gave them friendly little nods, and shaking of fingers in the air, and to some a quick grasp with the left hand. ' My friends will all be dying to know you/ he said. ' Another day you will permit me to introduce them ?' ' It is what I wish most,' replied Arthur warmly. ' I want to know your friends, and to learn from you all about Italy, and your politics and your hopes.

I want to enter into it all.' A look of swift pain passed over Lillo's expressive face. ' Our affairs are not so happy as they should be,' he said ; but he added, with the sudden radiant smile that so reminded Arthur of his sister, ' still, those who take away liberty cannot deprive one of hope ; and hope is the morning-star of night. But these are not words for the streets : it will be my greatest pleasure to make you one of ourselves ; then I shall feel even more than I do at this moment that I have not lost my sister, but gained a brother.' Arthur looked up quickly. Lillo's dark cheek was flushed with feeling. He went on : ' 1 am, however, afraid that you will find everything very different from England. You will find it perhaps a little difficult to get used to us, and to like us.' ' That, at least, I shall not find difficult,' said Arthur warmly. ' You are very good,' said Lillo. ' We will do all we can.

I should like to tell you how grateful we feel to you. You have brought back to us what we love better than life itself — our little Bianca ! and I think she would have died in England.' ' I always hoped that time would have done much,' said Arthur. ' Yes ; but time was not wanting. Two years ! it is like two centuries. If one thinks of all that happens in two years : of the changes in families — some born, many dead ; some married that had never seen each other before; some gone quite away into the cloister where we shall never know them again but through the heart, which discerns the fruits of their prayers. We cannot call two years a short time when one is young.' ' No,' said Arthur thoughtfully. ' To me also it has been the very longest period of my life. And you think that Bianca would never have been happy ?' ' I cannot tell now, for now she has you.

It is different when one loves; where the loved one is, that is home — that I can under stand. And I know that so it was with my mother; that she became an Italian was doubtless at the cost of some sacrifice at sirst — and that sacrifice Bianca might have been willing to make, but for nothing short of love ; and the sacrifice would have been of her heart's blood. I think she might have died in making it. She is made in a different mould from my mother ; she is more narrow — she sees but one object at a time. There fore I cannot thank you enough ; my whole life shall prove my gratitude that you have given her so much.' Arthur did not speak ; a bitter feeling crossed him, that already before they had been two hours in Florence, Camillo's sharp eyes had discerned that his lovely wife had no love for him, that all was yet to win.

Lillo, with his quick tact, felt that a look of pain had come into Arthur's eyes, and he changed the subject. They were returning to the Via Ceretani, and stood for a moment in the Piazza dell' Duomo. OUT OF THELR ELEMENT. ' Look !' he said, pointing upwards to the exquisite Campanile. ' Have you such works of art in England ? They tell me not. We Italians admire all that is English ; we love your country, and wish for your sympathy ; but we are also glad when we see you admire what you have not — like that.' 'It is glorious !' said Arthur, looking round him with growing admiration. With such a background, every little group formed a picture ; an old man went by with a basket of big water-melons ; little brown children, with yellow handkerchiefs knotted round their heads, played on the Duomo steps.

There was a sharp but not unmusical sound of jingling bells, and a train of mules came slowly past, each with its big cloth of vivid red on its brown back. Arthur thought of the great ' Italia Una' at Osternleigh, and the opinion that all of them had then formed of what Italian modern art must be ; but here, in every unstudied group, every ordinary piece of colouring, he found it. He thought how his mother's cultivated artist eye would have enjoyed it all. The lad who had been driving the mules stopped them with a word, while he stood and haggled for a big slice of water-melon. The whole picture remained long on his memory. 'It grows late,' said Lillo. 'We have finished our cigars. Will you take coffee indoors with Bianca and my uncle, or shall we order it at a cafe'?' ' Let us go in,' replied Arthur, rousing him self ; then he gave a little start. ' Ah !' he exclaimed, ' but that is a pity !' pointing to the blank, unfinished facade of the great cathedral. ' Yes, it is a pity,' said Lillo lightly. ' But it is, alas ! eminently characteristic.

It is like all we do — we of this country. Our doings and our enterprises and plans and ideas may be alike great, but there it is : some portion is unfinished or impracticable, and the whole thing is marred. You say rightly — it is a pity !'

Chapter III

J?3j™nmgHEY found Bianca and her uncle $nE_3E in the studio. The room looked saS^ts*-** very large and bare ; the easel stood in its old place, with a half-finished picture on it, of some Greek classical subject ; the lay-figure was draped in a Greek robe and peplum edged with purple. But now the windows were thrown wide open, and chairs were grouped together near them ; and on a little marble table, with lyre-shaped bronze legs, Mariuccia had placed the coffee. Arthur knew that Bianca must be tired, and the sofa on which she sat was quite upright and very hard. He longed for the soft cushions and easy comfort of one from Eng land ; but Bianca did not seem to mind. She was silent now, leaning her head on the hard wooden back ; and when they came in, she held out her hand to Lillo and drew him down beside her, and held it tightly in hers.

Count Giacinto tried to make himself polite to Arthur, offering him coffee ; but he was rather deaf, and he found it difficult to under stand his answers. About half-past nine Mariuccia threw open the door, and two gentlemen came in to pay an evening visit. Bianca received them with looks of enchantment, holding out both her hands. She introduced them to Arthur as Avvocato Baldova and the Capitano Giu seppe Baldova, whereat the avvocato shook his fingers at Bianca in reproach, and again a perfect babel of voices began as they all took their seats. Camillo still tried to entertain his brother in-law, till he begged him to desist, assuring him that he understood quite well, and de sired only to listen. ' It is just the lesson I want in facility and quickness,' he said. And Lillo smiled and joyfully obeyed, adding his voice to the rest.