Chapter LYIL

Otago Witness, Issue 1539, 7 May 1881, Page 24

Chapter LYIL

( Their Marriage Day.

The sun has set ; the evening sun has gone ; but it is still daylight in, the Piazza San Marco. The great square, always full at: this hour, is fuller than usual today ; for last Sunday was Easter Sunday and this is Easter week, and the; good people of Venice are making holiday. The Grand Canal and the Lagunes have be n thronged all day with gondolaß, most of which have' discarded the 'tufted /else for gay^ awnings, striped and' fringed and many-coloured ; forj 'though we are but midway through April,' the fiun burns fiercely during- eight hours of the twenty, four, and the beautiful .water-oity has already begun to put on its' summer aspect. But now the .boats lie! thickly moored along the landing-places, and all the world is orowding to,the Piazza, , Hero are ladies in their gayest toilets j dandies with their faps and parasols ; swarthy sailors with huge earrings in their brown ears : "gondplters w ( ith' red ashes bound about their waists'} water-carriers j-street-.porters; fisher-folk from the islands ; country-folk from the mainland j and itinerant vendors of flowers, sweetmeats, cigars, allumettes, and lemonade. Everywhere there are people walking, sitting, loitering smoking, chatting, and making merry. The chairs in the Giardiuo Reale and the seats in front of the cafes are all occupied ; even the basement steps of the pillars of the Lion and Saint Theodore are full of loungers. There is a movement presently in the direction of the ' Piazzetta/ the crowd dividing to make way for the band, which marches briskly to the centre of the square.. Here the white-coated players form themselves into a circle with their conductor in the midst, and begin playing the overture to 'Don Pasquale.' At the first crash of that well-known allegro, some three or four gentlemen rise from their seats outside the Cafe Moriah, and walk away. Chairs being scarce just now, there is a rush for these vacant places, which are at once re-occu-A lady and gentlemen, ensconced at a little table in the shelter of one •of the columns of the adjoining cafe are spectators of this incident.

' Did you see that ]' whispers the lady to her companion. ' Did I Bee what " cariva " V

1 Those gentlemen —they went away the moment the music began, And there go two more ! They must bate music !'

And she looks after them with large, innocent, wondering, brown eyes. ' No ; it is not the musio that they hate. It is the players.' f The players ? What have the players done?' ... 'I will tell you presently— when this piece is over.' She is very young; apparently not more than seventeen or eighteen years of age j very pretty ; very simply dresßed in Slain dark silk, with a curious collar of exible wrought silver round her throat, and on her head a little white bonnet. She keeps her veil down, and sits shyly back in the shade of the pillar. Her companion—tall, bronzed, auburn - bearded, in a suit of navy blue with anchor buttons — is probably some ten or fifteen years her senior. They are Cesare and Giulietta, The band plays on, surrounded by the chattering crowd :— ohattering, restless, ever shifting, noisiest when the music iB loudest, and only hushed for a few moments when * Com'- c gentil ' is taken up as a solo on the comet. Then, presently, the jerky allegro, working up, like a common-place galop, ever faster and louder, with a crash of cymbals and braying of trombones, brings the performance to an end. 'Now I will tell you why those men went away carina . They went away, I think, because yonder musicians are Austrians, wearing the Austrian uniform ; and because there are still some few Venetians who cannot forget that Venice was once a free Italian Republic. I have been here many a time when every well-dressed man and woman sitting outside these cafes got up and walked out of the Piazza as soon as the band walked in. But then, of oourse, no festa was going on. To-day it is different. You can't expect a crowd of holiday-makers to think of anything but pleasure.' ' Because they are Austrians, wearing the Austrian uniform !'

'Is that a new idea to you ? The white coats are thick enough in Verona, anyhow. Surely they are as unpopular there as here? — or are the Veronese less thinskinned than the Venetians ?'

'I— l do not know,' she answers hesitatingly. ' I never thought about it. They have always been there you know.' < Ah, that is just it ! The wrong is so old that it has almost become right ! Did you never understand, child, that you were born and bred under a foreign despotism ? Did your uncle never tell you that? No?— well, then, I who am no Lombard, I tell you that these Austrians are here as masters. Does that make you blush ? I tell you, their taxation is simply the levying of tribute - money. These very coins in which I am about to pay for our coffee— this Austrian zwanziger, and these Austrian lire — are badges of servitude imposed upon a subject people. But there ! It is neither the time nor the place in which to talk politics.' The band at this moment begins again ; leading off with a long crescendo roll upon the side-drums.

The girl half rises from her seat. ' Let us go !' she says, in an agitated whisper. ' I would rather not hear them play any more.' A close gondola waits for them down by the steps near the Giardino Reale ; and thither, threading their way through the crowd, they now go, arm in arm. ' To the Lido.'

It is their wedding day. This morning very early, the civil ceremony was performed at the Pref ettura in Verona ; after which they drove out to Montorio, a little antique walled town some six or seven miles from the city, where they were married according to the rites of the Church by Padre Anselmo, priest of that parish. It was a wedding without bridesmaids, without music, without strewing of flowers, or ringing of bells, or gay doings of any kind. Stefano Beni and the notary -public of Montorio signed their names as witnesses ; and only a few of the villagers, attracted by the rumour of a wedding in the parish church, were lookers-on during the ceremony. Then followed a simple breakfast at the good priest's house ; and by-and-by the newlywedded pair came on by the train to Venice. Old Stefano, who was to mest them at Bari' three weeks hence, then went back to Verona, to dispose of his business, and prepare for a new life in a new place. And now the lovers are gliding over the shining waters, alone with their happiness and with each other. How beautiful are the black-framed pictures seen through the open door of the gondola! How they change with every turn of the prow! How magical is the light ! The after glow has faded, and yet it is not dusk. Every brick in the beautiful Campanile of San . Giorgio Maggiore, every leaf in the clustered treetops that peep above its churchyard-wall, shows more distinctly than in the blaze of noon. The serried masts of the merchant fleet at the mouth of the Giudecca stand up like lances ' ranked ready,' and the far-away dome of SanPietro Oastello, now coming into sight beyond the Giardini Pubblici, glows pearl-like against a background of violet shadows. Overhead, the sky is a vault of green and golden light. The lagune is a sheet of silver.

'Cesare,' she whispers, 'Do you remember something ? ' ' Do I remember what, carina ? ' 1 A promise you were to fulfil on our wedding day.' ' Sweet, I have not forgotten it. I have the ring in my purse.' 'The ring!— what ring?' ' You asked me for my old Abyssinian ring when I was going away ; &&d I re-

fused to give you a ring of any kind till we were married.' ' That is not what I mean. I had forgotten all about the ring.' ' Have I made you any other promise, carina 1 ' ' Yes, you are to tell me a secret to-day.' 'A secret?' ' The secret of this scar on your forefinger. You have never yet told me how you hurt this poor disabled hand, about which I was so unhappy! It was the first question I asked you when you came back from sea.' ' True ; I said I would not answer it till we were married. Well, you have waited patiently, and now you shall hear the whole tragical story from beginning to end. You remember that night when I went away ? It was late, and very dark. . . .'

'Ah!'

' not so dark, however, but that I could see something — I could scarcely tell what— lurking, as it Beemed to me, in the gloom of the archway. Keeping my eye upon this something, I went straight at the gateway. That instant a man sprang out upon me with a knife. . .' 'DioS'

' But the blade glanced off against the book in ray breast-pocket — the book you had just given me, cvrma — and as it slipped, I caught him by the wrist, and tried to wrench it from his grasp. Then we had a fine struggle ; and in the midst of that struggle, the blade broke. Sharp as lightning, my friend changed his tactics, and clutched at my throat ; so I just tripped him up, and flung him on the pavement.' ( And then?' ' And then, in an unlucky moment for him, he got his teeth upon my forefinger, and bit it to the bone. Till now, I had tried only to disarm him ; but when I found him hanging on like a bulldog, I confess I lost my temper.' ' Oh, Cesare ! what did you do V 'Do ? I will tell you what I did,' says Donato, with grim humour. ' I put my arm affectionately round his neck, wrenchtd all that was left of my finger out of hifl mouth, and pounded him over the head and face till I was out of breath. When at length I let him go, he fell like a log, face downwards. That frightened me. So I hauled up a bucketful of water from the well ; gave him a drenching ; and got him out into the street. The poor devil could hardly speak (I believe his teeth were all down his throat !) but he contrived to make me understand where he wanted to go ; so I half dragged, half carried him to the oorner of Via Stella, where at his own request I propped him against the wall and left him. He may be there to this moment, for aught I know !'

' He would have murdered you !' 'Instead of which I very nearly murdered him ! But what childishness is this ? You tremble— your hands are like ice !My Giulietta— my darling !' He takes her in hia arms. He soothes her, as one might soothe a frightened child.

It was her book, she must remember — it was her dear old Luigi da Porta, that turned the knife aside ! Only to think of that ! Was he not, therefore, bound to love her, if possible, ten times more than ever ?— to dedicate his life to her twice over ? Ah, how happy he would try to make her ! And what an earthly Paradise they two would make of that little white house upon the hill-side at Bari ! ' Did the knife really strike the book V she asks Bhudderingly, her thoughts still dwelling on the one theme. ' I am sorry to say it has made a slit an inch long in the parchment oover carina. But we will have it rebound in Morocco— or, if you like, in velvet. And now, let us have done with the past. It is dead and burled, and not worth remembering. The present is our own, and the future lies far before us.'

' I would not have the book rebound for all the world!' she cries passionately. 'That cut ia sacred. It saved your life.

. . . oh my love !my love !' The shining water is all around them now. Venice, with its domes and towers, is left behind ; and the long, low, amber line of the Lido is yet distant. Donato took out his purse, and from his purse, a wring. 'It is not so plain, dear, as the one I put upon your finger this morning.' * Oh, Oesare !— it is a ring for a Queen !' 'It is a ring for my Queen. Now let us see which little finger it fits best.' And with a kiss to f ach in succession, he tries it first upon one and then another. * But these, surely, are diamonds ! — and this beautiful little portrait .... it is not meant for you. ' They are diamonds, carina ; but they are neither large nor valuable. And as for the portrait ' — (here he cannot help smiling) — ' well, I should hare been dead some sixty or seventy years ago, if it were mine. And although that stately gentleman in the star and ribbon was a king in his day, 1 would rather be myself, and your husband.' 'A king?' 'Ay: Charles the Third of Spain. I do not suppose my little Giulietta ever heard of him.'

* Never. Was he a great king V •No ; but he was a fairly good one ; which is quite as rare, and infinitely more respectable. It is even said that he never forgot past services ; but that, of course, is incredible. The portrait, you see, la surmounted by the Imperial crown of Spain in small diamonds. ' ' I never saw anything so beautiful ! But I shall be afraid to wear it.'

' Nay child ; wear it, break it, lose it. It is your own ; and when it ia gone, 1 will buy you another. That silver collar

round your neck, though but a piece of peasant jewelry, is of more intrinsic value. The ring is only a curious trifle.' ' It is a royal ring, and you bought it for me !' ' No,' he answers carelessly. ' I bought it, with some other things, years ago, when I did not know of your existence ; and then, not at all because I wanted to possess it, but because it went with the lot. It was a mere chance that I had not thrown it away before now— wedded the sea with it, as the Doges of old times used to do, here in Venice. But it is well, for your sake carina that the fishes did not get it.' By this time the amber ridge has apparently uplifted itself from the placid level of the Lagune. It assumes a broken outline. It resolves itself into a long stretch of hillocks and hollows of tawny sand, darkened here and there by patches of parched grass. ' Are you still minded for a glimpse of the Adriatic?' asks Donato, as their gondolier runs the boat aground in the shallow. *It is getting dusk, you know ; and these sands are not pleasant to walk in.'

But she minds neither the sands nor the dusk. So they land ; but as they climb the desolate ridge, threading their way among pools and brambles, the lover is careful not to tell his young bride that thiß place was once the cemetery of the Jews of Venice ; or that yonder shattered fragments of lichen-grown granite, which lie half buried here and there in the drifted sands are the desecrated graves of Shylock and his people. And now they stand on the summit of the ridge, and the view lies open to them on both sides— on the one hand the placid lagune ; on the other, stealing up in long, lazy folds creaming listlessly against the shore, the dark blue Adriatic. The girl clings silently to Donato's arm. It is the firat time she has seen the sea.

They linger there, listening to the soft monotonous surge, watching the gathering gloom, till the darkness warns them back to their gondola. And now once more they go npon their noiseless way ; and the twilight takes them j and the hush of night falls upon the shining waters ; and the crescent moon rises like a silver sickle in a field of stars.

The same evening, at the self-same hour, the mail-train, slowly streaming into the terminus of Munich, brings its first freight of faster tourists ; most of whom are English, bound for Vienna. For as yet there is no mountain railway over the Brenner ; and at this season the travellers going to Italy take the Riviera route, or the post-road over the Mont Cenis.

Though it is already summer in Venice, the evening here in Munich is cold and drizzly ; and, save two ladies who have been walking up and down for the last ten minutes or so, and one or two railway officials in blue and silver uniform, the arrival platform is almost empty. As the train creeps in, heavily laden, the taller of these ladies steps somewhat in advance of her companion, and stands alone near the edge of the platform. The next moment, a man's hand and arm are put out of one of the windows ; a door is opened ; and, contrary to all regulations, a gentleman jumps out while the train is yet moving. 'Lancelot !' 1 You here, Winifred 1 This is what I did not expect.' He grasps her hands with passionate eagerness. He all but takes her in his arms and kisses her.

' What an age it seems since we parted — years instead of months ! At every station I longed to get out, and thrash the engine-driver. My darling, how well you are looking ! Is that Fraulein Brenda 1 ? But stay, I have a surprise for you— a great surprise ! You were to know nothing till to-morrow ; but since you are here, there is no help for it. lam not alone,' ' Not alone ?' Winifred repeats, looking nervously round. ' What do you mean ; ... Ah!'

And with a joyful cry of recognition, she finds herself face to face with Mr and Mrs Pennefeather.