The Venetians

was shocked to see me so thin and pale, and when I told him how poor we were⁠—la Zia and I⁠—he asked me why I did not turn my voice to account. He always used to praise my voice when Signor Smitz asked him how I got on with my education. I had a voice that was worth money, he said. And now in our poverty he was very good to us. He gave me more lessons, without a sous, to be paid for only when I should be earning plenty of money; and after he had taught me a good many choruses in Verdi’s operas, he gave me a letter to the Impresario at Milan, and he lent us the money for the journey to Milan, and once there all went well with us. I was engaged to sing in the chorus, and I sang there for two seasons, and la Zia and I were able to live comfortably and to save money, until one day, when the Scala was closed, an English Impresario came to Milan, to engage singers for the London season, and I, who had always wanted to go to London, went to him, and asked him to engage me, and it was all settled in a few minutes. We have been a year and a half in England, la Zia and I, sometimes travelling with the opera company, but mostly in London.”

“And you have made wonderful progress in our language, Signora.”

“Don’t call me Signora,” she said softly. “Call me Fiordelisa, as you did that day at Venice.”

“Tell me how you both like our England.”

The elder woman shrugged her shoulders, elevated her eyebrows, and flung up her hands in boundless admiration.

“Wonderfullissimo!” she exclaimed. “The streets, the long, broad streets, and splendid, splendid shops; the carriages, the fine-dressed people, the smoke, the roar of wheels, the everlasting noise. When I look back, and think of Burano, it is like a dream of quiet; a tranquil world set in the bosom of the waters; a cradle for sleep; life that is half slumber. Here everyone is awake.”

“But your London is not beautiful,” said Lisa. “This court is not like Venice. It is liker than your big, noisy streets; but when one looks up the sky is murky and grey⁠—not like the strip of blue above the Calle. If I could live where I could see water from my window⁠—even your dull, dark river⁠—I should be happier; but to be away from the sound and the sight of waters! That was hard even at Milan, which was still Italy.”

“There are places in London where you might live in sight and sound of the river,” said Vansittart. “We cannot offer you anything like your lagoons; we have no mountains like the Friuli range for our sunsets to glorify; but we have a river by which people can live if they like.”

“Not if they like, but if they are rich enough,” argued Lisa. “We asked if we could have a lodging near the river; but the people at the theatre told us such lodgings are dear⁠—they are not for such as us.”

“We will see about that,” said Vansittart; and then he went on more seriously, “I want to make a compact with you and your aunt. I want to come to a clear understanding of what we are to be to each other in the future. Are we to be friends, Lisa?”

“Yes, yes, friends, true friends,” she answered eagerly.

“And you forgive me for⁠—what was done that night?”

“Yes, I forgive you. The fault was not all yours. He insulted you⁠—he struck you⁠—and you were maddened⁠—and the dagger was there. It was a fatality. Let us think of it no more. We cannot bring him back. It is best to forget.”

“You know, Lisa, that you have it in your power to blight my life⁠—to tell the world what I did that night⁠—to give me up to the strong arm of the law to answer for the life I destroyed. You could do that if you liked. Do you mean to do it?”

“No,” she said resolutely.

“And you, Signora,” to the aunt, “are you of the same mind as your niece?”

“In all things. Lisa is much cleverer than her poor old aunt. I do as she does.”

“But some day, Fiordelisa, you might change your mind,” urged Vansittart. “Women are capricious. You might take it into your head to betray me⁠—to tell people of that tragedy in Venice, and that I was the chief actor in it.”

“Not for the world would I tell anything that would injure you,” she said.

“Do you mean that, Lisa?”

“A thousand times yes.”

“Promise then, thus, with your hand in mine,” taking her hand as he spoke, “promise by the Mother of God and by His Saints that, come what may, you will never tell how I stabbed an unarmed man in the Caffè Florian. Promise that as I am frank and true with you, so you will deal frankly and fairly by me, and will do no act and will say no word to my injury.”

“I promise,” she said, “by the Mother of God and by His Saints. I promise to be loyal and true to you all the days of my life.”

“And you, Signora?” to the aunt.

“What she promises I promise.”

“Why, then, thank God for the chance that brought us three together again,” said Vansittart, earnestly, “for now I can make my atonement to you both with an easy mind. There is nothing I will not do, Lisa, to prove that my remorse is a reality, and not a pretence. You would like to live by the river, child? Well, it shall be my business to find you a home from which you shall look upon running water, and hear the splash of the tide. Your voice is your fortune. Well, it shall be my business to find you a master who can train you for something better than singing in a chorus. As you are loyal