“He praised you to the skies. He says you will make your fortune in opera.”
“And do you like operas?” Lisa asked, after a thoughtful pause.
“I adore music of all kinds, except hurdy-gurdies and banjos.”
“And will you come sometimes to hear me sing?”
“Assuredly! With the greatest pleasure.”
“I shall owe fame and fortune to you, if ever I am famous or rich,” said Lisa, seating herself on a low stool by the window, in the full afternoon sunlight, basking in the brightness and warmth.
“What has become of Paolo?” asked Vansittart, looking round the room, where some scattered toys reminded him of the child’s existence.
“Paolo has gone to tea with the lady on the top floor. She has three little girls and a boy, and they all love el puttelo. They let him play with their toys and pull their hair. Hark! there they go.”
A wild gallop of little feet across the ceiling testified to the animation of the party.
“He has been there all the afternoon. He is a bold, bad boy, and so full of mischief,” said Lisa, with evident pride. “He is very big for his age, people say, and as active as a monkey. You must go and fetch him directly you have had your tea, Carina mia,” she added to her aunt. “He has been with those children nearly two hours. He will be awake all night with excitement.”
“Is he excitable?” asked Vansittart, who felt a new and painful interest in this child of a nameless parent.
“Oh, he is terrible. He is ready to jump out of the window when he is happy. He throws himself down on the floor, and kicks and screams till he is black in the face, when he is not allowed to do what he likes. He is only a baby, and yet he is our master. That is because he is a man, I suppose. We were created to be your slaves, were we not, Si’or mio? La Zia spoils him.”
La Zia protested that the boy was a cherub, an angel. He wanted nothing in life but his own way. And he was so strong, so big, and so beautiful that people turned in the streets to look at him.
“Among all the children in Battersea Park I have never seen his equal. And he is not yet three years old. He fought with a boy of six, and sent him away howling. He is a marvel.”
“When he is old enough I shall send him to a gymnasium,” said Lisa. “I want him to be an athlete, like his father. He told me once that he won cups and prizes at the University by his strength. Oh, how white you have turned!” she cried, distressed at the ghastly change in Vansittart’s face. “I forgot. I forgot. I ought not to have spoken of him. I never will speak of him again. We will forget that he ever existed.”
She hung over his chair. She took up his hand and kissed it.
“Forgive me! Forgive me!” she murmured, with tears.
Unmoved by this little scene, la Zia emptied her teacup, rose, and left the room; and they two—Vansittart and Fiordelisa—were alone.
“You know that I would not pain you for the world,” she sighed. “You have been so good to me, my true and only friend.”
“No, no, Si’ora; I know that you would not willingly recall that memory which is branded upon my heart and brain. I can never forget. Do not believe even that I wish to forget. I sinned; and I must suffer for my sin. My friendship for you and for your good aunt arose out of that sin. I want to atone to you as far as I can for that fatal act. You understand that, I am sure.”
“Yes, yes; I understand. But you like us, don’t you?” she pleaded. “You are really our friend?”
“I am really your friend. And I want to prove my friendship by settling an income upon you, in such a manner that you will not be dependent upon my forethought for the payment of that income. It will be paid to you as regularly as the quarter-day comes round. I am going to buy you an annuity, Lisa; that is to say, an income which will be paid to you till the end of your life; so that whether you make your fortune as a singer or not, you can never know extreme poverty.”
“But who will give me the money when quarter-day comes?”
“It will be sent to you from an office. You will have no trouble about it.”
“I should hate that. I would rather have the money from your hand. It is you who give it me—not the man at the office. I want to kiss my benefactor’s hand. You are my benefactor. That was one of the first words I taught myself after I came to this house. Bén‑é‑factor!” she repeated, with her Italian accent; “it is easier than most of your English words.”
“Cara Si’ora, I may be far away. It would be a bad thing for you to depend on my memory for the means of living. Let us be reasonable and businesslike. I shall see to this matter tomorrow. And now, goodbye.”
He rose, and took up his hat. Lisa hung about him, very pale, and with her full lower lip quivering like the lip of a child that is trying not to cry.
“Why are you doing this? why are you changing to me?” she asked piteously.
“I am not changing, Lisa. There is no thought of change in me. Only you must be reasonable. There is a dark secret between us—the memory of that fatal night in Venice. It is not well that we should meet often. We cannot see each other without remembering—”
“I remember nothing when I am with you—gnente, gnente!” she cried passionately. “Nothing except
