“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 to me, Lisa, so, by the heaven above us, will I be loyal to you. All that a brother could do for a sister will I do for you, and deem it nothing more than my duty when it is done.”
“Ah, what a noble gentleman,” cried la Zia, wiping her tearful eyes, “and how gracious of the blessed Mary to give us so generous a friend! Little did I expect such fortune when I rose from my bed this morning.”
“And now, ladies, I must bid you good night,” said Vansittart. “I hope to call on you to-morrow afternoon with some news of your future home. You will not mind living two or three miles from your theatre. There are trams and omnibuses, and a railway to carry you backwards and forwards,” he added.
“We should not mind even if we had to walk to and fro. We are good walkers,” answered Lisa. “We lived a long way from la Scala. Ever so far off, on the other side of Milan.”
“To-morrow, then. A rivederci.”
Two o’clock struck while he was walking to Charles Street, happier than he had felt for a long time. It seemed to him that his burden was lightened almost to a feather-weight now that he knew the fate of these women. They were not destitute, as he had often pictured them. They had suffered a little poverty, but no more than was the common lot of the class from which they had sprung. And it was in his power to make ample reparation to them. He would do more for Lisa than that dead man would ever have done. He would put her in the way of an honourable career. Whatever talents she had should be cultivated at his cost. He would not degrade her by foolish gifts—but he would spend money freely to further her interests, and he would keep her feet from straying any further upon that broad road she had entered so recklessly.
He could but wonder at the lightness with which she accepted her lover’s fate, and forewent every idea of retribution. Not so, he told himself, would an Englishwoman bow to the stroke of destiny, if her best-beloved were slain. And then he wondered whether, in all this world, near or far, there was any one, besides Fiordelisa, who had loved John Smith, and who was now mourning for him.