Jerry

Having read it critically, she sealed and addressed it with malicious delight; it was calculated to arouse just about the emotions she would like to have Tony entertain. She gave the note to Giuseppe with instructions to place it in Gustavo’s hands, and then settled herself gaily to await results.

Giuseppe was barely out of sight when the two Alpine climbers appeared at the gate. Constance had been wondering how she could inform Tony that his aunt and sister had arrived, without unbending from the dignified silence of the past three days. The obvious method was to announce it to her father in Tony’s presence, but her father slipped into the house by the back way without affording her an opportunity. It was Tony himself who solved the difficulty. Of his own accord he crossed the terrace and approached her side. He laid a bunch of edelweiss on the balustrade.

‘It’s a peace offering,’ he observed.

‘Thank you, Tony; it is very nice of you.’ She picked up the flowers and smiled—with the knowledge of the letter that was waiting for him she could afford to be forgiving.

‘You discharged me, signorina; will you take me back into your service?’

‘I am not going to climb any more mountains; it is too fatiguing. I think it is better for you and my father to go alone.’

‘I will serve you in other ways.’

Constance studied the mountains a moment. Should she tell him she knew, or should she keep up the pretence a little longer? Her insatiable love of intrigue won.

‘Are you sure you wish to be taken back?’

‘Si, signorina, I am very sure.’

‘Then perhaps you will do me a favour on your way home to-night?’

‘You have but to ask.’

‘I wish to send a message to a young American man who is staying at the Hotel du Lac—you may have seen him?’

Tony nodded.

‘I have only met him twice, but—yes, I like him.’

‘You like him better zan me?’ His anxiety deepened; he hung upon her word.

She shook her head reassuringly.

‘I like you both exactly the same.’

‘Signorina, which you like better, zat yong American or ze Signor Lieutenant?’

‘Your questions are getting too personal, Tony.’

He folded his arms and sighed.

‘Will you deliver my message?’

‘Si, signorina, wif pleasure.’ There was not a trace of curiosity in his expression, nothing beyond a deferential desire to serve.

‘Tell him, Tony, that Miss Wilder will be at home to-morrow afternoon at tea-time; if he will come by the gate and present a card she will be most pleased to see him. She wishes him to meet an American friend, a Miss Hilliard, who has just arrived at the hotel this afternoon.’

She watched him sharply; his expression did not alter by a shade. He repeated the message and then added as if by the merest chance—

‘Ze yong American man, signorina—you know his name?’

‘Signor Ab-ra-ham Lin-coln.’ He repeated it after her as if committing it to memory. They gazed at each other soberly a moment; then both laughed and looked away.

Luigi had appeared in the doorway. Seeing no one more important than Tony about, he found no reason for delaying the announcement of dinner.

‘Il pranzo è sulla tavola, signorina.’

‘Bene!’ said Constance over her shoulder. She turned back to Tony; her manner was kind. ‘If you go to the kitchen, Tony, Elizabetta will give you some dinner.’

‘Sank you, signorina.’ His manner was humble. ‘Elizabetta’s dinners consist of a plate of garlic and macaroni on the kitchen steps. I don’t like garlic and I’m tired of macaroni; if it’s just the same to you, I think I’ll dine at home.’ He held out his hand.

She read his purpose in his eye and put her own hands behind her.

‘You won’t shake hands, signorina? We are not friends?’

‘I learned a lesson the last time.’

‘You shake hands wif Lieutenant Count Carlo di Ferara.’

‘It is the custom in Italy.’

‘Behave yourself, Tony, and run along home!’

She laughed and nodded and turned away. On the steps she paused to add—

‘Be sure not to forget the message for Signor Abraham Lincoln. I shall be disappointed if he doesn’t come.’

‘Signore,’ in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘zay are come, ze aunt and ze sister.’

‘I know—the Signorina Costantina told me so.’

Gustavo blinked.

‘But, signore, she does not know it.’

‘Yes, she does—she saw ’em herself.’

‘I mean, signore, she does not know zat you are ze brover?’

‘Oh, no, she doesn’t know that.’

‘But she tell me zat she is acquaint wif ze brover for six years.’ He shook his head hopelessly.

‘That’s all right.’ Tony patted his shoulder reassuringly. ‘When she knew me I used to have yellow hair, but I thought it made me look too girlish, so I had it dyed black. She didn’t recognize me.’

Gustavo accepted the explanation with a side-glance at the hair.

‘Now, pay attention.’ Tony’s tone was slow and distinct.

Gustavo nodded with glistening eyes. He had always felt stirring within him powers for diplomacy, for finesse, and he rose to the occasion magnificently.

Tony turned away and went bounding upstairs two steps at a time, chuckling as he went. He, too, was developing an undreamed of appetite for intrigue, and his capacity in that direction was expanding to meet it. He had covered the first flight, when Gustavo suddenly remembered the letter and bounded after.

‘Signore! I beg of you to wait one moment. Here is a letter from ze signorina; it is come while you are away.’

Tony read the address with a start of surprise.

‘Then she knows!’ There was regret, disillusionment, in his tone.

It was Gustavo’s turn to furnish enlightenment.

‘But no, signore, she do not comprehend. She sink Meestair Jayreem Ailyar is ze brover who is not arrive. She leave it for him when he come.’

Tony closed his door and walked to the window, where he stood staring at the roof of Villa Rosa. He drew the letter from his pocket and read it for the third time slowly, thoughtfully, very, very soberly. The reason was clear; she was tired of Tony and was looking ahead for fresh worlds to conquer. Jerry Junior was to come next.

A flush crept over Tony’s face and his mouth took a straighter line as he continued to gaze down on the roof of Villa Rosa. His reflections were presently interrupted by a knock. He turned and threw the door open with a fling.

‘Well?’ he inquired.

Gustavo took a step backward.

‘Scusi, signore, but zay are eating ze dessart and in five—ten minutes ze omnibus will arrive.’

‘The omnibus?’ Tony stared. ‘Oh!’ he laughed shortly. ‘I was just joking, Gustavo.’

Gustavo bowed and turned down the corridor; there was a look on Tony’s face that did not encourage confidences. He had not gone half a dozen steps, however, when the door opened again and Tony called him back.

‘I am going away to-morrow morning—by the first boat this time—and you mustn’t let my aunt and sister know. I will write two letters and you are to take them down to the steward of the boat that leaves to-night. Ask him to put on Austrian stamps and mail them at Riva, so they’ll get back here to-morrow. Do you understand?’

Tony, having hit on a plan, sat down and put it into instant execution. Opening his Baedeker, he turned to Riva and picked out the first hotel that was mentioned. Then he wrote two letters, both short and to the point; he indulged in none of Constance’s vacillations, and yet in their way his letters also were masterpieces of illusion. The first was addressed to Miss Constance Wilder at Villa Rosa. It ran—

The second letter was addressed to his sister, but he trusted to luck that Constance would see it. It ran—

He strode along with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the path until he nearly bumped his nose against the villa gate-post. Then he stopped and thought. He had no mind to be ushered to the terrace, where he would have to dissemble some excuse for his visit before Miss Hazel and Mr. Wilder. His business to-night was with Constance, and Constance alone. He turned and skirted the villa wall, determined on reconnoitring first. There was a place in the wall—he knew well—where the stones were missing, and a view was obtainable of the terrace and parapet.

He reached the place to find Lieutenant Carlo di Ferara already there. Now the Lieutenant’s purpose was exactly as innocent as Tony’s own; he merely wished to assure himself that Captain Coroloni was not before him. It was considered a joke at the tenth cavalry mess to detail one or the other of the officers to call on the Americans at the same time that Lieutenant di Ferara called. He was not spying on the family, merely on his meddling brother officers.

Tony looked back and smiled. He swept off his hat with a deferential bow. ‘Scusi,’ he murmured, and jumped over the wall into the grounds of Villa Rosa.

The lieutenant gasped. If anything could have been more insultingly inadequate to the situation than that one word Scusi, it did not at the moment occur to him. Jeering, blasphemy, vituperation, he might have excused, but this! The shock jostled him back to a thinking state.

Here was no ordinary donkey-driver. 151] The hand that had rested for a moment on his arm was the hand of a gentleman. The man’s face was vaguely, elusively familiar; if the lieutenant had not seen him before, he had at least seen his picture. The man had pretended he could not talk Italian, but—Scusi—it came out very pat when it was needed.

An idea suddenly assailed Lieutenant di Ferara. He scrambled up the bank and skirted the wall, almost on a run, until he reached the place where his horse was tied. Two minutes later he was off at a gallop, headed for the house of the prefect of police of Valedolmo.

Tony jumped over the wall. He might have landed in the midst of a family party; but in so much luck was with him. He found the Farfalla bobbing at the foot of the water-steps with Mr. Wilder and Miss Hazel already embarked. They were waiting for Constance, who had obligingly run back to the house to fetch the rainbow shawl (finished that afternoon) as Miss Hazel distrusted the Italian night breeze.

Constance stepped out from the door as Tony emerged from the bushes. She regarded him in startled surprise; he was still in some slight disarray from his encounter with the lieutenant.

She nodded and kept on, her heart thumping absurdly. He had received the letter, of course; and there would be consequences. She paused at the top of the water-steps.

‘You go on,’ she called to the others, and pick me up on your way back. Tony wants to see me about something, and I don’t like to keep Mrs. Eustace and Nannie waiting.’

Giuseppe pushed off and Constance was left standing alone on the water-steps. She turned as Tony approached; there was a touch of defiance in her manner.

‘Well?’

He came to her side and leaned carelessly against the parapet, his eyes on the Farfalla as she tossed and dipped in the wash of the Regina Margarita which was just puffing out from the village landing. Constance watched him, slightly taken aback; she had expected him to be angry, sulky, reproachful—certainly not nonchalant. When he finally brought his eyes from the water, his expression was mildly melancholy.

‘Signorina, I have come to say good-bye. It is very sad, but to-morrow, I too’—he waved his hand toward the steamer—‘shall be a passenger.’

‘You are going away from Valedolmo?’

‘Unfortunately, yes. I should like to stay, but’—he shrugged—‘life isn’t all play, Miss Wilder. Though one would like to be a donkey-man for ever, one only may be for a summer’s holiday. I am your debtor for a unique and pleasant experience.’

She studied his face without speaking. Did it mean that he had got the letter and was hurt, or did it perhaps mean that he had got the letter and did not care to appear as Jerry Junior? That he enjoyed the play so long as he could remain incognito and stop it where he pleased, but that he had no mind to let it drift into reality? Very possibly it meant—she flushed at the thought—that he divined Nannie’s plot, and refused also to consider the fourth candidate.

She laughed and dropped into their usual jargon.

‘And the young American man, Signor Abraham Lincoln, will he come to-morrow for tea?’

‘Ah, signorina, he is desolated, but it is not possible. He has received a letter and he must go; he has stopped too long in Valedolmo. To-morrow morning early, he and I togever, we sail away to Austria.’

His eyes went back to the trail of smoke left by the little steamer.

Tony sighed—a deep melodramatic sigh—and laid his hand on his heart.

‘Ah, signorina, zat Costantina, she has not any heart. She love one man one day, anozzer ze next. I go away to forget.’

His eyes dropped to hers; for an instant the mocking light died out; a questioning wounded look took its place.

She felt a quick impulse to hold out her hands, to say, ‘Jerry, don’t go! ‘If she only knew! Was he going because he thought that she wished to dismiss him, or because he wished to dismiss himself? Was it pique that bade him carry the play to the end, or was it merely the desire to get out of an awkward situation gracefully?

She stood hesitating, scanning the terrace pavement with troubled eyes; when she raised them to his face the chance was gone. He straightened his shoulders with an air of finality and picked up his hat from the balustrade.

‘Some day, signorina, in New York, perhaps I play a little tune underneaf your window.’

She nodded and smiled.

‘I will give the monkey a penny when he comes—good-bye.’

He bowed over her hand and touched it lightly to his lips.

As he strode away into the dusky lane of cypresses, she heard him whistling softly ‘Santa Lucia.’ It was the last stroke, she reflected angrily; he might at least have omitted that! She turned away and dropped down on the water-steps to wait for the Farfalla. The terrace, the lake, the beautiful Italian night, suddenly seemed deserted and empty. Before she knew it was coming, she had leaned her head against the balustrade with a deep sob. She caught herself sharply. She to sit there crying, while Tony went whistling on his way!

As the Farfalla drifted idly over the water, Constance sat in the stern, her chin in her hand, moodily gazing at the shimmering path of moonlight. But no one appeared to notice her silence, since Nannie was talking enough for both. And the only thing she talked about was Jerry Junior, how funny and clever and charming he was, how phenomenally good—for a man; when she showed signs of stopping, Mr. Wilder by a question started her on. It seemed to Constance an interminable two hours before they dropped their guests in the garden of the Hotel du Lac, and headed again for Villa Rosa.

‘Signore! Dio mio! A calamity has happened. Zat Tony, zat donk’-man! he has got hisself arrested. Zay say it is a lie, zat he is American citizen; he is an officer who is dessert from ze Italian army. Zay say he just pretend he cannot spik Italian—but it is not true. He know ten—leven words.’

They came hurrying up the steps and surrounded him, Mr. Wilder no less shocked than Gustavo himself.

‘Arrested—as a deserter? It’s an outrage!’ he thundered.

Constance laid her hand on Gustavo’s sleeve and whirled him about.

‘What do you mean? I don’t understand. Where is Tony?’

Gustavo groaned.

‘In jail, signorina. Four carabinieri are come to take him away. And he fight—Dio mio! he fight like ze devil. But zay put—’ he indicated handcuffs—‘and he go.’

Constance dropped down on the upper step, and leaning her head against the balustrade, she laughed until she was weak.

‘Constance! Haven’t you any sympathy for the man? This isn’t a laughing matter.’

‘I know, Dad, but it’s so funny—Tony an Italian officer! He can’t pronounce the ten—’leven words he does know right.’

‘Of course he can’t; he doesn’t know as much Italian as I do. Can’t these fools tell an American citizen when they see one? I’ll teach ’em to go about chucking American citizens in jail. I’ll telegraph the consul in Milan; I’ll make an international matter of it!’

He fumed up and down the terrace, while Constance rose to her feet and followed after with a pretence at pacification.

‘Hush, Dad! Don’t be so excitable. It was a very natural mistake for them to make. But if Tony is really what he says he is it will be very easily proved. You must be sure of your ground, though, before you act. I don’t like to say anything against poor Tony now that he is in trouble, but I have always felt that there was a mystery connected with him. For all we know he may be a murderer or a brigand or an escaped convict in disguise. We only have his word, you know, that he is an American citizen.’

Constance patted him on the arm. ‘There, Dad. I haven’t a doubt his story is true. He was born in Budapest, and he’s a naturalized American citizen. It’s the duty of the United States Government to protect him—but it won’t be difficult; I dare say he’s got his naturalization papers with him. A word in the morning will set everything straight.’

‘Leave him in jail all night?’

‘But you can’t do anything now; it’s after ten o’clock; the authorities have gone to bed.’

She turned to Gustavo; her tone was reassuring.

‘In the morning we’ll get some American warships to bombard the jail.’

‘Signorina, you joke!’ His tone was reproachful.

She suddenly looked anxious. ‘Gustavo, is the jail strong?’

‘Ver’ strong, signorina.’

‘He can’t escape and get over into Austria? We are very near the frontier, you know.’

‘No, signorina, it is impossible.’ He shook his head hopelessly.

Constance laughed and slipped her hand through her father’s arm.

She nodded dismissal to Gustavo, and drew her father, still muttering, toward the house.

‘We can’t come to the villa! Here’s a letter from Jerry wanting us to start immediately for the Dolomites—did you ever know anything so exasperating?’

She passed the letter to Constance, and then as she remembered the first sentence, made a hasty attempt to draw it back. It was too late; Constance’s eyes had already pounced upon it. She read it aloud with gleeful malice.

‘“Who in thunder is Constance Wilder?”—If that’s an example of the famous Jerry Junior’s politeness, I prefer not to meet him, thank you.—It’s worse than his last insult; I shall never forgive this!’ She glanced down the page and handed it back with a laugh; from her point of vantage it was naïvely transparent. From Mr. Wilder’s point, however, the contents were inscrutable; he looked from the letter to his daughter’s serene smile, and relapsed into a puzzled silence.

‘I should say, on the contrary, that he doesn’t want you to start immediately for the Dolomites,’ Constance observed.

‘It’s a girl,’ Nannie groaned. ‘I suspected it from the moment we got the telegram in Lucerne. Oh, why did I ever let that wretched boy get out of my sight?’

‘I dare say she’s horrid,’ Constance put in. ‘One meets such frightful Americans travelling.’

‘American girls are so grasping,’ said Nannie plaintively. ‘It’s scarcely safe for an unattached man to go out alone.’

Mr. Wilder leaned forward and reexamined the letter.

‘By the way, Miss Nannie, how did Jerry learn that you were here? His letter, I see, was mailed in Riva at ten o’clock last night.’

Nannie examined the postmark. ‘I hadn’t thought of that! How could he have found out—unless that beast of a head waiter telegraphed? What does it mean?’

Mr. Wilder spread out his hands and raised his shoulders. ‘You’ve got me!’ A gleam of illumination suddenly flashed over his face; he turned to his daughter with what was meant to be a carelessly off-hand manner. ‘Er—Constance, while I think of it, you didn’t discharge Tony again yesterday, did you?’

Constance opened her eyes.

‘Discharge Tony? Why should I do that? He isn’t working for me.’

‘You weren’t rude to him?’

‘Father, am I ever rude to any one?’

‘Mr. Wilder!’ Nannie was reproachful. ‘You don’t know Jerry; he’s incapable of telling anything but the truth.’

Constance tittered.

‘What are you laughing at, Constance?’

‘Nothing—only it’s so funny. Why don’t you advertise for him? Lost—a young man, age twenty-eight, height five feet eleven, weight one hundred and seventy pounds, dark hair, grey eyes, slight scar over left eyebrow; dressed when last seen in double-breasted blue serge suit and brown russet shoes. Finder please return to Hotel du Lac and receive liberal reward.’

‘He isn’t lost,’ said Nannie. ‘We know where he is perfectly; he’s at the Hotel Sole d’Oro in Riva, and that’s at the other end of the lake. We’re going up on the afternoon boat to join him.’

‘Oh!’ said Constance meekly.

‘Of course, we’ll find him!’ said Nannie.

Constance looked troubled.

‘Don’t go, it’s quite a long trip. Write instead and give the letter to Gustavo; he’ll give it to the boat steward who will deliver it personally. Then if Jerry shouldn’t be there——’

Nannie was losing her patience.

‘Shouldn’t be there? But he says he’s there.’

‘Oh! yes, certainly, that ends it. Only, you know, Nannie, I don’t believe there really is any such person as Jerry Junior! I think he’s a myth.’

Gustavo had been hanging about the gate looking anxiously up the road as if he expected something to happen. His brow cleared suddenly as a boy on a bicycle appeared in the distance. The boy whirled into the court and dismounted; glancing dubiously from one to the other of the group, he finally presented his telegram to Gustavo, who passed it on to Nannie. She ripped it open and ran her eyes over the contents.

‘Can any one tell me the meaning of this? It’s Italian!’ She spread it on the table while the three bent over it in puzzled wonder.

‘Ceingide mai maind dunat comtu Riva stei in Valedolmo geri.’

‘That’s not Italian; it’s English, only the operator has spelt it phonetically—I begin to believe there is a Jerry,’ she added, ‘no one could cause such a bother who didn’t exist.’ She picked up the slip and translated—

‘I’m a clairvoyant, you see. I told you he wouldn’t be there!’

‘But where is he?’ Nannie wailed.

Constance and her father glanced tentatively at each other, and were silent. Gustavo, who had been hanging officiously in the rear, approached and begged their pardon.

‘Scusi, signora, but I sink I can explain. Ecco! Ze telegram is dated from Limone—zat is a village close by here on ze ozzer side of ze lake. He is gone on a walking trip, ze yong man, of two—tree days wif an Englishman who is been in zis hotel. If he expect you so soon he would not go. But patience, he will come back. Oh, yes, in a little while, after one—two day he come back.’

‘You don’t suppose’—Nannie’s voice was tragic—‘that he has eloped with that American girl?’

‘Good heavens, my dear!’ Mrs. Eustace appealed to Mr. Wilder. ‘What are the laws in this dreadful country? Don’t banns or something have to be published three weeks before the ceremony can take place?’

Mr. Wilder rose hastily.

‘Yes, yes, dear lady. It’s impossible; don’t consider any such catastrophe for a moment. Come, Constance, I really think we ought to be going.—Er, you see, Mrs. Eustace, you can’t believe—that is, don’t let anything Gustavo says trouble you. With all respect for his many fine qualities, he has not Jerry’s regard for truth. And don’t bother any more about the boy; he will turn up in a day or so. He may have written some letters of explanation that you haven’t got. These foreign mails——’ He edged toward the gate.

Constance followed him and then turned back.

‘Constance!’ said Nannie reproachfully.

‘Oh, my dear, I was only joking; of course it’s impossible. Good-bye.’ She nodded and laughed and ran after her father.

If one must go to jail at all one could scarcely choose a more entertaining jail than that of Valedolmo. It occupies a structure which was once a palace; and its cells, planned for other purposes, are spacious. But its most gratifying feature, to one forcibly removed from social intercourse, is its outlook. The windows command the Piazza Garibaldi, which is the social centre of the town; it contains the village post, the fountain, the tobacco shop, the washing-trough, and the two rival cafés, the ‘Independenza’ and the ‘Libertà.’ The piazza is always dirty and noisy—that goes without saying—but on Wednesday morning at nine o’clock, it is peculiarly dirty and noisy. Wednesday is Valedolmo’s market day, and the square is so cluttered with booths and hucksters and anxious buyers, that the peaceable pedestrian can scarcely wedge his way through. The noise moreover is deafening; above the cries of vendors and buyers rises a shriller chorus of bleating kids and squealing pigs and braying donkeys.

‘Your commands, signorina?’

‘We, wish to come in.’

‘But it is against the orders. Friday is visiting-day at thirteen o’clock. If the signorina had a permesso from the sindaco, why then——’

The signorina shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. She had no permesso and it was too much trouble to get one. Besides, the sindaco’s office didn’t open till ten o’clock. She glanced down; there was a shining two-franc piece in her hand. Perhaps the jailoress would allow them to step inside away from the crowd, and she would explain?

This sounded reasonable; the door opened farther and they squeezed through. It banged in the faces of the disappointed spectators, who lingered hopefully a few moments longer, and then returned to their bargaining. Inside the big damp stone-walled corridor Constance drew a deep breath and smiled upon the jailoress; the jailoress smiled back. Then as a preliminary skirmish, Constance presented the two-franc piece; and the jailoress dropped a curtsy.

The woman’s mouth hardened; she nodded with emphasis.

‘Già. We have him, the man Antonio, if that is his name. He may not be the deserter they search—I do not know—but if he is not the deserter he is something else. You should have heard him last night, signorina, when they brought him in. The things he said! They were in a foreign tongue; I did not understand, but I felt. Also he kicked my husband—kicked him quite hard so that he limps to-day. And the way he orders us about! You would think he were a prince in his own palace and we were his servants. Nothing is good enough for him. He objected to the room we gave him first because it smelt of the cooking. He likes butter with his bread and hot milk with his coffee. He cannot smoke the cigars which my husband bought for him, and they cost three soldi apiece. And this morning’—her voice rose shrilly as she approached the climax—‘he called for a bath. It is true, signorina, a bath. Dio mio, he wished me to carry the entire village fountain to his room!’

The woman blinked.

‘It would be impossible, signorina,’ she contented herself with saying.

Constance, with grave concern, translated the sum of Tony’s enormities to her father; and turned back to the jailoress apologetically.

‘My father is very much grieved that the man should have caused you so much trouble. But he says, that if we could see him, we could persuade him to be more reasonable. We talk his language, and can make him understand.’

The woman winked meaningly.

‘Eh—he pretends he cannot talk Italian, but he understands enough to ask for what he wishes. I think—and the Signor-Lieutenant who ordered his arrest thinks—that he is shamming.’

‘It was a lieutenant who ordered his arrest? Do you remember his name—was it Carlo di Ferara?’

‘It might have been.’ Her face was vague.

‘Of the cavalry?’

‘Si, signorina, of the cavalry—and very handsome.’

‘It is against the orders, but perhaps—I have already permitted the head waiter from the Hotel du Lac to carry him newspapers and cigarettes. He says that the man Antonio is in reality an American nobleman from New York, who merely plays at being a donkey-driver for diversion, and that unless he is set at liberty immediately a ship will come with cannon, but—we all know Gustavo, signorina.’

Constance nodded and laughed.

‘You have reason! We all know Gustavo—may we go right up?’

The jailoress called the jailor. They talked aside; the two-franc piece was produced as evidence. The jailor with a great show of caution got out a bunch of keys and motioned them to follow. Up two flights and down a long corridor with peeling frescoes on the walls—nymphs and cupids and garlands of roses; most incongruous decorations for a jail—at last they paused before a heavy oak door. Their guide tried two wrong keys, swore softly as each failed to turn, and finally with an exclamation of triumph produced the right one. He swung the door wide and stepped back with a bow.

‘Confound your impudence! You might at least knock before you come in.’

Constance laughed and advanced a hesitating step across the threshold. Tony dropped his paper and sprang to his feet, his face, assuming a shade of pink only less vivid than the oleanders. She shook her head sorrowfully.

‘I don’t need to tell you, Tony, how shocked we are to find you in such a place. Our trust has been rudely shaken; we had not supposed we were harbouring a deserter.’

Mr. Wilder stepped forward and held out his hand; there was a twinkle in his eye, which he struggled manfully to suppress.

‘Nonsense, Tony, we don’t believe a word of it. You a deserter from the Italian army? It’s preposterous! Where are your naturalization papers?’

‘It’s an imposition! Depriving an American citizen of his liberty on any such trumped-up charge as that! I’ll telegraph the consul in Milan. I’ll——’

‘Oh, don’t trouble. I’ll get off this afternoon; they’ve sent for some one to identify me, and if he doesn’t succeed, I don’t see how they can hold me. In the meantime, I’m comfortable enough.’

Constance turned from the window and glanced casually at Tony.

‘You didn’t go to Austria after all?’

‘I was detained; I hope to get off to-morrow.’

‘Oh, before I forget it.’ She removed the basket from her arm and set it on the table. ‘Here is some lemon jelly, Tony. I couldn’t remember whether one takes lemon jelly to prisoners or invalids—I’ve never known any prisoners before, you see. But anyway, I hope you’ll like it; Elizabetta made it.’

He bowed stiffly. ‘I beg of you to convey my thanks to Elizabetta.’

‘Tony!’ She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and glanced apprehensively over her shoulder to see if the jailor were listening. ‘If by any chance they should identify you as that deserter, just get word to me and I will have Elizabetta bake you a veal pasty with a rope ladder and a file inside. I would have had her bake it this morning, only Wednesday is ironing-day at the villa, and she was so awfully busy——’

‘This is your innings,’ Tony rejoined somewhat sulkily. ‘I hope you’ll get all the entertainment you can out of the situation.’

‘I wish I knew whether there’s any truth in that statement or not!’

‘Any truth! I realize well, that I might search the whole world over and never find another donkey-man who sings such beautiful tenor, who wears such lovely sashes and such becoming earrings. Why, Tony’—she took a step nearer and her face assumed a look of consternation—‘you’ve lost your earrings!’

He turned his back and walked to the window, where he stood moodily staring at the market. Constance watched his squared shoulders dubiously out of the corner of her eye; then she glanced momentarily into the hall where the jailor was visible his face flattened against the bars of an open window; and from him to her father, still deep in the columns of his paper, oblivious to both time and place. She crossed to Tony and stood at his side, peering down at the scene below.

‘I don’t suppose it will interest you,’ she said in an off-hand tone, her eyes still intent on the crowd, ‘but I got a letter this morning from a young man who is stopping at the Sole d’Oro in Riva—a very rude letter, I thought.’

‘You know!’

‘It struck me that the person who wrote it was in a temper and might afterwards be sorry for having hurt my feelings, and so’—she raised her eyes momentarily to his—‘the invitation is still open.’

‘Tell me,’ there was both entreaty and command in his tone, ‘did you know the truth before you wrote that letter?’

‘You mean, did I know whom I was inviting? Assuredly! Do you think it would have been dignified to write such an informal invitation to a person I did not know?’

She turned away quickly and laid her hand on her father’s shoulder.

‘Come, Dad, don’t you think we ought to be going? Poor Tony wants to read the paper himself.’

Mr. Wilder came back to the jail and his companions with a start.

‘Oh, eh, yes, I think perhaps we ought. If they don’t let you out this afternoon, Tony, I’ll make matters lively for ’em, and if there’s anything you need, send word by Gustavo—I’ll send back later.’ He fished in his pockets and brought up a handful of cigars. ‘Here’s something better than lemon jelly, and they’re not from the tobacco shop in Valedolmo either.’

‘Good-bye, Tony; don’t despair. Remember that it’s always darkest before the dawn, and that whatever others think, Costantina and I believe in you. We know that you are incapable of telling anything but the truth!’ She had almost reached the door when she became aware of the flowers in her hand; she hurried back. ‘Oh, I forgot! Costantina sent these with her—with——’ She faltered; her audacity did not go quite that far.

Tony reached for them. ‘With what?’ he insisted.

She laughed; and a second later the door closed behind her. He stood staring at the door till he heard the key turn in the lock, then he looked down at the flowers in his hand. A note was tied to the stems; his fingers trembled as he worked with the knot.

‘Caro Antonio mio,’ it commenced; he could read that. ‘La sua Costantina,’ it ended; he could read that. But between the two was an elusive, tantalizing hiatus. He studied it and put it in his pocket and took it out and studied it again. He was still puzzling over it half an hour later when Gustavo came to inquire if the signore had need of anything.

Had he need of anything! He sent Gustavo flying to the stationer’s in search of an Italian-English dictionary.

The tone, the foreign accent, were both reminiscent of many a friendly though halting conversation. Giuseppe stared again, appealingly, but the gentleman did not help him out; on the contrary he repeated his request in a slightly sharpened tone.

‘Si, signore,’ Giuseppe stammered. ‘Prego di verire. La signorina è nel giardino.’

He started ahead toward the garden, looking behind at every third step to make sure that the gentleman was still following, that he was not merely a figment of his own sleepy senses. Their direction was straight toward the parapet where, on an historic wash-day, the signorina had sat beside a row of dangling stockings. She was sitting there now, dressed in white, the oleander tree above her head enveloping her in a glowing and fragrant shade. So occupied was she with a dreamy contemplation of the mountains across the lake that she did not hear footsteps until Giuseppe paused before her and presented the card. She glanced from this to the visitor, and extended a friendly hand.

‘Mr. Hilliard! Good afternoon.’

Constance turned to the visitor, and swept him with an appreciative glance, her eye lingering a second on the oleander in his buttonhole.

‘Perhaps you can tell me, is Tony out of jail? I am so anxious to know.’

He shook his head.

‘Found guilty and sentenced for life; you’ll never see him again.’

‘Ah; poor Tony! I shall miss him.’

‘I shall miss him too; we’ve had very good times together.’

Constance suddenly became aware that her guest was still standing; she moved along and made place on the wall. ‘Won’t you sit down? Oh, excuse me,’ she added with an anxious glance at his clothes, ‘I’m afraid you’ll get dusty; it would be better to bring a chair.’ She nodded toward the terrace.

He sat down beside her.

‘I am only too honoured; the last time I came you did not invite me to sit on the wall.’

‘I am sorry if I appeared inhospitable, but you came so unexpectedly, Mr. Hilliard.’

‘That was a slip of the pen; I hope you will excuse it.’

‘When I wrote I called you “Miss Wilder”; that was a slip of the pen too. What I meant to say was, “dear Constance.”’

She let this pass without comment.

‘I have an apology to make.’

‘Yes?’

‘Once, a long time ago, I insulted you; I called you a kid. I take it back; I swallow the word. You were never a kid.’

‘Oh,’ she dimpled, and then, ‘I don’t believe you remember a thing about it?’

‘Connie Wilder, a little girl in a blue sailor suit, and two nice fat braids of yellow hair dangling down her back with red bows on the ends—very convenient for pulling.’

‘You are making that up. You don’t remember.’

‘Ah, but I do! And as for the racket you were making that afternoon, it was, if you will permit the expression, infernal. I remember it distinctly; I was trying to cram for a math. exam.’

‘It wasn’t I. It was your bad little sisters and brothers and cousins.’

‘It was you, dear Constance. I saw you with my own eyes; I heard you with my own ears.’

‘Bobbie Hilliard was pulling my hair.’

‘Have you seen Nannie?’ She offered this hastily, not to allow a pause.

‘Yes, dear Constance, I have seen Nannie.’

‘Call me “Miss Wilder,” please.’

‘I’ll be hanged if I will! You’ve been calling me Tony and Jerry and anything else you chose ever since you knew me—and long before for the matter of that.’

Constance waived the point.

‘Was she glad to see you?’

‘She’s always glad to see me.’

‘Oh, don’t be so provoking! Give me the particulars. Was she surprised? How did you explain the telegrams and letters and Gustavo’s stories? I should think the Hotel Sole d’Oro at Riva and the walking trip with the Englishman must have been difficult.’

‘Not in the least; I told the truth.’

‘The truth! Not all of it?’

‘Every word.’

‘How could you?’ There was reproach in her accent.

‘It did come hard; I’m a little out of practice.’

‘Did you tell her about—about me?’

‘How?’

‘She said she was engaged. I told her I was too.’

‘Indeed!’ Constance’s tone was remote. ‘To whom?’

‘The most charming girl in the world.’

‘May I ask her name?’

He laid his hand on his heart in a gesture reminiscent of Tony. ‘Costantina.’

‘Oh! I congratulate you.’

‘Thank you—I hoped you would.’

She looked away gravely toward the Maggiore rising from the midst of its clouds. His gaze followed hers, and for three minutes there was silence. Then he leaned toward her.

‘Constance, will you marry me?’

‘No!’

‘Dear Constance, haven’t you had enough of play, are you never going to grow up? You are such a kid!’

She turned back to the mountain.

‘I haven’t known you long enough,’ she threw over her shoulder.

‘Six years!’

‘One week and two days.’

‘Through three incarnations.’

She laughed a delicious rippling laugh of surrender, and slipped her hand into his.

‘You don’t deserve it, Jerry, after the fib you told your sister, but I think—on the whole—I will.’

Neither noticed that Mr. Wilder had stepped out from the house and was strolling down the cypress alley in their direction. He rounded the corner in front of the parapet, and as his eye fell upon them, came to a startled halt. The young man failed to let go of her hand, and Constance glanced at her father with an apprehensive blush.

‘Here’s—Tony, Dad. He’s out of jail.’

‘I see he is.’

She slipped down from the wall and brought Jerry with her.

The young man held out his hand and Mr. Wilder shook it.

‘Jerry,’ he said, ‘I don’t need to tell you how pleased——’

‘“Jerry!”’ echoed Constance. ‘Father, you knew?’

‘Long before you did, my dear.’ There was a suggestion of triumph in Mr. Wilder’s tone.

‘Jerry, you told.’ There was reproach, scorn, indignation in hers.

Jerry spread out his hands in a gesture of repudiation.

‘What could I do? He asked my name the day we climbed Monte Maggiore; naturally, I couldn’t tell him a lie.’

‘Then we haven’t fooled anybody. How unromantic!’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Jerry, ‘we’ve fooled lots of people. Gustavo doesn’t understand, and Giuseppe, you noticed, looked rather dazed. Then there’s Lieutenant Carlo di Ferara——’

‘Oh!’ said Constance, her face suddenly blank.

‘You can explain to him now,’ said her father, peering through the trees.

‘I thought Constance and her father were here—Giuseppe!’

Giuseppe dropped his end of a trunk and approached. Miss Hazel handed him the lieutenant’s card. ‘The signorina and the signore—in the garden, I think.’