CHAPTER V
After some delay—owing to Tony’s inability to balance the chafing-dish on Cristoforo Colombo’s back—they filed from the gateway, an imposing cavalcade. The ladies were on foot, loftily oblivious to the fact that three empty saddles awaited their pleasure. Constance, a gesticulating officer at either hand, was vivaciously talking Italian, while Tony, trudging behind, listened with a sombre light in his eye. She now and then cast a casual glance over her shoulder, and as she caught sight of his gloomy face the animation of her Italian redoubled. The situation held for her mischief-loving soul undreamed-of possibilities; and though she ostensibly occupied herself with the officers, she by no means neglected the donkey-man.
During the first few miles of the journey he earned his four francs. Twice he reshifted the pack because Constance thought it insecure (it was a disgracefully unprofessional pack; most guides would have blushed at the making of it); once he retraced their path some two hundred yards in search of a veil she thought she had dropped—it turned out that she had had it in her pocket all of the time. He chased Fidilini over half the mountainside while the others were resting, and he carried the chafing-dish for a couple of miles because it refused to adjust itself nicely to the pack. The morning ended by his being left behind with a balking donkey, while the others completed the last ascent that led to their halting-place for lunch.
It was a small plateau shaded by oak trees with a broad view below them, and a mountain stream foaming down from the rocks above. It was owing to Beppo’s knowledge of the mountain paths rather than Tony’s which had guided them to this agreeable spot; though no one in the party except Constance appeared to have noted the fact. Tony arrived some ten minutes after the others, hot but victorious, driving Cristoforo Colombo before him. Constance welcomed his return with an off-hand nod and set him about preparing lunch. He and Beppo served it and repacked the hampers, entirely ignored by the others of the party. Poor Tony was beginning to realize that a donkey-man lives on a desert island in so far as any companionship goes. But his moment was coming. As they were about to start on, Constance spied high above their heads, where the stream burst from the rocks, a clump of starry white blossoms.
‘Edelweiss!’ she cried. ‘Oh, I must have it—it’s the first I ever saw growing; I hadn’t supposed we were high enough.’ She glanced at the officers.
The ascent was not dangerous, but it was undeniably muddy, and they both wore white; with very good cause they hesitated. And while they hesitated, the opportunity was lost. Tony sprang forward, scrambled up the precipice hand over hand, swung out across the stream by the aid of an overhanging branch, and secured the flowers. It was very gracefully and easily done, and a burst of applause greeted his descent. He divided his flowers into two equal parts, and sweeping off his hat, presented them with a bow, not to Constance, but to the officers, who somewhat sulkily passed them on. She received them with a smile; for an instant her eyes met Tony’s, and he fell back, rewarded.
The captain and lieutenant for the first time regarded the donkey-man, and they regarded him narrowly, red sash, earrings, stiletto and all. Constance caught the look and laughed.
‘Isn’t he picturesque?’ she inquired in Italian. ‘The head-waiter at the Hotel du Lac found him for me. He has been in the United States and speaks English, which is a great convenience.’
The two said nothing, but they looked at each other and shrugged.
The donkeys were requisitioned for the rest of the journey; while Tony led Miss Hazel’s mount, he could watch Constance ahead on Fidilini, an officer marching at each side of her saddle. She appeared to divide her favours with nice discrimination; it was not her fault if the two were jealous of one another. Tony could draw from that obvious fact what consolation there was in it.
The ruined fortress, their destination, was now exactly above their heads. The last ascent boldly skirted the shoulder of the mountain, and then doubled upward in a series of serpentine coils. Below them the whole of Lake Garda was spread like a map. Mr. Wilder and the Englishman, having paused at the edge of the declivity, were endeavouring to trace the boundary line of Austria, and they called upon the officers for help. The two relinquished their post at Constance’s side, while the donkeys kept on past them up the hill. The winding path was both stony and steep, and, from a donkey’s standpoint, thoroughly objectionable. Fidilini was well in the lead, trotting sedately, when suddenly, without the slightest warning, he chose to revolt. Whether Constance pulled the wrong rein, or whether, as she affirmed, it was merely his natural badness, in any case, he suddenly veered from the path and took a cross cut down the rocky slope below them. Donkeys are fortunately sure-footed beasts; otherwise the two would have plunged together down the sheer face of the mountain. As it was it looked ghastly enough to the four men below; they shouted to Constance to stick on, and commenced scrambling up the slope with absolutely no hope of reaching her.
It was Tony’s chance a second time to show his agility—and this time to some purpose. He was a dozen yards behind and much lower down, which gave him a start. Leaping forward, he dropped over the precipice, a fall of ten feet, to a narrow ledge below. Running toward them at an angle, he succeeded in cutting off their flight. Before the frightened donkey could swerve, Tony had seized him—by the tail—and had braced himself against a boulder. It was not a dignified rescue, but at least it was effective; Fidilini came to a halt. Constance, not expecting the sudden jolt, toppled over sidewise, and Tony, being equally unprepared to receive her, the two went down together rolling over and over on the grassy slope.
‘My dear, are you hurt?’
Mr. Wilder, quite pale with anxiety, came scrambling to her side. Constance sat up and laughed hysterically, while she examined a bleeding elbow.
‘N—no, not dangerously—but I think perhaps Tony is.’
Tony however was at least able to run, as he was again on his feet and after the donkey. Captain Coroloni and her father helped Constance to her feet while Lieutenant di Ferara recovered a side-comb and the white sun hat. They all climbed down together to the path below, none the worse for the averted tragedy. Tony rejoined them somewhat short of breath, but leading a humbled Fidilini. Constance, beyond a brief glance, said nothing; but her father, to the poor man’s intense embarrassment, shook him warmly by the hand with the repeated assurance that his bravery should not go unrewarded.
They completed their journey on foot; Tony following behind, quite conscious that, if he had played the part of hero, he had done it with a lamentable lack of grace.
CHAPTER VI
Tony was stretched on the parapet that bordered the stone-paved platform of the fortress. Above him the crumbling tower rose many feet higher, below him a marvellous view stretched invitingly; but Tony had eyes neither for mediæval architecture nor picturesque scenery. He lay with his coat doubled under his head for a pillow, in a frowning contemplation of the cracked stone pavement.
The four other men, after an hour or so of easy lounging under the pines at the base of the tower, had organized a fresh expedition to the summit a mile farther up. Mr. Wilder, since morning, had developed into an enthusiastic mountain-climber—regret might come with the morrow, but as yet ambition still burned high. The remainder of the party were less energetic. The three ladies were resting on rugs spread under the pines; Beppo was sleeping in the sun, his hat over his face, and the donkeys, securely tethered (Tony had attended to that), were innocently nibbling mountain herbs. There was no obvious reason why, as he lighted a cigarette and stretched himself on the parapet, Tony should not have been the most self-satisfied guide in the world. He had not only completed the expedition in safety, but had saved the heroine’s life by the way; and even if the heroine did not appear as thankful as she might, still, her father had shown due gratitude, and, what was to the point, had promised a reward. That should have been enough for any reasonable donkey driver.
But it was distinctly not enough for Tony. He was in a fine temper as he lay on the parapet and scowled at the pavement. Nothing was turning out as he had planned. He had not counted on the officers or her predilection for Italian. He had not counted on chasing donkeys in person while she stood and looked on—Beppo was to have attended to that. He had not counted on anything quite so absurd as his heroic capture of Fidilini. Since she must let the donkey run away with her, why, in the name of all that was romantic, could it not have occurred by moonlight? Why, when he caught the beast, could it not have been by the bridle instead of the tail? And above all, why could she not have fallen into his arms, instead of on top of him?
The stage scenery was set for romance, but from the moment the curtain rose the play had persisted in being farce. However, farce or romance, it was all one to him so long as he could play leading-man; what he objected to was the minor part. The fact was clear that sash and earrings could never compete with uniform and sword and the Italian language. His mind was made up; he would withdraw to-night before he was found out, and leave Valedolmo to-morrow morning by the early boat. Miss Constance Wilder should never have the satisfaction of knowing the truth.
He was engaged in framing a dignified speech to Mr. Wilder—thanking him for his generosity, but declining to accept a reward for what had been merely a matter of duty—when his reflections were cut short by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. They were by no means noiseless footsteps; there were good strong nails all over the bottom of Constance’s shoes. The next moment she appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were centred on the view; she looked entirely over Tony. It was not until he rose to his feet that she realized his presence with a start.
‘Dear me, is that you, Tony? You frightened me! Don’t get up; I know you must be tired.’ This with a sweetly solicitous smile.
Tony smiled too and resumed his seat; it was the first time since morning that she had condescended to consider his feelings. She sauntered over to the opposite side and stood with her back to him examining the view. Tony turned his back and affected to be engaged with the view in the other direction; he too could play at indifference.
Constance finished with her view first, and crossing over, she seated herself in the deep embrasure of a window close beside Tony’s parapet. He rose again at her approach, but there was no eagerness in the motion; it was merely the necessary deference of a donkey-driver toward his employer.
‘Oh, sit down,’ she insisted, ‘I want to talk to you.’
He opened his eyes with a show of surprise; his hurt feelings insisted that all the advances should be on her part. Constance seemed in no hurry to begin; she removed her hat, pushed back her hair, and sat playing with the bunch of edelweiss which was stuck in among the roses—flattening the petals, rearranging the flowers with careful fingers; a touch, it seemed to Tony’s suddenly clamouring senses, that was almost a caress. Then she looked up quickly and caught his gaze. She leaned forward with a laugh.
‘Tony,’ she said, ‘do you spik any language besides Angleesh?’
He triumphantly concealed all sign of emotion.
‘Si, signorina, I spik my own language.’
‘Would you mind my asking what that language is?’
He indulged in a moment’s deliberation. Italian was clearly out of the question, and French she doubtless knew better than he—he deplored this polyglot education girls were receiving nowadays.
He had it! He would be Hungarian. His sole fellow guest in the hotel at Verona the week before had been a Hungarian nobleman, who had informed him that the Magyar language was one of the most difficult on the face of the globe. There was at least little likelihood that she was acquainted with that.
‘My own language, signorina, is Magyar.’
‘Magyar?’ She was clearly taken by surprise.
‘Si, signorina, I am Hungarian; I was born in Budapest.’ He met her wide-opened eyes with a look of innocent candour.
‘Really!’ She beamed upon him delightedly; he was playing up even better than she had hoped. ‘But if you are Hungarian, what are you doing here in Italy, and how does it happen that your name is Antonio?’
‘My movver was Italian. She name me Antonio after ze blessed Saint Anthony of Padua. If you lose anysing, signorina, and you say a prayer to Saint Anthony every day for nine days, on ze morning of ze tenth you will find it again.’
‘That is very interesting,’ she said politely. ‘How do you come to know English so well, Tony?’
‘We go live in Amerik’ when I li’l boy.’
‘And you never learned Italian? I should think your mother would have taught it to you.’
He imitated Beppo’s gestures.
‘A word here, a word there. We spik Magyar at home.’
‘Talk a little Magyar, Tony. I should like to hear it.’
‘What shall I say, signorina?’
‘Oh, say anything you please.’
He affected to hesitate while he rehearsed the scraps of language at his command. Latin—French—German—none of them any good—but, thank goodness, he had elected Anglo-Saxon in college; and thank goodness again the professor had made them learn passages by heart. He glanced up with an air of flattered diffidence and rendered, in a conversational inflection, an excerpt from the Anglo-Saxon Bible.
‘Ealle gesceafta, heofonas and englas, sunnan and monan, steorran and eorthan, hè gesceop and geworhte on six dagum.’
‘It is a very beautiful language. Say some more.’
He replied with glib promptness, with a passage from Beowulf—
‘Hie dygel lond warigeath, wulfhleothu, windige naessas.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I don’t believe you know!’
‘It means—scusi, signorina, I no like to say.’
‘You don’t know.’
‘It means—you make me say, signorina,—“I sink you ver’ beautiful like ze angels in Paradise.”’
‘Indeed! A donkey-driver, Tony, should not say anything like that.’
‘But it is true.’
‘The more reason you should not say it.’
‘You asked me, signorina; I could not tell you a lie.’
The signorina smiled slightly and looked away at the view; Tony seized the opportunity to look sidewise at her. She turned back and caught him; he dropped his eyes humbly to the floor.
‘Does Beppo speak Magyar?’ she inquired.
‘Beppo?’ There was wonder in his tone at the turn her questions were taking. ‘I sink not, signorina.’
‘That must be very inconvenient. Why don’t you teach it to him?’
‘Si, signorina.’ He was plainly nonplussed.
‘Yes, he says that you are his father, and I should think——’
‘His father?’ Tony appeared momentarily startled; then he laughed. ‘He did not mean his real father; he mean—how you say—his godfather. I give to him his name when he get christened.’
‘Oh, I see!’
Her next question was also a surprise.
‘Tony,’ she inquired with startling suddenness, ‘why do you wear earrings?’
He reddened slightly.
‘Because—because—der’s a girl I like ver’ much, signorina; she sink earrings look nice. I wear zem for her.’
‘Oh!—But why do you fasten them on with thread?’
‘Because I no wear zem always. In Italia, yes; in Amerik’, no. When I marry dis girl and go back home, zen I do as I please, now I haf to do as she please.’
‘H’m——’ said Constance, ruminatingly. ‘Where does this girl live, Tony?’
‘In Valedolmo, signorina.’
‘What does she look like?’
‘She look like——’ His eyes searched the landscape and came back to her face. ‘Oh, ver’ beautiful, signorina. She have hair brown and gold, and eyes—yes, eyes! Zay are sometimes black, signorina, and sometimes grey. Her laugh, it sounds like the song of a nightingale.’ He clasped his hands and rolled his eyes in a fine imitation of Gustavo. ‘She is beautiful, signorina, beautiful as ze angels in Paradise!’
‘There seem to be a good many people beautiful as the angels in Paradise.’
‘She is most beautiful of all.’
‘What is her name?’
‘Costantina.’ He said it softly, his eyes on her face.
‘Ah,’ Constance rose and turned away with a shrug. Her manner suggested that he had gone too far.
‘She wash clothes at ze Hotel du Lac,’ he called after her.
Constance paused and glanced over her shoulder with a laugh.
‘Tony,’ she said, ‘the quality which I admire most in a donkey-driver, besides truthfulness and picturesqueness, is imagination.’
CHAPTER VII
On the homeward journey Tony again trudged behind while the officers held their post at Constance’s side. But Tony’s spirits were still singing from the little encounter on the castle platform, and in spite of the animated Italian which floated back, he was determined to look at the sunny side of the adventure. It was Mr. Wilder who unconsciously supplied him with a second opportunity for conversation. He and the Englishman, being deep in a discussion involving statistics of the Italian army budget, called on the two officers to set them straight. Tony, at their order, took his place beside the saddle; Constance was not to be abandoned again to Fidilini’s caprice. Miss Hazel and the Englishwoman were ambling on ahead in as matter-of-fact a fashion as if that were their usual mode of travel. Their donkeys were of a sedater turn of mind than Fidilini—a fact for which Tony offered thanks.
They were by this time well over the worst part of the mountain, and the brief Italian twilight was already fading. Tony, with a sharp eye on the path ahead and a ready hand for the bridle, was attending strictly to the duties of a well-trained donkey-man. It was Constance again who opened the conversation.
‘Ah, Tony?’
‘Si, signorina?’
‘Did you ever read any Angleesh books—or do you do most of your reading in Magyar?’
‘I haf read one, two, Angleesh books.’
‘Did you ever read—er—The Lightning Conductor, for example?’
‘No, signorina; I haf never read heem.’
‘I think it would interest you. It’s about a man who pretends he’s a chauffeur in order to—to—— There are any number of books with the same motive; She Stoops to Conquer, Two Gentlemen of Verona, Lalla Rookh, Monsieur Beaucaire—Oh, dozens of them! It’s an old plot; it doesn’t require the slightest originality to think of it.’
‘Si, signorina? Sank you.’ Tony’s tone was exactly like Gustavo’s when he has failed to get the point, but feels that a comment is necessary.
Constance laughed and allowed a silence to follow, while Tony redirected his attention to Fidilini’s movements. His ‘Yip! Yip!’ was an exact imitation, though in a deeper guttural, of Beppo’s cries before them. It would have taken a close observer to suspect that he had not been bred to the calling.
‘You have not always been a donkey-driver?’ she inquired after an interval of amused scrutiny.
‘Not always, signorina.’
‘What did you do in New York?’
‘I play hand-organ, signorina.’
Tony removed his hand from the bridle and ground ‘Yankee Doodle’ from an imaginary instrument.
‘I make musica, signorina, wif—wif—how do you say, monk, monka? His name Vittorio Emanuele. Ver’ nice monk—simpatica affezionata.’
‘You’ve never been an actor?’
‘An actor? No, signorina.’
‘You should try it; I fancy you might have some talent in that direction.’
‘Si, signorina. Sank you.’
She let the conversation drop, and Tony, after an interval of silence, fell to humming Santa Lucia in a very presentable baritone. The tune, Constance noted, was true enough, but the words were far astray.
‘That’s a very pretty song, Tony, but you don’t appear to know it.’
‘I no understand Italian, signorina. I just learn ze tune because Costantina like it.’
‘You do everything that Costantina wishes?’
‘Everysing! But if you could see her you would not wonder. She has hair brown and gold, and her eyes, signorina, are sometimes grey and sometimes black, and her laugh sounds like——’
‘Oh, yes, I know; you told me all that before.’
‘When she goes out to work in ze morning, signorina, wif the sunlight shining on her hair, and a smile on her lips, and a basket of clothes on her head—— Ah, zen she is beautiful!’
‘When are you going to be married?’
‘I do not know, signorina. I have not asked her yet.’
‘Then how do you know she wishes to marry you?’
‘I do not know; I just hope.’
He rolled his eyes toward the moon which was rising above the mountains on the other side of the lake, and with a deep sigh he fell back into Santa Lucia.
Constance leaned forward and scanned his face.
‘Tony! Tell me your name.’ There was an undertone of meaning, a note of persuasion in her voice.
‘Antonio, signorina.’
She shook her head with a show of impatience.
‘Your real name—your last name.’
‘Yamhankeesh.’
‘Oh!’ she laughed. ‘Antonio Yamhankeesh doesn’t seem to me a very musical combination; I don’t think I ever heard anything like it before.’
‘It suits me, signorina.’ His tone carried a suggestion of wounded dignity. ‘Yamhankeesh has a ver’ beautiful meaning in my language—“He who dares not, wins not.”’
‘And that is your motto?’
‘Si, signorina.’
‘A very dangerous motto, Tony; it will some day get you into trouble.’
They had reached the base of the mountain, and their path now broadened into the semblance of a road which wound through the fields, between fragrant hedgerows, under towering chestnut trees. All about them was the fragrance of the dewy, flower-scented summer night, the flash of fireflies, the chirp of crickets, occasionally the note of a nightingale. Before them out of a cluster of cypresses, rose the square graceful outline of the village campanile.
Constance looked about with a pleased, contented sigh.
‘Isn’t Italy beautiful, Tony?’
‘Yes, signorina, but I like America better.’
‘We have no cypresses and ruins and nightingales in America, Tony. We have a moon sometimes, but not that moon.’
They passed from the moonlight into the shade of some overhanging chestnut trees. Fidilini stumbled suddenly over a break in the path and Tony pulled him up sharply. His hand on the bridle rested for an instant over hers.
‘Italy is beautiful—to make love in,’ he whispered.
She drew her hand away abruptly, and they passed out into the moonlight again. Ahead of them where the road branched into the highway, the others were waiting for Constance to catch up, the two officers looking back with an eager air of expectation. Tony glanced ahead and added with a quick frown—
‘But perhaps I do not need to tell you that—you may know it already?’
‘You are impertinent, Tony.’
She pulled the donkey into a trot that left him behind.
The highway was broad and they proceeded in a group, the conversation general and in English, Tony quite naturally having no part in it. But at the corners where the road to the village and the road to the villa separated, Fidilini obligingly turned stubborn again. His mind bent upon rest and supper, he insisted upon going to the village; the harder Constance pulled on the left rein, the more fixed was his determination to turn to the right.
‘Help! I’m being run away with again,’ she called over her shoulder as the donkey’s pace quickened into a trot.
Tony, awakening to his duty, started in pursuit, while the others laughingly shouted directions. He did not run as determinedly as he might, and they had covered considerable ground before he overtook them. He turned Fidilini’s head and they started back—at a walk.
‘Signorina,’ said Tony, ‘may I ask a question, a little impertinent?’
‘No, certainly not.’
Silence.
‘Ah, Tony?’ she asked presently.
‘Si, signorina?’
‘What is it you want to ask?’
‘Are you going to marry that Italian lieutenant—or perhaps the captain?’
‘That is impertinent.’
‘Are you?’
‘You forget yourself, Tony. It is not your place to ask such a question.’
‘Si, signorina; it is my place. If it is true I cannot be your donkey-man any longer.’
‘No, it is not true, but that is no concern of yours.’
‘Are you going on another trip Friday—to Monte Maggiore?’
‘Yes.’
‘May I come with you?’
His tone implied more than his words. She hesitated a moment, then shrugged indifferently.
‘Just as you please, Tony. If you don’t wish to work for us any more I dare say we can find another man.’
‘It is as you please, signorina. If you wish it, I come, if you do not wish it, I go.’
She made no answer. They joined the others and the party proceeded to the villa gates.
Lieutenant di Ferara helped Constance dismount, while Captain Coroloni, with none too good a grace, held the donkey. A careful observer would have fancied that the lieutenant was ahead, and that both he and the captain knew it. Tony untied the bundles, dumped them on the kitchen floor, and waited respectfully, hat in hand, while Mr. Wilder searched his pockets for change. He counted out four lire and added a note. Tony pocketed the lire and returned the note, while Mr. Wilder stared his astonishment.
‘Good-bye, Tony,’ Constance smiled as he turned away.
‘Good-bye, signorina.’ There was a note of finality in his voice.
‘Well!’ Mr. Wilder ejaculated. ‘That is the first——’ ‘Italian’ he started to say, but he caught the word before it was out—‘donkey-driver I ever saw refuse money.’
Lieutenant di Ferara raised his shoulders.
‘Machè! The fellow is too honest; you do well to watch him.’ There was a world of disgust in his tone.
Constance glanced after the retreating figure and laughed.
‘Tony!’ she called.
He kept on; she raised her voice.
‘Mr. Yamhankeesh.’
He paused.
‘You call, signorina?’
‘Be sure and be here by half-past six on Friday morning; we must start early.’
‘Sank you, signorina. Good night.’
‘Good night, Tony.’
CHAPTER VIII
The Hotel du Lac may be approached in two ways. The ordinary, obvious way, which incoming tourists of necessity choose, is by the high road and the gate. But the romantic way is by water. One sees only the garden then, and the garden is the distinguished feature of the place; it was planned long before the hotel was built to adorn a marquis’s pleasure house. There are grottos, arbours, fountains, a winding stream, and, stretching the length of the water front, a deep cool grove of interlaced plane trees. At the end of the grove, half a dozen broad stone steps dip down to a tiny harbour which is carpeted on the surface with lily pads. The steps are worn by the lapping waves of fifty years, and are grown over with slippery, slimy water weeds.
The world was just stirring from its afternoon siesta, when the Farfalla dropped her yellow sails and floated into the shady little harbour. Giuseppe prodded and pushed along the fern-grown banks until the keel jolted against the water-steps. He sprang ashore and steadied the boat while Constance alighted. She slipped on the mossy step—almost went under—and righted herself with a laugh that rang gaily through the grove.
She came up the steps still smiling, shook out her fluffy pink skirts, straightened her rose-trimmed hat, and glanced reconnoitringly about the grove. One might reasonably expect, attacking the hotel as it were from the flank, to capture unawares any stray guest. But aside from a chaffinch or so and a brown and white spotted calf tied to a tree, the grove was empty—blatantly empty. There was a shade of disappointment in Constance’s glance. One naturally does not like to waste one’s best embroidered gown on a spotted calf.
Then her eye suddenly brightened as it lighted on a vivid splash of yellow under a tree. She crossed over and picked it up—a paper-covered French novel; the title was Bijou, the author was Gyp. She turned to the first page. Any reasonably careful person might be expected to write his name in the front of a book—particularly a French book—before abandoning it to the mercies of a foreign hotel. But the several fly-leaves were immaculately innocent of all sign of ownership.
So intent was she upon this examination, that she did not hear footsteps approaching down the long arbour that led from the house; so intent was the young man upon a frowning scrutiny of the path before him, that he did not see Constance until he had passed from the arbour into the grove. Then simultaneously they raised their heads and looked at each other. For a startled second they stared—rather guiltily—both with the air of having been caught. Constance recovered her poise first; she nodded—a nod which contained not the slightest hint of recognition—and laughed.
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘I suppose this is your book? And I am afraid you have caught me red-handed. You must excuse me for looking at it, but usually at this season only German Alpine climbers stop at the Hotel du Lac, and I was surprised, you know, to find that German Alpine climbers did anything so frivolous as reading Gyp.’
The man bowed with a gesture which made her free of the book, but he continued his silence. Constance glanced at him again, and this time she allowed a flash of recognition to appear in her face.
‘Oh!’ she re-exclaimed with a note of interested politeness, ‘you are the young man who stumbled into Villa Rosa last Monday looking for the garden of the prince?’
He bowed a second time, an answering flash appearing in his face.
‘And you are the young woman who was sitting on the wall beside a row of—of——’
‘Stockings?’ She nodded. ‘I trust you found the prince’s garden without difficulty?’
‘Yes, thank you. Your directions were very explicit.’
A slight pause followed, the young man waiting deferentially for her to take the lead.
‘You find Valedolmo interesting?’ she inquired.
‘Interesting!’ His tone was enthusiastic. ‘Aside from the prince’s garden, which contains a cedar of Lebanon and an india-rubber plant from South America, there is the Luini in the chapel of San Bartolomeo, and the statue of Garibaldi in the piazza. And then——’ he waved his hand toward the lake, ‘there is always the view.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘one can always look at the view.’
Her eyes wandered to the lake, and across the lake to Monte Maggiore with clouds drifting about its peak. And while she obligingly studied the mountain, he studied the effect of the pink gown and the rose-bud hat. She turned back suddenly and caught him; it was a disconcerting habit of Constance’s. He politely looked away, and she—with frank interest—studied him. He was bareheaded and dressed in white flannels; they were very becoming, she noted critically, and yet—they needed just a touch of colour; a red sash, for example, and earrings.
‘The guests of the Hotel du Lac,’ she remarked, ‘have a beautiful garden of their own. Just the mere pleasure of strolling about in it ought to keep them contented with Valedolmo.’
‘Not necessarily,’ he objected. ‘Think of the Garden of Eden—the most beautiful garden there has ever been, if report speaks true—and yet the mere pleasure of strolling about didn’t keep Adam contented. One gets lonely, you know.’
‘Are you the only guest?’
‘Oh, no, there are four of us, but we’re not very companionable; there’s such a discrepancy in languages.’
‘And you don’t speak Italian?’
He shook his head.
‘Only English and’—he glanced at the book in her hand—‘French indifferently well.’
‘I saw some one the other day who spoke Magyar—that is a beautiful language.’
‘Yes?’ he returned with polite indifference. ‘I don’t remember ever to have heard it.’
She laughed and glanced about. Her eyes lighted on the arbour hung with grape-vines and wistaria, where, far at the other end, Gustavo’s figure was visible lounging in the yellow stucco doorway. The sight appeared to recall an errand to her mind. She glanced down at a pink wicker-basket which hung on her arm, and gathered up her skirts with a movement of departure.
The young man hastily picked up the conversation.
‘It is a jolly old garden,’ he affirmed. ‘And there’s something pathetic about its appearing on souvenir post cards as a mere adjunct to a blue and yellow hotel.’
She nodded sympathetically.
‘Built for romance and abandoned to tourists—German tourists at that!’
‘Oh, not entirely—we’ve a Russian countess just now.’
‘A Russian countess?’ Constance turned toward him with an air of reawakened interest. ‘Is she as young and beautiful and fascinating and wicked as they always are in novels?’
‘Oh, dear no! Seventy, if she’s a day. A nice grandmotherly old soul who smokes cigarettes.’
‘Ah!’ Constance smiled; there was even a trace of relief in her manner as she nodded to the young man and turned away. His face reflected his disappointment; he plainly wished to detain her, but could think of no expedient. The spotted calf came to his rescue. The calf had been watching them from the first, very much interested in the visitor; and now, as she approached his tree, he stretched out his neck as far as the tether permitted and sniffed insistently. She paused and patted him on the head. The calf acknowledged the caress with a grateful moo; there was a plaintive light in his liquid eyes.
‘Poor thing—he’s lonely!’ She turned to the young man and spoke with an accent of reproach. ‘The four guests of the Hotel du Lac don’t show him enough attention.’
The young man shrugged.
‘We’re tired of calves. It’s only a matter of a day or so before he’ll be breaded and fried and served Milanese fashion with a sauce of tomato and garlic.’
Constance shook her head sympathetically; though whether her sympathy was for the calf or the partakers of table d’hôte was not quite clear.
‘I know,’ she agreed. ‘I’ve been a guest at the Hotel du Lac myself—it’s a tragedy to be born a calf in Italy!’
She nodded and turned; it was evident this time that she was really going. He took a hasty step forward.
‘Oh, I say, please don’t go! Stay and talk to me—just a little while. That calf isn’t half so lonely as I am.’
‘I should like to, but really I mustn’t. Elizabetta is waiting for me to bring her some eggs. We are planning a trip up the Maggiore to-morrow, and we have to have a cake to take with us. Elizabetta made one this morning, but she forgot to put in the baking powder. Italian cooks are not used to making cakes; they are much better at’—her eyes fell on the calf—‘veal and such things.’
He folded his arms with an air of desperation.
‘I’m an American—one of your own countrymen; if you had a grain of charity in your nature you would let the cake go.’
She shook her head relentlessly.
‘Five days at Valedolmo! You would not believe the straits I’ve been driven to in search of amusement.’
‘Yes?’ There was a touch of curiosity in her tone. ‘What for example?’
‘I am teaching Gustavo how to play tennis.’
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘How does he do?’
‘Broken three windows and a flower-pot and lost four balls.’
She laughed and turned away; and then as an idea occurred to her, she turned back and fixed her eyes sympathetically on his face.
‘I suppose Valedolmo is stupid for a man; but why don’t you try mountain-climbing? Everybody finds that diverting. There’s a guide here who speaks English—really comprehensible English. He’s engaged for to-morrow, but after that I dare say he’ll be free. Gustavo can tell you about him.’
She nodded and smiled and turned down the arbour.
The young man stood where she left him, with folded arms, watching her pink gown as it receded down the long sun-flecked alley hung with purple and green. He waited until it had been swallowed up in the yellow doorway; then he fetched a deep breath and strolled to the water-wall. After a few moments’ prophetic contemplation of the mountain across the lake, he threw back his head with a quick amused laugh, and got out a cigarette and lighted it.
CHAPTER IX
As Constance emerged at the other end of the arbour, Gustavo, who had been nodding on the bench beside the door, sprang to his feet, consternation in his attitude.
‘Signorina!’ he stammered. ‘You come from ze garden?’
She nodded in her usual off-hand manner and handed him the basket.
‘Eggs, Gustavo—two dozen if you can spare them. I am sorry always to be wanting so many, but’—she sighed—‘eggs are so breakable!’
Gustavo rolled his eyes to heaven in silent thanksgiving. She had not, it was evident, run across the American, and the cat was still safely in the bag; but how much longer it could be kept there the saints alone knew. He was feeling—very properly—guilty in regard to this latest escapade; but what can a defenceless waiter do in the hands of an impetuous young American whose pockets are stuffed with silver lire and five-franc notes?
‘Two dozen? Certainly, signorina. Subitissimo!’ He took the basket and hurried to the kitchen.
Constance occupied the interval with the polyglot parrot of the courtyard. The parrot, since she had last conversed with him, had acquired several new expressions in the English tongue. As Gustavo reappeared with the eggs, she confronted him sternly.
‘Have you been teaching this bird English? I am surprised!’
‘No, signorina. It was—it was——’ Gustavo mopped his brow. ‘He jus’ pick it up.’
‘I’m sorry that the Hotel du Lac has guests that use such language; it’s very shocking.’
‘Si, signorina.’
‘By the way, Gustavo, how does it happen that that young American man who left last week is still here?’
Gustavo nearly dropped the eggs.
‘I just saw him in the garden with a book—I am sure it was the same young man. What is he doing all this time in Valedolmo?’
Gustavo’s eyes roved wildly until they lighted on the tennis-court.
‘He—he stay, signorina, to play lawn-tennis wif me, but he go to-morrow.’
‘Oh, he is going to-morrow?—What’s his name, Gustavo?’
She put the question indifferently while she stooped to pet a tortoise-shell cat that was curled asleep on the bench.
‘His name?’ Gustavo’s face cleared. ‘I get ze raygeester; you read heem yourself.’
He darted into the bureau and returned with a black book.
‘Ecco, signorina!’ spreading it on the table before her.
His alacrity should have aroused her suspicions; but she was too intent on the matter in hand. She turned the pages and paused at the week’s entries; Rudolph Ziegelmann und Frau, Berlin; and just beneath, in bold black letters that stretched from margin to margin, Abraham Lincoln, U.S.A.
Gustavo hovered above, anxiously watching her face; he had been told that this would make everything right, that Abraham Lincoln was an exceedingly respectable name. Constance’s expression did not change. She looked at the writing for fully three minutes, then she opened her purse and looked inside. She laid the money for the eggs in a pile on the table, and took out an extra lira which she held in her hand.
‘Gustavo,’ she asked, ‘do you think that you could tell me the truth?’
‘Signorina!’ he said reproachfully.
‘How did that name get there?’
‘He write it heemself!’
‘Yes, I dare say he did—but it doesn’t happen to be his name. Oh, I’m not blind; I can see plainly enough that he has scratched out his own name underneath.’
Gustavo leaned forward and affected to examine the page. ‘It was a li’l’ blot, signorina; he scratch heem out.’
‘Gustavo!’ Her tone was despairing. ‘Are you incapable of telling the truth? That young man’s name is no more Abraham Lincoln than Victor Emmanuel II. When did he write that, and why?’
Gustavo’s eyes were on the lira; he broke down and told the truth.
‘Yesterday night, signorina. He say, “Ze next time zat Signorina Americana who is beautiful as ze angels come to zis hotel she look in ze raygeester, an’ I haf it feex ready.”’
‘Oh, he said that, did he?’
‘Si, signorina.’
‘And his real name that comes on his letters?’
‘Jayreem Ailyar, signorina.’
‘Say it again, Gustavo.’ She cocked her head.
He gathered himself together for a supreme effort. He rolled his r’s; he shouted until the courtyard reverberated.
‘Meestair-r Jay-r-reem Ailyar-r!’
Constance shook her head.
‘Sounds like Hungarian—at least the way you pronounce it. But anyway it’s of no consequence; I merely asked out of idle curiosity. And Gustavo’—she still held the lira—‘if he asks you if I looked in this register, what are you going to say?’
‘I say, “No, Meestair Ailyar, she stay all ze time in ze courtyard talking wif ze parrot, and she was ver’ moch shocked at his Angleesh.”’
‘Ah!’ Constance smiled and laid the lira on the table. ‘Gustavo,’ she said, ‘I hope, for the sake of your immortal soul, that you go often to confession.’
The eggs were not heavy, but Gustavo insisted upon carrying them; he was determined to see her safely aboard the Farfalla, with no further accidents possible. That she had not identified the young man of the garden with the donkey-driver of yesterday was clear—though how such blindness was possible, was not clear. Probably she had only caught a glimpse of his back at a distance; in any case he thanked a merciful Providence and decided to risk no further chance. As they neared the end of the arbour, Gustavo was talking—shouting fairly; their approach was heralded.
They turned into the grove. To Gustavo’s horror the most conspicuous object in it was this same reckless young man, seated on the water-wall nonchalantly smoking a cigarette. The young man rose and bowed; Constance nodded carelessly, while Gustavo behind her back made frantic signs for him to flee, to escape while still there was time. The young man telegraphed back by the same sign language that there was no danger; she didn’t suspect the truth. And to Gustavo’s amazement, he fell in beside them and strolled over to the water-steps. His recklessness was catching; Gustavo suddenly determined upon a bold stroke himself.
‘Signorina,’ he asked, ‘zat man I send, zat donk’-driver—you like heem?’
‘Tony?’ Her manner was indifferent. ‘Oh, he does well enough; he seems honest and truthful, though a little stupid.’
Gustavo and the young man exchanged glances.
‘And, Gustavo,’ she turned to him with a sweetly serious air that admitted no manner of doubt but that she was in earnest. ‘I told this young man that in case he cared to do any mountain climbing, you would find him the same guide. It would be very useful for him to have one who speaks English.’
Gustavo bowed in mute acquiescence. He could find no adequate words for the situation.
The boat drew alongside and Constance stepped in, but she did not sit down. Her attention was attracted by two washer-women who had come clattering on to the little rustic bridge that spanned the stream above the water-steps. The women, their baskets of linen on their heads, had paused to watch the embarkation.
‘Ah, Gustavo,’ Constance asked over her shoulder, ‘is there a washer-woman here at the Hotel du Lac named Costantina?’
‘Si, signorina, zat is Costantina standing on ze bridge wif ze yellow handkerchief on her head.’
Constance looked at Costantina, and nodded and smiled. Then she laughed out loud, a beautiful rippling, joyous laugh that rang through the grove and silenced the chaffinches.
Perhaps once upon a time Costantina was beautiful—beautiful as the angels—but if so, it was long, long ago. Now she was old and fat, with a hawk nose and a double chin and one tooth left in the middle of the front. But if she were not beautiful, she was at least a cheerful old soul, and, though she could not possibly know the reason, she echoed the signorina’s laugh until she nearly shook the clean clothes into the water.
Constance settled herself among the cushions and glanced back toward the terrace.
‘Good afternoon,’ she nodded politely to the young man.
He bowed with his hand on his heart.
‘Addio, Gustavo.’
He bowed until his napkin swept the ground.
‘Addio, Costantina,’ she waved her hand toward her namesake.
The washer-woman laughed again, and her earrings flashed in the sunlight.
Giuseppe raised the yellow sail; they caught the breeze, and the Farfalla floated away.
CHAPTER X
Half-past six on Friday morning, and Constance appeared on the terrace; Constance in fluffy, billowy, lacy white with a spray of oleander in her belt—the last costume in the world in which one would start on a mountain climb. She cast a glance in passing toward the gateway and the stretch of road visible beyond, but both were empty, and seating herself on the parapet, she turned her attention to the lake. The breeze that blew from the farther shore brought fresh Alpine odours of flowers and pine trees. Constance sniffed it eagerly as she gazed across toward the purple outline of Monte Maggiore. The serenity of her smile gradually gave place to doubt; she turned and glanced back toward the house, visibly changing her mind.
But before the change was finished, the quiet of the morning was broken by a clatter of tiny scrambling obstinate hoofs and a series of ejaculations, both Latin and English. She glanced toward the gate, where Fidilini was visible, plainly determined not to come in. Constance laughed expectantly and turned back to the water, her eyes intent on the fishing-smacks that were putting out from the little marino. The sounds of coercion increased; a command floated down the driveway in the English tongue. It sounded like: ‘You twist his tail, Beppo, while I pull.’
Apparently it was understood in spite of Beppo’s slight knowledge of the language. An eloquent silence followed; then an outraged grunt on the part of Fidilini, and the cavalcade advanced with a rush to the kitchen door. Tony left Beppo and the donkeys, and crossed the terrace alone. His bow swept the ground in the deferential manner of Gustavo, but his glance was far bolder than a donkey-driver’s should have been. She noted the fact and tossed him a nod of marked condescension. A silence followed, during which Constance studied the lake; when she turned back, she found Tony arranging a spray of oleander that had dropped from her belt in the band of his hat. She viewed this performance in silent disfavour. Having finished to his satisfaction, he tossed the hat aside and seated himself on the balustrade. Her frown became visible. Tony sprang to his feet with an air of anxiety.
‘Scusi, signorina. I have not meant to be presumptious. Perhaps it is not fitting that any one below the rank of lieutenant should sit in your presence?’
‘It will not be very long, Tony, before you are discharged for impertinence.’
‘Ah, signorina, do not say that! If it is your wish I will kneel when I address you. My family, signorina, are poor; they need the four francs which you so munificently pay.’
‘You told me that you were an orphan; that you had no family.’
‘I mean the family which I hope to have. Costantina has extravagant tastes, and coral earrings cost two-fifty a pair.’
Constance laughed and assumed a more lenient air. She made a slight gesture which might be interpreted as an invitation to sit down; and Tony accepted it.
‘By the way, Tony, how do you talk to Costantina, since she speaks no English and you no Italian?’
‘We have no need of either Italian or English; the language of love, signorina, is universal.’
‘Oh!’ she laughed again. ‘I was at the Hotel du Lac yesterday; I saw Costantina.’
‘You saw Costantina!—Ah, signorina, is she not beautiful? Ze mos’ beautiful in all ze world? But ver’ unkind, signorina. Yes, she laugh at me; she smile at ozzer men, at soldiers wif uniforms.’ He sighed profoundly. ‘But I love her just ze same, always from ze first moment I see her. It was wash-day, signorina, by ze lac. I climb over ze wall and talk wif her, but she make fun of me—ver’ unkind. I go away ver’ sad. No use, I say, she like dose soldiers best. But I see her again; I hear her laugh—it sound like angels singing—I say, no, I can not go away; I stay here and make her love me. Yes, I do everysing she ask—but everysing! I wear earrings; I make myself into a fool just to please zat Costantina.’
He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. A slow red flush crept over Constance’s face, and she turned her head away and looked across the water.
Mr. Wilder, in full Alpine regalia, stepped out upon the terrace and viewed the beauty of the morning with a prophetic eye. Miss Hazel followed in his wake; she wore a lavender dimity. And suddenly it occurred to Tony’s slow moving masculine perception that neither lavender dimity nor white muslin were fabrics fit for mountain climbing.
Constance slipped down from her parapet and hurried to meet them.
‘Good morning, Aunt Hazel. Morning, Dad! You look beautiful! There’s nothing so becoming to a man as knickerbockers—especially if he’s a little stout.—You’re late,’ she added with a touch of severity. ‘Breakfast has been waiting half an hour and Tony fifteen minutes.’
She turned back toward the donkey-man, who was standing, hat in hand, respectfully waiting orders. ‘Oh, Tony, I forgot to tell you; we shall not need Beppo and the donkeys to-day. You and my father are going alone.’
‘You no want to climb Monte Maggiore—ver’ beautiful mountain.’ There was disappointment, reproach, rebellion in his tone.
‘We have made inquiries and my aunt thinks it too long a trip. Without the donkeys you can cross by boat, and that cuts off three miles.’
‘As you please, signorina.’ He turned away.
Constance looked after him with a shade of remorse. When this plan of sending her father and Tony alone had occurred to her as she sailed homeward yesterday from the Hotel du Lac, it had seemed a humorous and fitting retribution. The young man had been just a trifle too sure of her interest; the episode of the hotel register must not go unpunished. But—it was a beautiful morning, a long empty day stretched before her, and Monte Maggiore looked alluring; there was no pursuit, for the moment, which she enjoyed as much as donkey-riding. Oh yes, she was spiting herself as well as Tony; but considering the circumstances the sacrifice seemed necessary.
When the Farfalla drifted up ready to take the mountain-climbers, Miss Hazel suggested (Constance possessed to a large degree the diplomatic faculty of making other people propose what she herself had decided on) that she and her niece cross with them. Tony was sulky, and Constance could not forgo the pleasure of baiting him further.
They put in at the village, on their way, for the morning mail; Mr. Wilder wished his paper, even at the risk of not beginning the ascent before the sun was high. Giuseppe brought back from the post, among other matters, a letter for Constance. The address was in a dashing, angular hand that pretty thoroughly covered the envelope. Had she not been so intent on the writing herself, she would have noted Tony’s astonished stare as he passed it to her.
‘Why!’ she exclaimed, ‘here’s a letter from Nannie Hilliard, postmarked Lucerne.’
‘Lucerne!’ Miss Hazel echoed her surprise. ‘I thought they were to be in England for the summer?’
‘They were—the last I heard.’ Constance ripped the letter open and read it aloud.