CHAPTER XXIV
TWO TROUBLESOME WEDDING GIFTS
Looking down upon Genoa through the blue reaches of the upper crests is an Apennine peak which the people, high and low, call Our Lady of the Windows. Ever mantled in snow, and a fit emblem of icy virtue, she has for ages inspired a negative chord for that region’s lyres of passion. The princeling in his hillside palazzo sings of his dream lady—always an angel as fervid as the glacial Madonna is cold; the red waterman, in his moonlight barcarole, swears his love would melt that frozen heart. But she bears no kinship to this chronicle save that Signor Di Bello, on the afternoon of the pregnant Feast of Sunday, when all was primed for the wedding, thus addressed his sister, who sat by a front casement:
“Ha! my Lady of the Windows, it is time to go and fetch my bride.”
Carolina gave back only a silent nod and a closer pressure of the lips, and he made off to the Santa Lucia, crowing to himself over the timely bite of his pleasantry. Hour after hour she had been at that window watching for Bertino, ready to spring to the door and drive him away should he appear too soon. She was determined that the play should not be spoiled by the untimely entrance of her star actor. His cue, as agreed upon, was the exit of Signor Di Bello, but the fear had haunted her that his itching vendetta might make him forget the book. That danger was past now, and before his uncle had gone a block, Bertino was at the door. She bundled him upstairs to her sanctum, and, turning the key, left him looking out blankly on the graveyard. “In a little while I shall call you,” she said, after explaining gravely that she locked him in that his uncle might be kept out. Then she descended to the street door and waved her hand, a signal that brought a push-cart out of a near-by alley, with Armando and the banker at its shafts. Of course, their load was the Last Lady, but no eye could see her face, for Bridget had given her best and only bed coverlet to veil it. No easy task to lug the weighty dame upstairs, but they managed it without mischance, while Carolina stood by imploring care, and all with an ado of deepest secrecy. At length the bust was set up in the back room of the second floor. In this room the bride and groom were to wait before going down to the parlour for the ceremony. A dressing case near the window answered for a pedestal. In the bright light that fell upon it the snowy features of Juno showed bold to the eye, while the mirror rendered back in softer tone her sturdy neck and shoulders. With a spotless sheet Carolina covered the bust, and with the others left the room and locked the door.
Repeated jangling of the bell and a low drone in the parlour told of arriving guests. Marianna had been cast for the part of door-opener and welcomer to the first families. Armando, in the best attire he could muster, had only a meditative rôle. Thus far he had done naught but sit in the parlour and exchange confident glances with Marianna whenever she ushered in a distinguished Calabriano, Siciliano, or Napolitano.
A cab bearing Signor Di Bello and Juno drew up betimes, and word was passed to Carolina. Instantly she unlocked the door that shut in Bertino, and bade him be ready for her summons. Then she called Marianna and Armando to the room where the bust was, leaving Angelica to let in the bridal pair. Up the staircase they rustled, Juno first, her skirts held free of the yellow boots, and Signor Di Bello smiling after her with a quivering bunch of muslin roses.
“They are here,” said the guests, craning their necks and whispering. “No fiasco this time.”
“This way, signorina,” piped Carolina, with a spidery smile, stepping aside and waving her fly into the web.
They entered the room prepared for them, and Signor Di Bello regarded in wonder the white shape on the dressing case. “Soul of a camel!” he cried. “What is that?”
“A little surprise that we have for the bride,” answered Carolina, advancing and raising the window shade. “A wedding present, in fact. Eccolo!”
She drew off the veil quickly, and the Last Lady stood revealed in the streaming sunlight.
“By the Egg of Columbus!”
Every eye turned from the marble Juno to the Juno of flesh and blood. She had let fall the counterfeit blossoms that the signore had just placed in her hand, but gave no other token of disquiet. A glow of admiration lit up her face as she gazed steadily at her double in stone.
“It is really beautiful,” she said calmly, moving nearer. “I knew I should look well in marble.”
She passed one hand behind the bust as though to judge it by the sense of touch, but before any one could hinder she lifted it to the window sill and sent it somersaulting into the rear court. The crash brought a score of heads to the lower windows, and the guests set up a cry that disaster had again visited the wedding of Signor Di Bello.
“Infame! infame!” chorused Carolina, Armando, and Marianna when they looked out and beheld the Last Lady in a dozen pieces on the flagstones, while the bridegroom merely laughed, for it seemed to him a capital joke.
Juno was quick to follow her prompt action with suitable words. “You dogs of Genovese!” she said, sweeping the company with her flashing eyes. “Do you like the bust now? Did you think I would stand still and be made a fool of, or that I would fall down and weep?” Then, turning to Carolina, “And you, Signorina Old Maid, you are a large piece of stupidity.”
“Ha! You do not like my present!” said Carolina, ready for the combat. “That is a grand pity. But, mark you, on her wedding day a married maid must be suited to her heart’s full desire. I will give you another present—yes, a present that every married maid must have. Do you guess? No? How strange!” She went into the hall and called, “Bertino!” Instantly he darted in and stood panting before his wife. “Here is the other present, my married maid—your husband!”
At the same moment there arose from the parlour a tumult of voices, and Angelica entered and said that the priest had arrived.
“Are you her husband?” groaned Signor Di Bello, his hope all gone.
“Yes,” Bertino answered, glaring at Juno. “She is my wife, the viper! She put me up to stabbing you, my uncle. She told me you annoyed her; that she did not want you. But she shall pay!” he cried, waving his hand above his head. “Do you hear, you Neapolitan thief? You shall pay. After that to inferno with you, and may you remain there as long as it takes a crab to go round the world! Figlia of a priest! Wolf of——”
“Stop!” broke in Signor Di Bello. Going up to Juno, he asked mournfully, “Is he your husband?”
She answered, tossing her head: “He says so. Let him prove it.”
Signor Di Bello grasped the other end of the straw. “Ah, yes; prove it,” he roared, while Carolina smiled snugly, for she had looked to it that the properties for this scene were not lacking.
“You want proof?” asked Bertino. “Well, it is here.” He drew a marriage certificate from his pocket.
Signor Di Bello seized the document and cast his eye over it. The disorder below had redoubled, and with the noisy demands for the bride and groom were mingled derisive shouts of “Long live the Genovese bachelor!” and “Another fiasco!”
“Soul of the moon! It is true!” breathed Di Bello, crunching the paper in style theatrical.
“Bah!” returned Juno, moving near to him and putting her hand on his arm. “You believe that?”
“Believe me, then, signori,” spoke up a strange voice, in grammatical but English-bred Italian. It was the priest from over the border of Mulberry, who had come upstairs to learn the reason of the delay and heard the last few lines of the dialogue—the priest whom Signor Di Bello had engaged because he would not meddle. Turning to Juno he continued: “I had the honour, signora, of marrying you to this man.”
“Padre!” exclaimed Bertino, who knew him at once for the clergyman he had sought out so hurriedly at the rectory in Second Avenue that day when, to outwit his uncle—black the hour!—he had taken Juno to wife.
“I know him not,” said Juno, turning to Signor Di Bello, who had dropped into a chair. But her game of bluff was lost. “Go!” the grocer said to her, pointing to the door.
She moved to the threshold, turned about, spat into the room, and said, “May you all die cross-eyed!”—a Neapolitan figure that means “Be hanged to you!” since the gallows bird squints when the noose tightens. Then she rustled downstairs, mindful of her purple skirts. Bertino would have been at her heels but for Carolina, who caught his arm.
“Wait,” she whispered. “This is not the time or place.”
“No matter!” he cried, shaking off her hold. “She shall pay, she shall pay!”
The sight of Juno’s yellow boots on the staircase served to quiet the troubled parlour for a brief moment, the people thinking that the bride and groom were coming at last. But she had seen the stiletto in her husband’s eye, and was out of the door, into the waiting coupé, and driving off at high speed before the first families had wholly grasped the scandalous fact. Next moment there was another flying exit, and Bertino went tearing after the carriage. This was the signal for unheard-of insults to Casa Di Bello. The men set up a sirocco of hisses, and the women shouted mock bravoes for the twice-brideless groom. During the uproar Alessandro the Macaroni Presser led a push-and-grab attack on a side table heaped with the kaleidoscopic dainties with which Mulberry loves to tickle its eye as well as its gullet.
“Dio tremendo!” whimpered Signor Di Bello, the tumult downstairs assailing his ears. “What a disgrace! what a disgrace!”
It was Carolina’s cue, and she snapped it up. In a few quick words she unmasked the marital climax her drama was meant to produce.
“Disgrace?” she said. “What need of disgrace, my brother? Are not the guests here, is the feast not waiting, also the priest, and the bride ready?”
“The bride?”
“Yes, and one that is worth a hundred—nay, a thousand—of the baggage that you have lost; the bride that I have brought you all the way from Cardinali. Hear those cattle below, how they bellow and stamp on your name! But my bride can shut their ugly mouths. Here is the young and sympathetic Marianna.”
She turned slightly and beckoned Marianna to her side, but the girl remained where she was, hand in hand with Armando.
“No, no,” said Marianna, recoiling.
“Bah! She is young, my brother, and does not know what she wants. Can’t you see that if you are not married at once the colony will always despise you? Never again shall you hold up your head.”
“But the people will know just the same that I have been put in a sack,” groaned Di Bello.
“Listen,” said Carolina, putting a finger beside her nose shrewdly. “Those people are fools. They will believe anything you say, if only you go before them with a bride. Let it be one of your famous jokes. A little surprise you have prepared for your dear friends. Naturally, they had you betrothed to the wrong woman, for that was all a part of the joke. You laugh at them then. You laugh last. How silly they will feel! What merriment! Ah! they will say it is Signor Di Bello’s grandest joke!”
“By the stars of heaven, I will!” cried the grocer.—“Here, my pretty Marianna, do you wish to be a happy wife?”
“Yes,” the girl answered, nestling closer to Armando, “but—but not yours.”
The priest, looking out of the window, shook his sides.
“You must be his!” said Carolina, catching hold of her arm and striving to drag her away from Armando.
“She shall not!” cried the sculptor, placing an arm about Marianna, authority in his eye and voice. “Take off your hand. No one else shall have her.”
“Bravo!” exclaimed Signor Di Bello. “Let the pigs squeal. I am not a man to marry a girl against her will.”
Carolina’s colour ran the scale of red and white, her fingers writhed, and her eyes set upon Armando’s curling hair. She saw the curtain ringing down on her self-serving drama, and the cherished dénouement left out. In her fury she would have tested the roots of the sculptor’s locks, but the priest stepped between them, and raised his hand.
“Signorina,” he said, his voice a distinct note of calm above the storm below, “if you sincerely desire to save your brother from the contempt of his neighbours it may be done better by the union of these young hearts than by tearing them asunder. Let us consider. You speak of the merry jest.” Here the good man’s eyes twinkled his zest in the wholesome trick to be played. “Would it not be a greater joke if the people found that they had betrothed not alone the wrong bride, but the wrong groom as well; in fact, had come to the marriage of one couple only to find another walk into the parlour with the priest?”
For a moment no one caught his meaning. Then he went on, with equal countenance: “What I mean is that you silence the tongue of scandal by having a wedding at once, with this pair of turtle-doves as the bride and groom.”
“Bravo!” Signor Di Bello whooped, grasping the priest’s hand. “Indeed a famous joke. I will tell them that it was all fun about my getting married; that it was to be my foster niece and her sweetheart all the time. Ah, the side-splitting joke!”
“Come, then,” said the priest, without waiting for Carolina’s approval; and the joyous Armando and Marianna, with Signor Di Bello last in the procession, followed him to the parlour.
Carolina did not go downstairs, but turned into her sanctum, and with flooding eyes looked out on San Patrizio’s graveyard. She heard the muffled outburst of wonder that greeted the bridal twain in the parlour, and alert was her ear to the growing quiet that became silence when the priest began the nuptial rites. Soon the merriment of the feast rang beneath her feet. Plainly the lying joke was a great success. Ah! what a fine vendetta it would be to go down there and tell them all the truth—even now while her brother was cracking walnuts on his head and making the table roar! But no; of strife she was weary. She longed for peace—for the peace that lay beyond that gray forest of mortuary shafts; the peace beyond that rectory door, to which the latch string beckoned and a soft voice, clear above the revelry, seemed calling: “Perpetua, perpetua, riposo, pace.”
When Armando, with one hundred dollars in his pocket—the grateful tribute of Signor Di Bello—went to Banca Tomato to buy two second-class tickets for Genoa, the banker led him behind the nankeen sail—sewed together again by Bridget—and whispered that Bertino would be on the same ship in the steerage.
“Did she pay?” asked the sculptor.
“No, not all: a cut on the cheek; a clumsy thrust, dealt in a dark alley, where he waited for her all night. But mark you, the fool wanted to stay, to go back—to make her pay more—to pay all. He is not satisfied; and in truth I do not blame him. She ought to pay all.”
“Si—all.”
“But how could he go back to her, where a dozen man-hunters are waiting? They have been here, the loons, to see if he bought a ticket. They will not find him. He will stay where he is until—until it is time to go on the ship. Ah, my friend, it was grand trouble to make him do this. He was for going back to her—to the man-hunters. But I gave him the light of a wise proverb, and he saw: Better an egg to-day than a hen to-morrow.”
FÉLIX GRAS’S ROMANCES.
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Averages.
A Novel of Modern New York. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
“To picture a scheming woman who is also attractive and even lovable is not an easy task.... To have made such a woman plausible and real in the midst of modern New York life is what Miss Stuart has achieved in this novel. And the other characters reach a similar reality. They are individuals and not types, and, moreover, they are not literary echoes. For a writer to manage this assortment of original characters with that cool deliberation which keeps aloof from them, but remorselessly pictures them, is a proof of literary insight and literary skill. It takes work as well as talent. The people of the story are real, plausible, modern creatures, with the fads and weaknesses of to-day.”—N. Y. Life.
“The strength of the book is its entertaining pictures of human nature and its shrewd, incisive observations upon the social problems, great and small, which present themselves in the complex life of society in the metropolis. Those who are fond of dry wit, a subtle humor, and what Emerson calls ‘a philosophy of insight and not of tradition,’ will find ‘Averages’ a novel to their taste.... There are interesting love episodes and clever, original situations. An author capable of such work is to be reckoned with. She has in her the root of the matter.”—N. Y. Mail and Express.
Stonepastures.
12mo. Cloth, 75 cents.
“The story is strongly written, there being a decided Bronte flavor about its style and English. It is thoroughly interesting and extremely vivid in its portrayal of actual life.”—Boston Courier.
By ELLEN THORNEYCROFT FOWLER.
A DOUBLE THREAD. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
“The excellence of her writing makes ... her book delightful reading. She is genial and sympathetic without being futile, and witty without being cynical.”—Literature, London, Eng.
“Will attract a host of readers.... The great charm about Miss Fowler’s writing is its combination of brilliancy and kindness.... Miss Fowler has all the arts. She disposes of her materials in a perfectly workmanlike manner. Her tale is well proportioned, everything is in its place, and the result is thoroughly pleasing.”—Claudius Clear, in the British Weekly.
“An excellent novel in every sense of the word, and Miss Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler is to be congratulated on having made a most distinct and momentous advance.”—London Telegraph.
“We have learned to expect good things from the writer of ‘Concerning Isabel Carnaby,’ and we are not disappointed. Her present venture has all the cleverness and knowledge of life that distinguished its predecessor.”—London Daily News.
CONCERNING ISABEL CARNABY. No. 252, Appletons’ Town and Country Library. 12mo. Cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.
“Rarely does one find such a charming combination of wit and tenderness, of brilliancy, and reverence for the things that matter.... It is bright without being flippant, tender without being mawkish, and as joyous and as wholesome as sunshine. The characters are closely studied and clearly limned, and they are created by one who knows human nature.... It would be hard to find its superior for all-around excellence.... No one who reads it will regret it or forget it.”—Chicago Tribune.
“For brilliant conversations, epigrammatic bits of philosophy, keenness of wit, and full insight into human nature, ‘Concerning Isabel Carnaby’ is a remarkable success.”—Boston Transcript.
“An excellent novel, clever and witty enough to be very amusing, and serious enough to provide much food for thought.”—London Daily Telegraph.
TWO SUCCESSFUL AMERICAN NOVELS.
LATITUDE 19°. A Romance of the West Indies in the Year of our Lord 1820. Being a faithful account and true, of the painful adventures of the Skipper, the Bo’s’n, the Smith, the Mate, and Cynthia. By Mrs. Schuyler Crowninshield. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
“‘Latitude 19°’ is a novel of incident, of the open air, of the sea, the shore, the mountain eyrie, and of breathing, living entities, who deal with Nature at first hand.... The adventures described are peculiarly novel and interesting.... Packed with incidents, infused with humor and wit, and faithful to the types introduced, this book will surely appeal to the large audience already won, and beget new friends among those who believe in fiction that is healthy without being maudlin, and is strong without losing the truth.”—New York Herald.
“A story filled with rapid and exciting action from the first page to the last. A fecundity of invention that never lags, and a judiciously used vein of humor.”—The Critic.
“A volume of deep, undeniable charm. A unique book from a fresh, sure, vigorous pen.”—Boston Journal.
“Adventurous and romantic enough to satisfy the most exacting reader.... Abounds in situations which make the blood run cold, and yet, full of surprises as it is, one is continually amazed by the plausibility of the main incidents of the narrative.... A very successful effort to portray the sort of adventures that might have taken place in the West Indies seventy-five or eighty years ago.... Very entertaining with its dry humor.”—Boston Herald.
A HERALD OF THE WEST. An American Story of 1811-1815. By J. A. Altsheler, author of “A Soldier of Manhattan” and “The Sun of Saratoga.” 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
“‘A Herald of the West’ is a romance of our history which has not been surpassed in dramatic force, vivid coloring, and historical interest.... In these days when the flush of war has only just passed, the book ought to find thousands of readers, for it teaches patriotism without intolerance, and it shows, what the war with Spain has demonstrated anew, the power of the American people when they are deeply roused by some great wrong.”—San Francisco Chronicle.
“The book throughout is extremely well written. It is condensed, vivid, picturesque.... A rattling good story, and unrivaled in fiction for its presentation of the American feeling toward England during our second conflict.”—Boston Herald.
“Holds the attention continuously.... The book abounds in thrilling attractions.... It is a solid and dignified acquisition to the romantic literature of our own country, built around facts and real persons.”—Chicago Times-Herald.
“In a style that is strong and broad, the author of this timely novel takes up a nascent period of our national history and founds upon it a story of absorbing interest.”—Philadelphia Item.
“Mr. Altsheler has given us an accurate as well as picturesque portrayal of the social and political conditions which prevailed in the republic in the era made famous by the second war with Great Britain.”—Brooklyn Eagle.
By A. CONAN DOYLE.
Uniform edition, 12mo. Cloth, $1.50 per volume.
A DUET, WITH AN OCCASIONAL CHORUS.
“Charming is the one word to describe this volume adequately. Dr. Doyle’s crisp style and his rare wit and refined humor, utilized with cheerful art that is perfect of its kind, fill these chapters with joy and gladness for the reader.”—Philadelphia Press.
“Bright, brave, simple, natural, delicate. It is the most artistic and most original thing that its author has done.... We can heartily recommend ‘A Duet’ to all classes of readers. It is a good book to put into the hands of the young of either sex. It will interest the general reader, and it should delight the critic, for it is a work of art. This story taken with the best of his previous work gives Dr. Doyle a very high place in modern letters.”—Chicago Times-Herald.
UNCLE BERNAC. A Romance of the Empire.
“Simple, clear, and well defined.... Spirited in movement all the way through.... A fine example of clear analytical force.”—Boston Herald.
THE EXPLOITS OF BRIGADIER GERARD.
A Romance of the Life of a Typical Napoleonic Soldier.
“Good, stirring tales are they.... Remind one of those adventures indulged in by ‘The Three Musketeers.’... Written with a dash and swing that here and there carry one away.”—New York Mail and Express.
RODNEY STONE.
“A notable and very brilliant work of genius.”—London Speaker.
“Dr. Doyle’s novel is crowded with an amazing amount of incident and excitement.... He does not write history, but shows us the human side of his great men, living and moving in an atmosphere charged with the spirit of the hard-living, hard-fighting Anglo-Saxon.”—New York Critic.
ROUND THE RED LAMP.
Being Facts and Fancies of Medical Life.
“A strikingly realistic and decidedly original contribution to modern literature.”—Boston Saturday Evening Gazette.
THE STARK MUNRO LETTERS.
Being a Series of Twelve Letters written by Stark Munro, M. B., to his friend and former fellow-student, Herbert Swanborough, of Lowell, Massachusetts, during the years 1881-1884.
“Cullingworth, ... a much more interesting creation than Sherlock Holmes, and I pray Dr. Doyle to give us more of him.”—Richard le Gallienne, in the London Star.
By S. R. CROCKETT.
Uniform edition. Each, 12mo, cloth, $1.50.
THE STANDARD BEARER. An Historical Romance.
“Mr. Crockett’s book is distinctly one of the books of the year. Five months of 1898 have passed without bringing to the reviewers’ desk anything to be compared with it in beauty of description, convincing characterization, absorbing plot and humorous appeal. The freshness and sweet sincerity of the tale are most invigorating, and that the book will be very much read there is no possible doubt.”—Boston Budget.
“The book will move to tears, provoke to laughter, stir the blood, and evoke heroisms of history, making the reading of it a delight and the memory of it a stimulus and a joy.”—New York Evangelist.
LADS’ LOVE. Illustrated.
“It seems to us that there is in this latest product much of the realism of personal experience. However modified and disguised, it is hardly possible to think that the writer’s personality does not present itself in Saunders McQuhirr.... Rarely has the author drawn more truly from life than in the cases of Nance and ‘the Hempie’; never more typical Scotsman of the humble sort than the farmer Peter Chrystie.”—London Athenæum.
CLEG KELLY, ARAB OF THE CITY. His Progress and Adventures. Illustrated.
“A masterpiece which Mark Twain himself has never rivaled.... If there ever was an ideal character in fiction it is this heroic ragamuffin.”—London Daily Chronicle.
“In no one of his books does Mr. Crockett give us a brighter or more graphic picture of contemporary Scotch life than in ‘Cleg Kelly.’... It is one of the great books.”—Boston Daily Advertiser.
BOG-MYRTLE AND PEAT. Third edition.
“Here are idyls, epics, dramas of human life, written in words that thrill and burn.... Each is a poem that has an immortal flavor. They are fragments of the author’s early dreams, too bright, too gorgeous, too full of the blood of rubies and the life of diamonds to be caught and held palpitating in expression’s grasp.”—Boston Courier.
“Hardly a sketch among them all that will not afford pleasure to the reader for its genial humor, artistic local coloring, and admirable portrayal of character.”—Boston Home Journal.
THE LILAC SUNBONNET. Eighth edition.
“A love story, pure and simple, one of the old-fashioned, wholesome, sunshiny kind, with a pure-minded, sound-hearted hero, and a heroine who is merely a good and beautiful woman; and if any other love story half so sweet has been written this year it has escaped our notice.”—New York Times.
“The general conception of the story, the motive of which is the growth of love between the young chief and heroine, is delineated with a sweetness and a freshness, a naturalness and a certainty, which places ‘The Lilac Sunbonnet’ among the best stories of the time.”—New York Mail and Express.