NEW FRIENDS
The next morning the landlady was standing in the doorway of the inn,
observing the signs of the weather and planning the work of the day,
when suddenly Mrs. Menotti's servant appeared. This young man was
manager as well as servant. He understood his work thoroughly, and the
place prospered under his care. He had a habit of whistling wherever
he went, and people thought it was because his life was such a happy,
contented one that he could not help expressing his satisfaction.
"If the boy I brought you last evening is still here," he began, "Mrs.
Menotti requests that you will send him over to her. Silvio wishes to
see him again."
The landlady stiffened, but tried to say pleasantly: "Yes, to be sure,
if she is not in too much of a hurry. It so happens that the boy is
still in bed, and I would rather let him have his sleep out. You can
go back and tell Mrs. Menotti that I will send him over later, as he
is not going any farther. I have taken him for good and all. He is a
little neglected orphan, but I will see that he is provided for
hereafter."
When Rico at last awoke, he felt as fresh as if he had not taken the
long journey the day before. The landlady admired his neat appearance
as he came down the stairway. She beckoned to him to come to the
kitchen, where she served him his late breakfast.
"You may breakfast as well as this every morning, if you like, Rico,"
she said, as she seated herself opposite him at the little table. "We
have a still better dinner and supper, for we cook for the guests
then. You might pay me by helping with the work and playing for us
when we want you to, but of course it remains for you to decide
whether you will stay or not."
The landlady had spoken in Italian, but Rico had understood her, and
he found words enough to say, "Yes, I will stay."
When Rico's breakfast was over, he was taken about the premises so
that he might become familiar with the house, barn, chicken shed, and
yard, and also the vegetable garden, for his help would be needed
about them all. He was later sent to several places of business to get
soap, oil, thread, and repaired shoes, and each time returned with his
errand correctly done. It was therefore evident to the landlady that
Rico knew the language well enough to be of great service to her. The
afternoon was half over before she said to him, "You may take your
violin over to Mrs. Menotti's and stay until night, if you would like
to. She is expecting you."
Rico was delighted, for that would take him near the place he loved.
As soon as he reached the lake, he went to the bridge and sat down. He
recognized this quiet, fragrant spot as all that was left to him of
his home, for it was still associated with the tender care of his
mother as no other place could be. Its restfulness appealed to him,
and the beauty of the scene was a feast after the years spent in the
hills. He longed to remain for the rest of the afternoon, but he
realized that his time belonged to those who had given him a home, and
so he resumed his way to the sick boy.
The door was open at Mrs. Menotti's, and the little invalid heard
Rico's step as soon as he entered the garden. Mrs. Menotti came down
the path to meet him, and welcomed him so cordially and led him to the
living room in such a motherly way that she won his affection
immediately.
Rico noticed how pleasantly the room opened to the garden. Each night
the boy's tiny bed was rolled into an adjoining room, where the mother
slept. Early every morning it was taken back to the living room,
where the morning sun and pleasant outlook gladdened the heart of the
little sufferer. Beside the bed were the tiny crutches with which the
mother at times assisted him to move about the room, for he was lame
and had never been able to walk.
As soon as the little one heard Rico, he lifted himself to a sitting
posture by means of a cord which hung suspended from the ceiling. He
could not raise himself without help. Rico noticed the frail hands and
arms, and the pinched look of the wan face. The little frame seemed
too delicate to be that of a boy. The child had seen but few
strangers, though he had often longed for company, and now his large
blue eyes fastened eagerly upon Rico.
"What is your name?" he asked at the first opportunity.
"Rico," was the answer.
"Mine is Silvio. How old are you?"
"I am eleven."
"So am I," said the little one.
"Why, Silvio, you are forgetting!" broke in Mrs. Menotti. "You are not
quite four, so Rico can see that you have made a mistake."
Silvio changed the subject. "Play something, Rico," he said.
Rico stepped some distance away from the bed before beginning to
play. Mrs. Menotti sat in her accustomed place at the head of the bed.
It was hard to tire Silvio by playing for him. Rico had exhausted his
entire list of pieces, and yet the boy called for more. Mrs. Menotti
tactfully brought in a plate of grapes and had Rico take her chair by
the bed, where he and Silvio might enjoy them together. She slipped
out of the room unnoticed by the children. She rejoiced to get out to
the garden, for it had been days since Silvio would consent to her
leaving him.
The children did not find it embarrassing to talk together. Rico could
answer all the questions that Silvio asked, and was never at a loss to
find a way of making himself understood where words failed him. The
mother had time to take a long walk about the garden without Silvio's
having once called for her.
It was getting dark when she returned. Rico rose to leave, but Silvio
caught hold of his jacket and begged him to stay.
"Unless you promise to come to see me every day I will not let you
go," he said.
"But, Silvio," said the mother, "you must remember that Rico cannot
promise that, even if he would like to, for he must first ask the
people with whom he is living. I will go to see them to-morrow, and
perhaps we can arrange it so that Rico can come every day."
Silvio grasped Rico's hand lovingly as he said good-by. "I hope you
won't forget to come every day," he said. Rico was sorry to leave
them. He loved Silvio and his mother for being so good to him. A
homelike atmosphere filled the place and made him wish that his work
might be done for them instead of for the people at the hotel.
The next afternoon Mrs. Menotti called at the Golden Sun. The landlady
was much flattered by this visit. She met her guest very cordially and
led her to the parlor upstairs. Mrs. Menotti at once made her errand
known, urging the landlady to let her have Rico at least a few
evenings a week, saying that she should be glad to pay well for the
favor.
The landlady had been thankful that Mrs. Menotti had not interfered
with her keeping Rico, so she willingly promised to let him go any
evening that he did not have to play for dances. She was willing, she
said, to let Mrs. Menotti pay what she pleased.
It was agreed that Mrs. Menotti should clothe Rico in return for the
time he would give her. This pleased the landlady immensely, for not
only would she have all his help for nothing, but he would soon be
earning something besides.
The days passed quickly for Rico. In a short time he was speaking
Italian as if he had always known it. It came to him the more readily
because he had once known it; then, too, he had a good ear, and
caught the true Italian accent with wonderful ease.
The landlady found Rico much more useful than she had expected. She
praised his neat way of doing his work by saying that she could not
have done it better herself. If he were sent on an errand, he never
failed to return promptly. He was industrious, patient, and
good-tempered. When people questioned him about his past, he was very
reticent. The landlady respected his silence and did not ask any
questions. Thus he never gave his reason for coming to Peschiera. A
story was told around the town, however, that Rico had run away from
the people who had abused him in the mountains, that he had suffered
many hardships on the long journey before he came to Peschiera, and
that he had found the people there so kind-hearted that he had decided
to go no farther. Whenever the landlady told the story, she always
added that Rico deserved the good fortune of having found a home with
them.
The first week of Rico's stay at the Golden Sun more people than usual
assembled for the regular dance out of curiosity to see the little boy
who had had such strange experiences, and to hear him play. In fact,
so many came that the capacity of the house was taxed. The landlady
flitted about among her guests as rosy as if she herself were the
Golden Sun. Once, as she passed her husband, she whispered, "I told
you that Rico would help out our dances."
Rico listened to the music as the pieces were played, and soon found
no trouble in playing with the others. When the dancing ceased, he was
asked to play the Peschiera song, and the dancers sang it
enthusiastically as a fitting close to their evening of fun. It seemed
to Rico that they had been boisterously happy all the evening. The
noise had hurt his ears and racked his nerves so that he was thankful
when it was over. The crowd dispersed after the song, and Rico hurried
away to his attic bed, where he could at least have quiet.
Later that evening the landlady said to her husband: "You see how well
my plan works? The next time Rico can take the place of one of the
players, so that we need hire but two."
The husband smiled at his wife's sagacity and added: "Yes, and he
ought to be a favorite with those who give tips. There is no question
of his getting something in that way."
Only two days later there was a dance in Desenzano, and Rico was sent
with the other players. The people there did not sing the Peschiera
song, but they were as boisterous or worse than the Golden Sun crowd
had been. The coarse laughter made Rico shudder, so that from
beginning to end he thought, "If it were only over!" He carried home a
pocketful of pennies, which he put uncounted into the landlady's lap.
She praised him for doing this and prepared a good supper for him.
Rico had been promised for another dance in Riva the following week,
and he was glad to go, for it would give him the opportunity to see
closely what he had always looked at from a distance. Riva lies at the
opposite end of the lake from Peschiera, and the white houses of the
little towns built along the shore under the towering, rocky cliffs,
had always seemed to throw him a glance of welcome.
The musicians crossed the lake in an open boat under a clear blue sky.
Rico's thoughts were mostly with Stineli. He wished again that she
might know how pretty the lake was, especially since she had at first
doubted its existence. He knew how much she would enjoy the beautiful
sight, and how much it would surprise her to see it. He meant to tell
her all about it when he went back to her.
The boat landed at Riva all too soon, and a few moments later Rico was
playing for the same kind of people that he had played for at the two
preceding dances. It occurred to him that it was much pleasanter to
look at the white houses and friendly rocks from his accustomed place
on the opposite shore, or to amuse Silvio at Mrs. Menotti's, than to
play amid the present tumult and applause. As they were returning to
Peschiera that night he found no time to look about the town, though
he had long wished to see the place.
When there were no dances Rico was allowed to go to Mrs. Menotti's
every evening, for the landlady wished to prove herself grateful not
only to Rico but to Mrs. Menotti as well. These evenings were Rico's
greatest pleasure. He invariably went to the bridge for a short time
on his way over. It always gave him fresh comfort, for he knew to a
certainty that it was a place that had once been a part of his home.
He had found the exact spot where his mother used to sit most
frequently when she held and fondled him. He would sit there and think
it over and over, actually living in the spirit of the past. Each time
he had to force himself to realize that Silvio needed him and would be
waiting. Though it was always a little hard to leave the place, his
peace of mind was restored as soon as he came to Mrs. Menotti's, for
she had endeared herself to him, and he realized that from her he
received more affection than from any one else except Stineli.
Mrs. Menotti had heard the story about Rico's suffering in the hills,
and she considered it wise to forbear asking questions, for fear of
recalling to his mind painful scenes that had much better be
forgotten. She longed to take Rico away from the hotel, for she knew
that it was not the place for a sensitive nature such as his, but she
saw that this would be an impossibility. Once she fondly put her hand
on his head and said, "You poor little orphan, I do so wish I could
keep you."
To Silvio, Rico became more and more necessary. He spoke of him at all
times of the day and was always listening for his coming. Rico could
speak fluently by this time, and it was Silvio's greatest comfort to
listen to the stories he would tell him. One day Rico told him about
Stineli. Silvio was so interested that Rico enjoyed telling him about
her. He told of Stineli's seeing her brother Sam fall into the creek,
and how she reached the place in time to catch one of his feet,
holding on to him until the father, for whom she called as loudly as
she could, should get to them. The frightened boy was in the meantime
screaming with all his might. The father, taking it for granted that
children are always noisy, did not trouble himself to go immediately,
but when he had leisurely strolled across the field to find out why
they called, he found Stineli still holding her brother.
Rico told how she drew pictures for Peter and made playthings for
Urschli out of wood, moss, or rushes,--sometimes with all
combined,--and how all the children wanted her when they were sick,
because she could entertain them so well. He also told of the good
times he and Stineli had enjoyed together, and he became so animated
in the telling that one would scarcely have recognized the quiet,
sober Rico. Silvio's delight in these stories made both boys forget to
look at the clock in time for Rico to leave as early as usual. He was
startled to see how late it was and hastily rose to go.
"Good night, Silvio," he said. "I am sorry that I cannot come
to-morrow or the next day, but I must play for some dances."
This was too much for Silvio's patience, and he called to his mother,
who hastily came from the garden in the greatest anxiety.
"Mother!" he cried, "Rico shall not go back to the hotel any more! I
want him to stay here and I wish that you would make him. You will do
it, won't you, Rico?"
"If I didn't have to help at the hotel, I would," answered Rico.
Mrs. Menotti had feared such a scene for some time, but was troubled
to know how to meet it even now. She knew too well what Rico was worth
to the landlady and her husband in dollars and cents to entertain the
faintest hope of their letting him go from them. She tried to quiet
Silvio as best she could, and affectionately drew Rico to her, saying
"You poor little orphan! I wish it were so that you might stay with
us."
"What is an orphan? I want to be one, too," said Silvio.
"I am afraid my little boy is naughty to-night," Mrs. Menotti
admonished him. "An orphan is one who has neither father nor mother,
and no place that he can call home. Don't ever wish that again."
Mrs. Menotti did not notice Rico's pathetic glance when she gave
Silvio the meaning of the word. Later when she saw that Rico was gone,
she supposed that he had slipped away without saying good night, for
the sake of keeping Silvio quiet, and she gave it no further thought.
"Now, Silvio," she said, as she sat down by his bed, "I want to tell
you something, so that you will never make such a fuss again. We have
no more right to take Rico away from those people than they would have
to take you away from me. How should you like never to see the garden
again?"
"I would come right home if they took me," was Silvio's valiant
answer, but the illustration had served to quiet him, and he was soon
tucked in his little bed and willing to go to sleep.
It would be hard to tell just what passed in Rico's mind when he
quietly left the house that night and went down to the bridge. "I
know now that I am an orphan," he murmured, "and that there is no
place that I can call home." He longed to stay on the bridge all
night, for its sweet association with the past was his only comfort,
but he knew that the landlady would become alarmed at his absence, so
he forced himself away to his cheerless attic.
He did not need a candle to find his way to the bed, and he much
preferred not to see his surroundings. An eager desire to see Stineli
possessed him. He meant to tell her how it comforted him to know that
she cared for him. It was late in the night before he could quiet his
thoughts for sleep.