That evening won my cause. For reasons not pertaining to this story,
our wedding was hastened. The month of preparation was busy, and I am
ashamed to say that I forgot Pietro and his trouble. Deborah, who never
forgets anything, arranged for Beatrice's invitation to the farm.
During our three years of honeymoon abroad we spoke almost daily of the
child and her father. A message from the farmer asking why his guest had
not appeared excited further our curiosity; and when we returned to New
York I devoted my first unengaged evening to a visit at the theatre. My
wife preferred to remain at home.
The paintings in the foyer were a little dingy; otherwise the place
seemed unchanged. I rapped upon the door of the ticket-office.
A woman with a baby in her arms answered my clamor. Her figure was thick
and clumsy, and her clothes were baggy. After a moment of scrutiny she
shifted the baby to her left arm and extended a pudgy hand.
"Welcome, Signore," she said, in a husky voice. I stared at her face.
Her cheeks had encroached upon her eyes, but the depths gleamed yellow.
"Beatrice!" I exclaimed.
"Yes, Signore," she replied. "You not-a know? I am grow up. I am marry."
"So I supposed," I stammered. "Ah—when did it——?"
"Two year ago. More. My 'usband, 'e is inside. Giovanni, come 'ere."
An undersized man shuffled into the foyer. His legs wavered, and one
shoulder was higher than the other.
"'E is tail'. 'E maka da clo'," said Beatrice, proudly. "We 'ave r-roon
off, toget'er. My father, 'e is so good; 'e' ava pardon. We live all
toget'er. My father lof-a da _bambino_. You will see da play? Giovanni,
show de signore da good seat. No, no! No taka da ten centa."