THE FALCON SAVES THE DOVE
“MARIANNA!”
It was the austere voice of Carolina, and a love scene behind the
second-cabin smoking room came to an abrupt close. Though it was not
the first stolen meeting with Armando that she had broken up during
the voyage, Carolina had never told the girl that she must shun other
suitors because of a husband already chosen for her in New York.
Profiting by her experience as a meddler in the love affairs of others,
she had deemed best to conceal her matrimonial plans for Casa Di Bello
until it should be too late for Marianna to defy her wishes. Not until
the final day of the passage, therefore, did she let out the cat. Then
she pictured to the girl the splendid future prepared for her as the
wife of Signor Di Bello, the merchant prince of Mulberry.
“But I am promised to Armando,” said Marianna. “How can I marry any one
else?”
“Bah! A poor devil whom you would have to feed. You will never see
him again. In America he will soon forget you and find another
_amorosa_. With my brother for a husband you will be a signora--as fine
a lady as any in America. We have many pigs in Mulberry. With this
good-for-naught sculptor you would soon be one of them.”
“He is as good as any one else--even your brother. Anyhow, I love him.”
The hour had come for Carolina to assert her power. “Love him!” she
snapped. “What if you do? Will love put meat in your soup? You are
_matta_ [crazy]. Perhaps I shall find a way to give you reason. Do you
think you would like to be homeless in that?”
The ship was nearing the Battery, and Carolina pointed toward the New
York shore. With deep satisfaction she perceived that the girl’s spirit
quailed before the awful vastness of the city. Presently Marianna
caught sight of Armando coming from the companion way with his poor
little valise, which she knew contained all his worldly goods. What if
she defied her aunt, and cast her fortunes at once with him? No. She
could not add to his burden. But need she do so? Could she not rather
be a help? Toil had been ever her lot. She could not remember when she
had not worked away her days--until, until Aunt Carolina had taken
her up, had provided her with fine clothes, and made her live like a
signora. No matter; she would rather be poor and work for Armando. But
New York! That great monster crouching there in its Sunday nap, and
sending lazy curls of steaming breath from its thousands of snouts! It
was that they would have to dare--to fight that!
“You are a ninny to stand there in doubt--to think of doing anything
but what I say,” Carolina went on. “See the clothes I have bought you.
Do you know what I paid in Genova for that dress, that hat, those
shoes? Well, I paid sixty _lire_, not counting the buttons and lining.
But what can one expect from a silly girl? I buy you fine clothes, I
bring you to America in second class like a signora. I offer you a
signore for a husband, with a beautiful house to live in. But you, the
goose, say you like better to dress in rags, to have a beggar for a
husband, to starve, to live in the streets; for into the streets you
go, remember, if you continue to play the fool.”
Carolina was no stranger to the lotus that gives languor of conscience
toward means when the end cries for attainment. Moreover, her present
mood was bordering desperation. The mishap that laid her low for so
many months had worn off her veneer of placidity, and she returned to
America much the same galvanic Italian that she was the day she first
set foot in Castle Garden--the Carolina of pre-churchly days, who
flared up and left her brother’s roof after a quarrel over watermelons,
and put herself under holy orders. Unluckily for her peace of mind,
while she lay a prisoner in the mountains waiting for broken bones to
knit, she had received advices regularly concerning affairs at Casa Di
Bello--especially affairs matrimonial. The letters were in the fine
hand of the public writer of Mulberry, but the message they bore came
from Carolina’s faithful ally, Angelica. In her zeal to serve, the cook
only added wormwood to her mistress’s cup of gall, for her missives
always told darkly of some would-be wife threatening the castle. The
last letter had spoken with maddening vagueness of a crisis surely at
hand, and Carolina’s instinct told her that the crisis was Juno. For
this reason she had sailed a week before the day given her brother as
the one of her intended departure. How could she remain supine in Genoa
when Casa Di Bello stood menaced with an invasion that meant ruin
to her fond designs? With Juno driven back, Carolina saw the battle
won, for she had no doubt at all of her power to mould the will of a
lovelorn maid. She was guilefully confident that there would arise no
balk to her plans through Marianna’s refusal to be wived by Di Bello,
for, with a subtilty deep set in her nature, she had counted from the
outset, other arguments failing, that she should persuade the damsel
in the end by the homely device of threatening to turn her adrift.
Wherefore, having begun the assault, and observing that this line of
tactics had melted Marianna to a thoughtful silence, she followed it
up while they crossed the ferry from Hoboken, seated in a cab, their
luggage on top. As they rolled over the cobbles of the lower East
Side and the warm breath of May entered the window, Carolina gave
her picture of a girl homeless and starving in the big city many a
convincing touch. At Broadway, chance came to her aid with an object
lesson. There was a cable-car blockade, and while the cab waited,
a haggard woman, young but aged by vice and want, put her open hand
into the window. Carolina drove her away with an angry word and a
contemptuous stare.
“You see how one treats beggars in New York,” she said to Marianna,
whose colour had all gone. “You would be like that if I shut the door
on you. Who do you think would feed you if I turned you out?”
Marianna looked upon the strange faces that passed by, and something
she saw there--or the lack of something--in the eyes of her
fellow-beings struck fresh terror to her soul, and the tears came. “Oh,
where is Armando?” she asked herself, sobbing. Why had he left the ship
without her? It was all his fault. He should have taken her with him.
He did not love her, and would not care if she did marry Signor Di
Bello. If they had only stayed in Italy--in the mountains, where she
had been so happy! She would have remained if Armando had. She knew
she would, in _spite_ of Carolina. But he, too, was a fool. All was
lost now--their love, their happiness. But for the bust he would have
stayed at home, perhaps--yes, it was the bust! Maledictions upon it and
the First Lady of the Land!
The cab dashed under the roar of an Elevated train. Carolina lay
back in the seat and regarded her charge complacently, with drooping
eyelids. As they turned into Mulberry her face was a symbol of smug
content. She felt certain now of a manageable wife for Casa Di Bello.
But the imperious tug she gave the brass bell handle of Casa Di Bello
sounded the knell of her vivid hopes. The door opened, and she looked
into the awe-struck face of Angelica. With difficulty the cook found
speech for the terrible news: Signor Di Bello gone to church to be
married--and to Juno the Superb! Yes, yes; the Neapolitan pig! At that
very moment they must be standing at the altar of San Patrizio! Oh, the
grand feast that awaited them! See, there was the table all laid! Ah,
such wine, such fruit! All there under the fine white cloth! Soon they
would be back from the church, and the house would be full of guests
eating and drinking, for he had invited the first families of the
Torinesi, Milanesi, and Genovesi, besides many swine from the south.
And all for a Neapolitan pig! _Santissima Vergine!_
Marianna felt that she would like to throw herself at this pig’s feet
and kiss them in the joy of her deliverance, while Carolina gave play
to her rage in a storm of anathema against her brother and the singer.
In the thick of her onset--all rituals of conduct torn to shreds--the
door bell jingled tragically. With bated breath, Angelica turned the
knob, and Carolina struck a pose of disdain in the hallway. As the door
opened a chorus of greetings and happy auguries came from a group of
men and women at the threshold, all in their sprucest Sunday array.
They were the first lot of invited guests, and would have swarmed in,
but Carolina ordered them back.
“We have come to the wedding feast,” they protested. “Signor Di Bello
has bidden us.”
“Begone, you ragabash and bobtail!” said Carolina, and she slammed the
door in their faces.