A PARTNERSHIP IN TEN-INCH ST. PETERS
THOUGH Carolina had not been blind to the meaning of the signals
flashed by Armando and Marianna’s eyes whenever the lovers were
together, Bertino’s words stirred her to the need of taking instant
measures to smother any marplot that might brew from their attachment.
To this end she resolved to keep them apart until the final act of
her private theatricals should be played. Thus it fell out that on
Friday, two days before the time for Signor Di Bello’s second essay
at a wedding, when Armando called to deliver a most weighty message
to Marianna, he was met at the door with Carolina’s avowal that the
girl was indisposed. He might have credited the dreadful news but for
a face that he saw at the window as he walked away, and a pair of
hands and lips that were telegraphing with much energy. “Wait, and I
shall be out,” was the only part of Marianna’s excited display that he
understood. But it was enough to insure his waiting a week, had that
been necessary. As it was, she did not come until darkness had called
lights to the _caffè_ windows and the banks and grocery shops had put
up their shutters.
“It is finished now,” she said, hatless and breathing hard. “I can
never go back to Casa Di Bello.”
“What matter?” he asked, taking her hand, and for the first time in
many a day showing a joy and contempt for circumstance that befitted
his years. “Come along. I have beautiful news. Let us go to the gardens
of Paradise.”
It was the first music night of the season, and the Park had become a
vast _potbouilli_ of Italy’s children, with a salting from the Baxter
Street Ghetto and a peppering of “Chimmies” and “Mamies” from the old
Fourth Ward. Armando and Marianna made their way through the seething
mass about the band, deaf to the rag-time melody that filled the sultry
air and without eyes for the gorgeous red coats of the musicians. He
was telling her how from the blackness of his despair the light of
knowledge had suddenly broken, and how in the bitterness of his exile
he had found the sweet of content. Far from the band stand, they
crowded on to a bench beside two women with yellow babies at their
breasts, and Armando continued:
“It was last night, and I was here alone, with only the stars for
companions. All Mulberry was asleep. First I thought only of myself,
and my heart was heavy. Then the points of gold in the sky seemed to
whisper--to whisper of you, my precious. After that I was happy. Do you
know why? Ah, it was because I had made up my mind.”
“Yes,” she repeated eagerly; “you made up your mind to----”
“Go home.”
“And I?”
“You go with me. There; do you not see now why I am happy?”
“Madonna-Maria be glorified!” she cried, and the women by their side
exchanged glances and grunts. “When?”
“By the first ship for Genoa.”
“When is that?”
“Some day next week.”
“Joy!”
“Ah! is it not fine? To go back to Italy!”
“_Si_; fine.” She paused a moment pensively, then asked, “Have you
bought the passage tickets?”
“No; she has not paid me yet for the bust.”
“Who has not paid you?”
“Signorina Di Bello.”
“How do you know she will give you any money?”
“Ah! I saw it in her eye. And did she not say, when I spoke of my poor
marble--did she not say that perhaps it would not prove so poor, after
all? Oh, she will pay, I am sure. How much? Ah! who can tell that? But
surely it will be enough to take us back to Cardinali, and what more
can we ask? There we shall be happy. No more shall you go to the mill,
for have I not my house and workshop, and will not Genoa be glad again
to buy my ten-inch Saint Peters?”
“Ah! _si_. Genoa will be glad. And I? Shall I not take them to the
Gallery of Cristoforo Colombo and sell them just as old Daniello did?
By my faith, I think I shall bring home as much silver as ever he did,
and more.”
“_Si, si_; who would not buy of you, _angelo d’amore_?”
He kissed her lips and fair tresses, and the women with their nurslings
left the bench. Thus, and for hours, the exiles lived in the new-found
bliss of their present while planning a joyous future. Over the buzz
of the grimy, toil-bound multitude the notes of the distant band came
to them vaguely--now in a fugitive creak, then in a faint rumble or
detached crash.
It was long after the music had died out, and the people had gone to
their tenements, and the pale eye of night had peeped tardily over a
zigzag line of low roofs, when Marianna said:
“_Dio!_ So late! She will not let me in.”
They walked to Casa Di Bello at a smart pace, and timidly she rang the
bell, while Armando waited not many yards away. Instantly the door
opened, and he saw the hand of Carolina reach forth, grasp his love by
the shoulder, and jerk her into the house.