The terrace of Villa Rosa juts out into the lake, bordered on three sides
by a stone parapet, and shaded above by a yellow-ochre awning. Masses of
oleanders hang over the wall and drop pink petals into the blue waters
below. As a study in colour the terrace is perfect, but, like the
courtyard of the Hotel du Lac, decidedly too hot for mid-afternoon. To
the right of the terrace, however, is a shady garden set in alleys of
cypress trees, and separated from the lake by a strip of beach and a low
balustrade. There could be no better resting-place for a warm afternoon.
It was close upon four--five minutes past to be accurate--and the usual
afternoon quiet that enveloped the garden had fled before the garrulous
advent of four girls. Three of them, with black eyes and blacker hair,
were kneeling on the beach thumping and scrubbing a pile of linen. In
spite of their chatter they were working busily, and the grass beyond the
water-wall was already white with bleaching sheets, while a lace-trimmed
petticoat fluttered from a near-by oleander, and rows of silk stockings
stretched the length of the parapet. The most undeductive observer would
have guessed by this time that the pink villa, visible through the trees,
contained no such modern conveniences as stationary tubs.
The fourth girl, with grey eyes and yellow-brown hair, was sitting at
ease on the balustrade, fanning herself with a wide-brimmed hat and
dangling her feet, clad in white tennis shoes, over the edge. She wore a
suit of white linen cut sailor fashion, low at the throat and with
sleeves rolled to the elbows. She looked very cool and comfortable and
free as she talked, with the utmost friendliness, to the three girls
below. Her Italian, to an unaccustomed ear, was exactly as glib as
theirs.
The washer-girls were dressed in the gayest of peasant clothes--green and
scarlet petticoats, flowered kerchiefs, coral beads and flashing
earrings; you would have to go far into the hills in these degenerate
days before meeting their match on an Italian highway. But the girl on
the wall, who was actual if not titular ruler of the domain of Villa
Rosa, possessed a keen eye for effect; and--she plausibly argued--since
one must have washer-women about, why not, in the name of all that is
beautiful, have them in harmony with tradition and the landscape?
Accordingly, she designed and purchased their costumes herself.
There drifted presently into sight from around the little promontory that
hid the village a blue and white boat with yellow lateen sails. She was
propelled gondolier fashion, for the wind was a mere breath, by a
picturesque youth in a suit of dark blue with white sash and flaring
collar--the hand of the girl on the wall was here visible also.
The boat fluttering in toward shore, looked like a giant butterfly; and
her name, emblazoned in gold on her prow, was, appropriately, the
_Farfalla_. Earlier in the season, with a green hull and a dingy brown
sail, she had been, prosaically enough, the _Maria_. But since the advent
of the girl all this had been changed. The _Farfalla_ dropped her yellow
wings with the air of a salute, and lighted at the foot of the
water-steps under the terrace. The girl on the parapet leaned forward
eagerly.
'Did you get any mail, Giuseppe?' she called.
'_Si_, signorina.' He scrambled up the steps and presented a copy of the
London _Times_.
She received it with a shrug. Clearly, she felt little interest in the
London _Times_. Giuseppe took himself back to his boat and commenced
fussing about its fittings, dusting the seats, plumping up the cushions,
with an air of absorption which deceived nobody. The signorina watched
him a moment with amused comprehension, then she called peremptorily--
'Giuseppe, you know you must spade the garden border.'
Poor Giuseppe, in spite of his nautical costume, was man of all work. He
glanced dismally toward the garden border which lay basking in the
sunshine under the wall that divided Villa Rosa from the rest of the
world. It contained every known flower which blossoms in July in the
kingdom of Italy, from camellias and hydrangeas to heliotrope and
wall-flowers. Its spading was a complicated business and it lay too far
off to permit of conversation. Giuseppe was not only a lazy, but also a
social soul.
'Signorina,' he suggested, 'would you not like a sail?'
She shook her head. 'There is not wind enough and it is too hot and too
sunny.'
'But yes, there's a wind, and cool--when you get out on the lake. I will
put up the awning, signorina, the sun shall not touch you.'
She continued to shake her head and her eyes wandered suggestively to the
hydrangeas, but Giuseppe still made a feint of preoccupation. Not being a
cruel mistress, she dropped the subject, and turned back to her
conversation with the washer-girls. They were discussing--a pleasant
topic for a sultry summer afternoon--the probable content of Paradise.
The three girls were of the opinion that it was made up of warm sunshine
and cool shade, of flowers and singing birds and sparkling waters, of
blue skies and cloud-capped mountains--not unlike, it will be observed,
the very scene which at the moment stretched before them. In so much they
were all agreed, but there were several debatable points. Whether the
stones were made of gold, and whether the houses were not gold too, and,
that being the case, whether it would not hurt your eyes to look at them.
Marietta declared, blasphemously, as the others thought, that she
preferred a simple grey stone villa or at most one of pink stucco, to all
the golden edifices that Paradise contained.
It was by now fifteen minutes past four, and a spectator had arrived,
though none of the five were aware of his presence. The spectator was
standing on the wall above the garden border examining with appreciation
the idyllic scene below him, and with most particular appreciation, the
dainty white-clad person of the girl on the balustrade. He was
wondering--anxiously--how he might make his presence known. For no very
tangible reason he had suddenly become conscious that the matter would be
easier if he carried in his pocket a letter of introduction. The purlieus
of Villa Rosa in no wise resembled a desert island; and in the face of
that very fluent Italian, the suspicion was forcing itself upon him that,
after all, the mere fact of a common country was not a sufficient bond of
union. He had definitely decided to withdraw, when the matter was taken
from his hands.
The wall--as Gustavo had pointed out--was broken; it was owing to this
fact that he had been so easily able to climb it. Now, as he stealthily
turned, preparing to re-descend in the direction whence he had come, the
loose stone beneath his foot slipped and he slipped with it. Five
startled pairs of eyes were turned in his direction. What they saw, was a
young man in flannels suddenly throw up his arms, slide into an azalea
bush, from this to the balustrade, and finally land on all fours on the
narrow strip of beach, a shower of pink petals and crumbling masonry
falling about him. A momentary silence followed; then the washer-girls,
making sure that he was not injured, broke into a shrill chorus of
laughter, while the _Farfalla_ rocked under impact of Giuseppe's mirth.
The girl on the wall alone remained grave.
The young man picked himself up, restored his guide-book to his pocket,
and blushingly stepped forward, hat in hand, to make an apology. One knee
bore a splash of mud, and his tumbled hair was sprinkled with azalea
blossoms.
'I beg your pardon,' he stammered, 'I didn't mean to come so suddenly;
I'm afraid I broke your wall.'
The girl dismissed the matter with a polite gesture.
'It was already broken,' and then she waited with an air of grave
attention until he should state his errand.
'I--I came----' He paused and glanced about vaguely; he could not at the
moment think of any adequate reason to account for his coming.
'Yes?' Her eyes studied him with what appeared at once a cool and an
amused scrutiny. He felt himself growing red beneath it.
'Can I do anything for you?' she prompted with the kind of desire of
putting him at his ease.
'Thank you----' He grasped at the first idea that presented itself. 'I'm
stopping at the Hotel du Lac, and Gustavo, you know, told me there was a
villa somewhere around here that belongs to Prince Someone or Other. If
you ring at the gate and give the gardener two francs and a visiting
card, he will let you walk around and look at the trees.'
'I see!' said the girl, 'and so now you are looking for the gate?' Her
tone suggested that she suspected him of trying to avoid both it and the
two francs. 'Prince Sartorio-Crevelli's villa is about half a mile
farther on.'
'Ah, thank you,' he bowed a second time, and then added out of the
desperate need of saying something, 'There's a cedar of Lebanon in it and
an india-rubber plant from South America.'
'Indeed!'
She continued to observe him with polite interest, though she made no
move to carry on the conversation.
'You--are an American?' he asked at length.
'Oh, yes,' she agreed easily. 'Gustavo knows that.'
He shifted his weight.
'I am an American too,' he observed.
'Really?' The girl leaned forward and examined him more closely, an
innocent, candid, wholly detached look in her eyes. 'From your appearance
I should have said you were German--most of the foreigners who visit
Valedolmo are German.'
'Well, I'm not,' he said shortly. 'I'm American.'
'It is a pity my father is not at home,' she returned, '_he_ enjoys
meeting Americans.'
A gleam of anger replaced the embarrassment in the young man's eyes. He
glanced about for a dignified means of escape; they had him pretty well
penned in. Unless he wished to reclimb the wall--and he did not--he must
go by the terrace, which retreat was cut off by the washer-women, or by
the parapet, already occupied by the girl in white and the washing. He
turned abruptly and his elbow brushed a stocking to the ground.
He stooped to pick it up and then he blushed still a shade deeper.
'This is washing day,' observed the girl with a note of apology. She rose
to her feet and stood on the top of the parapet while she beckoned to
Giuseppe, then she turned and looked down upon the young man with an
expression of frank amusement. 'I hope you will enjoy the cedar of
Lebanon and the india-rubber tree. Good afternoon.'
She jumped to the ground and crossed to the water-steps, where Giuseppe,
with a radiant smile, was steadying the boat against the landing. She
settled herself comfortably among the cushions and then for a moment
glanced back towards shore.
'You would better go out by the gate,' she called. 'The wall on the
farther side is harder to climb than the one you came in by; and
besides, it has broken glass on the top.'
Giuseppe raised the yellow sail and the _Farfalla_, with a graceful dip,
glided out to sea. The young man stood eyeing its progress revengefully.
Now that the girl was out of hearing, a number of pointed things occurred
to him which he might have said. His thoughts were interrupted by a fresh
giggle from behind, and he found that the three washer-girls were
laughing at him.
'Your mistress's manners are not the best in the world,' said he
severely, 'and I am obliged to add that yours are no better.'
They giggled again, though there was no malice behind their humour; it
was merely that they found the lack of a language in common a
mirth-provoking circumstance. Marietta, with a flash of black eyes,
murmured something very kindly in Italian, as she shook out a linen
sailor suit--the exact twin of the one that had gone to sea--and spread
it on the wall to dry.
The young man did not linger for further words. Setting his hat firmly on
his head, he vaulted the parapet and strode off down the cypress alley
that stretched before him; he passed the pink villa without a glance. At
the gate he stood aside to admit a horse and rider. The horse was
prancing in spite of the heat; the rider wore a uniform and a shining
sword. There was a clank of accoutrements as he passed, and the wayfarer
caught a gleam of piercing black eyes and a slight black moustache turned
up at the ends. The rider saluted politely and indifferently, and jangled
on. The young man scowled after him maliciously until the cypresses hid
him from view; then he turned and took up the dusty road back towards the
Hotel du Lac.
It was close upon five, and Gustavo was in the courtyard feeding the
parrot, when his eye fell upon the American guest scuffling down the road
in a cloud of white dust. Gustavo hastened to the gate to welcome him
back, his very eyebrows expressive of his eagerness for news.
'You are returned, signore?'
The young man paused and regarded him unemotionally.
'Yes, Gustavo, I am returned--with thanks.'
'You have seen ze Signorina Costantina?'
'Yes, I saw her.'
'And is it not as I have said, zat she is beautiful as ze holy angels?'
'Yes, Gustavo, she is--and just about equally remote. You may make out my
bill.'
The waiter's face clouded.
'You do not wish to remain longer, signore?'
'Can't stand it, Gustavo; it's too infernally restful.'
Poor Gustavo saw a munificent shower of tips vanishing into nothing. His
face was rueful, but his manner was undiminishingly polite.
'_Si_, signore, sank you. When shall you wish ze omnibus?'
'To-morrow morning for the first boat.'
Gustavo bowed to the inevitable; and the young man passed on. He paused
half-way across the courtyard.
'What time does the first boat leave?'
'At half-past five, signore.'
'Er--no--I'll take the second.'
'_Si_, signore. At half-past ten.'