If one must go to jail at all one could scarcely choose a more
entertaining jail than that of Valedolmo. It occupies a structure which
was once a palace; and its cells, planned for other purposes, are
spacious. But its most gratifying feature, to one forcibly removed from
social intercourse, is its outlook. The windows command the Piazza
Garibaldi, which is the social center of the town; it contains the
village post, the fountain, the tobacco shop, the washing-trough, and the
two rival cafès, the "Independenza" and the "Libertà." The piazza is
always dirty and noisy--that goes without saying--but on Wednesday
morning at nine o'clock, it is peculiarly dirty and noisy. Wednesday is
Valedolmo's market day, and the square is so cluttered with booths and
huxters and anxious buyers, that the peaceable pedestrian can scarcely
wedge his way through. The noise moreover is deafening; above the cries
of vendors and buyers, rises a shriller chorus of bleating kids and
squealing pigs and braying donkeys.
Mr. Wilder, red in the face and short of temper, pushed through the crowd
with little ceremony, prodding on the right with his umbrella, on the
left with his fan, and using his elbows vigorously. Constance, serenely
cool, followed in his wake, nodding here and there to a chance
acquaintance, smiling on everyone; the spectacle to her held always fresh
interest. An image vendor close at her elbow insisted that she should buy
a Madonna and Bambina for fifty centesimi, or at least a San Giuseppe for
twenty-five. To her father's disgust she bought them both, and presented
them to two wide-eyed children who in bashful fascination were dogging
their footsteps.
The appearance of the foreigners in the piazza caused such a ripple of
interest, that for a moment the bargaining was suspended. When the two
mounted the steps of the jail and jerked the bell, as many of the
bystanders as the steps would accommodate mounted with them. Nobody
answered the first ring, and Constance pulled again with a force which
sent a jangle of bells echoing through the interior. After a second's
wait--snortingly impatient on Mr. Wilder's part; he was being pressed
close by the none too clean citizens of Valedolmo--the door was opened a
very small crack by a frowsy jailoress. Her eye fell first upon the
crowd, and she was disposed to close it again; but in the act she caught
sight of the Signorina Americana dressed in white, smiling above a
bouquet of oleanders. Her eyes widened with astonishment. It was long
since such an apparition had presented itself at that door. She dropped a
courtesy and the crack widened.
"Your commands, signorina?"
"We wish to come in."
[Illustration: "The two mounted the steps of the jail and jerked the
bell"]
"But it is against the orders. Friday is visiting-day at thirteen
o'clock. If the signorina had a _permesso_ from the _sindaco_, why
then--"
The signorina shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. She had no
_permesso_ and it was too much trouble to get one. Besides, the
_sindaco's_ office didn't open till ten o'clock. She glanced down; there
was a shining two-franc piece in her hand. Perhaps the jailoress would
allow them to step inside away from the crowd and she would explain?
This sounded reasonable; the door opened farther and they squeezed
through. It banged in the faces of the disappointed spectators, who
lingered hopefully a few moments longer, and then returned to their
bargaining. Inside the big damp stone-walled corridor Constance drew a
deep breath and smiled upon the jailoress; the jailoress smiled back.
Then as a preliminary skirmish, Constance presented the two-franc piece;
and the jailoress dropped a courtesy.
"We have heard that Antonio, our donkey-driver, has been arrested for
deserting from the army and we have come to find out about it. My father,
the signore here--" she waved her hand toward Mr. Wilder--"likes Antonio
very much and is quite sure that it is a mistake."
The woman's mouth hardened; she nodded with emphasis.
"_Già_. We have him, the man Antonio, if that is his name. He may not be
the deserter they search--I do not know--but if he is not the deserter he
is something else. You should have heard him last night, signorina, when
they brought him in. The things he said! They were in a foreign tongue; I
did not understand, but I _felt_. Also he kicked my husband--kicked him
quite hard so that he limps today. And the way he orders us about! You
would think he were a prince in his own palace and we were his servants.
Nothing is good enough for him. He objected to the room we gave him first
because it smelt of the cooking. He likes butter with his bread and hot
milk with his coffee. He cannot smoke the cigars which my husband bought
for him, and they cost three soldi apiece. And this morning--" her voice
rose shrilly as she approached the climax--"he called for a bath. It is
true, signorina, a _bath_. _Dio mio_, he wished me to carry the entire
village fountain to his room!"
"Not really?" Constance opened her eyes in shocked surprise. "But surely,
signora, you did not do it?"
The woman blinked.
"It would be impossible, signorina," she contented herself with saying.
Constance, with grave concern, translated the sum of Tony's enormities to
her father; and turned back to the jailoress apologetically.
"My father is very much grieved that the man should have caused you so
much trouble. But he says, that if we could see him, we could persuade
him to be more reasonable. We talk his language, and can make him
understand."
The woman winked meaningly.
"Eh--he pretends he cannot talk Italian, but he understands enough to
ask for what he wishes. I think--and the Signor-Lieutenant who ordered
his arrest thinks--that he is shamming."
"It was a lieutenant who ordered his arrest? Do you remember his
name--was it Carlo di Ferara?"
"It might have been." Her face was vague.
"Of the cavalry?"
"_Si_, signorina, of the cavalry--and very handsome."
Constance laughed. "Well, the plot thickens! Dad, you must come to Tony's
hearing this afternoon, and put it tactfully to our friend the lieutenant
that we don't like to have our donkey-man snatched away without our
permission." She turned back to the jailoress. "And now, where is the
man? We should like to speak with him."
"It is against the orders, but perhaps--I have already permitted the head
waiter from the Hotel du Lac to carry him newspapers and cigarettes. He
says that the man Antonio is in reality an American nobleman from New
York who merely plays at being a donkey-driver for diversion, and that
unless he is set at liberty immediately a ship will come with cannon,
but--we all know Gustavo, signorina."
Constance nodded and laughed.
"You have reason! We all know Gustavo--may we go right up?"
The jailoress called the jailor. They talked aside; the two-franc piece
was produced as evidence. The jailor with a great show of caution got out
a bunch of keys and motioned them to follow. Up two flights and down a
long corridor with peeling frescoes on the walls--nymphs and cupids and
garlands of roses; most incongruous decorations for a jail--at last they
paused before a heavy oak door. Their guide tried two wrong keys, swore
softly as each failed to turn, and finally with an exclamation of triumph
produced the right one. He swung the door wide and stepped back with a
bow.
A large room was revealed, brick-floored and somewhat scanty as to
furniture, but with a view--an admirable view, if one did not mind its
being checked off into iron squares. The most conspicuous object in the
room, however, was its occupant, as he sat, in an essentially American
attitude, with his chair tipped back and his feet on the table. A cloud
of tobacco smoke and a wide spread copy of a New York paper concealed him
from too impertinent gaze. He did not raise his head at the sound of the
opening door but contented himself with growling:
"Confound your impudence! You might at least knock before you come in."
Constance laughed and advanced a hesitating step across the threshold.
Tony dropped his paper and sprang to his feet, his face assuming a shade
of pink only less vivid than the oleanders. She shook her head
sorrowfully.
"I don't need to tell you, Tony, how shocked we are to find you in such a
place. Our trust has been rudely shaken; we had not supposed we were
harboring a deserter."
Mr. Wilder stepped forward and held out his hand; there was a twinkle in
his eye which he struggled manfully to suppress.
"Nonsense, Tony, we don't believe a word of it. You a deserter from the
Italian army? It's preposterous! Where are your naturalization papers?"
"Thank you, Mr. Wilder, but I don't happen to have my papers with me--I
trust it won't be necessary to produce them. You see--" his glance rested
entirely on Mr. Wilder; he studiously overlooked Constance's
presence--"this Angelo Fresi, the fellow they are after, got into a
quarrel over a gambling debt and struck a superior officer. To avoid
being court-martialed he lit out; it happened a month ago in Milan and
they've been looking for him ever since. Now last night I had the
misfortune to tip Lieutenant Carlo di Ferara over into a ditch. The
matter was entirely accidental and I regretted it very much. I, of
course, apologized. But what did the lieutenant do but take it into his
head that I, being an assaulter of superior officers, was, by _a priori_
reasoning, this Angelo Fresi in disguise. Accordingly--" he waved his
hand around the room--"you see me here."
"It's an imposition! Depriving an American citizen of his liberty on any
such trumped-up charge as that! I'll telegraph the consul in Milan.
I'll--"
"Oh, don't trouble. I'll get off this afternoon; they've sent for someone
to identify me, and if he doesn't succeed, I don't see how they can hold
me. In the meantime, I'm comfortable enough."
Mr. Wilder's eye wandered about the room. "H'm, it isn't bad for a jail!
Got everything you need--tobacco, papers? What's this, New York _Sun_
only ten days old?" He picked it up and plunged into the headlines.
Constance turned from the window and glanced casually at Tony.
"You didn't go to Austria after all?"
"I was detained; I hope to get off tomorrow."
"Oh, before I forget it." She removed the basket from her arm and set it
on the table. "Here is some lemon jelly, Tony. I couldn't remember
whether one takes lemon jelly to prisoners or invalids--I've never known
any prisoners before, you see. But anyway, I hope you'll like it;
Elizabetta made it."
He bowed stiffly. "I beg of you to convey my thanks to Elizabetta."
"Tony!" She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and glanced
apprehensively over her shoulder to see if the jailor were listening. "If
by any chance they _should_ identify you as that deserter, just get word
to me and I will have Elizabetta bake you a veal pasty with a rope ladder
and a file inside. I would have had her bake it this morning, only
Wednesday is ironing-day at the villa, and she was so awfully busy--"
"This is your innings," Tony rejoined somewhat sulkily. "I hope you'll
get all the entertainment you can out of the situation."
"Thank you, Tony, that's kind. Of course," she added with a plaintive
note in her voice, "this must be tiresome for you; but it is a pleasant
surprise for me. I was feeling very sad last night, Tony, at the thought
that you were going to Austria and that I should never, never see you any
more."
"I wish I knew whether there's any truth in that statement or not!"
"Any truth! I realize well, that I might search the whole world over and
never find another donkey-man who sings such beautiful tenor, who wears
such lovely sashes and such becoming earrings. Why, Tony--" she took a
step nearer and her face assumed a look of consternation. "You've lost
your earrings!"
He turned his back and walked to the window where he stood moodily
staring at the market. Constance watched his squared shoulders dubiously
out of the corner of her eye; then she glanced momentarily into the hall
where the jailor was visible, his face flattened against the bars of an
open window; and from him to her father, still deep in the columns of his
paper, oblivious to both time and place. She crossed to Tony and stood at
his side peering down at the scene below.
"I don't suppose it will interest you," she said in an off-hand tone, her
eyes still intent on the crowd, "but I got a letter this morning from a
young man who is stopping at the Sole d' Oro in Riva--a very rude letter
I thought."
He whirled about.
"You know!"
"It struck me that the person who wrote it was in a temper and might
afterwards be sorry for having hurt my feelings, and so"--she raised her
eyes momentarily to his--"the invitation is still open."
"Tell me," there was both entreaty and command in his tone, "did you know
the truth before you wrote that letter?"
"You mean, did I know whom I was inviting? Assuredly! Do you think it
would have been dignified to write such an informal invitation to a
person I did not know?"
She turned away quickly and laid her hand on her father's shoulder.
"Come, Dad, don't you think we ought to be going? Poor Tony wants to read
the paper himself."
Mr. Wilder came back to the jail and his companions with a start.
"Oh, eh, yes, I think perhaps we ought. If they don't let you out this
afternoon, Tony, I'll make matters lively for 'em, and if there's
anything you need send word by Gustavo--I'll be back later." He fished in
his pockets and brought up a handful of cigars. "Here's something better
than lemon jelly, and they're not from the tobacco shop in Valedolmo
either."
He dropped them on the table and turned toward the door; Constance
followed with a backward glance.
"Good-bye, Tony; don't despair. Remember that it's always darkest before
the dawn, and that whatever others think, Costantina and I believe in
you. _We_ know that you are incapable of telling anything but the truth!"
She had almost reached the door when she became aware of the flowers in
her hand; she hurried back. "Oh, I forgot! Costantina sent these with
her--with--" She faltered; her audacity did not go quite that far.
Tony reached for them. "With what?" he insisted.
She laughed; and a second later the door closed behind her. He stood
staring at the door till he heard the key turn in the lock, then he
looked down at the flowers in his hand. A note was tied to the stems; his
fingers trembled as he worked with the knot.
"_Caro Antonio mio_," it commenced; he could read that. "_La sua
Costantina_," it ended; he could read that. But between the two was an
elusive, tantalizing hiatus. He studied it and put it in his pocket and
took it out and studied it again. He was still puzzling over it half an
hour later when Gustavo came to inquire if the signore had need of
anything.
Had he need of anything! He sent Gustavo flying to the stationer's in
search of an Italian-English dictionary.
* * * * *
It was four o'clock in the afternoon and all the world--except
Constance--was taking a siesta. The _Farfalla_, anchored at the foot of
the water steps in a blaze of sunshine, was dipping up and down in drowsy
harmony with the lapping waves; she was for the moment abandoned,
Giuseppe being engaged with a nap in the shade of the cypress trees at
the end of the drive. He was so very engaged that he did not hear the
sound of an approaching carriage, until the horse was pulled to a sudden
halt to avoid stepping on him. Giuseppe staggered sleepily to his feet
and rubbed his eyes. He saw a gentleman descend, a gentleman clothed as
for a wedding, in a frock coat and a white waistcoat, in shining hat and
pearl gray gloves and a boutonnière of oleander. Having paid the driver
and dismissed the carriage, the gentleman fumbled in his pocket for his
card-case. Giuseppe hurrying forward with a polite bow, stopped suddenly
and blinked. He fancied that he must still be dreaming; he rubbed his
eyes and stared again, but he found the second inspection more
confounding than the first. The gentleman looked back imperturbably, no
slightest shade of recognition in his glance, unless a gleam of amusement
far, far down in the depths of his eye might be termed recognition. He
extracted a card with grave deliberation and handed it to his companion.
"_Voglio vedere la Signorina Costantina_," he remarked.
The tone, the foreign accent, were both reminiscent of many a friendly
though halting conversation. Giuseppe stared again, appealingly, but the
gentleman did not help him out; on the contrary he repeated his request
in a slightly sharpened tone.
"_Si, signore_," Giuseppe stammered. "_Prego di verire. La signorina è
nel giardino._"
He started ahead toward the garden, looking behind at every third step to
make sure that the gentleman was still following, that he was not merely
a figment of his own sleepy senses. Their direction was straight toward
the parapet where, on a historic wash-day, the signorina had sat beside a
row of dangling stockings. She was sitting there now, dressed in white,
the oleander tree above her head enveloping her in a glowing and fragrant
shade. So occupied was she with a dreamy contemplation of the mountains
across the lake that she did not hear footsteps until Giuseppe paused
before her and presented the card. She glanced from this to the visitor
and extended a friendly hand.
"Mr. Hilliard! Good afternoon."
There was nothing of surprise in her greeting; evidently she did not find
the visit extraordinary. Giuseppe stared, his mouth and eyes at their
widest, until the signorina dismissed him; then he turned and walked
back--staggered back almost--never before, not even late at night on
Corpus Domini day, had he had such overwhelming reason to doubt his
senses.
Constance turned to the visitor and swept him with an appreciative
glance, her eye lingering a second on the oleander in his buttonhole.
"Perhaps you can tell me, is Tony out of jail? I am so anxious to know."
He shook his head.
"Found guilty and sentenced for life; you'll never see him again."
"Ah; poor Tony! I shall miss him."
"I shall miss him too; we've had very good times together."
Constance suddenly became aware that her guest was still standing; she
moved along and made place on the wall. "Won't you sit down? Oh, excuse
me," she added with an anxious glance at his clothes, "I'm afraid you'll
get dusty; it would be better to bring a chair." She nodded toward the
terrace.
He sat down beside her.
"I am only too honored; the last time I came you did not invite me to sit
on the wall."
"I am sorry if I appeared inhospitable, but you came so unexpectedly, Mr.
Hilliard."
"Why 'Mr. Hilliard'? When you wrote you called me 'dear Jerry'."
"That was a slip of the pen; I hope you will excuse it."
"When I wrote I called you 'Miss Wilder'; that was a slip of the pen too.
What I meant to say was 'dear Constance'."
She let this pass without comment.
"I have an apology to make."
"Yes?"
"Once, a long time ago, I insulted you; I called you a kid. I take it
back; I swallow the word. You were never a kid."
"Oh," she dimpled, and then, "I don't believe you remember a thing about
it!"
[Illustration: "Never before had he had such overwhelming reason to doubt
his senses"]
"Connie Wilder, a little girl in a blue sailor suit, and two nice fat
braids of yellow hair dangling down her back with red bows on the
ends--very convenient for pulling."
"You are making that up. You don't remember."
"Ah, but I do! And as for the racket you were making that afternoon, it
was, if you will permit the expression, _infernal_. I remember it
distinctly; I was trying to cram for a math. exam."
"It wasn't I. It was your bad little sisters and brothers and cousins."
"It was you, dear Constance. I saw you with my own eyes; I heard you with
my own ears."
"Bobbie Hilliard was pulling my hair."
"I apologize on his behalf, and with that we will close the incident.
There is something much more important which I wish to talk about."
"Have you seen Nannie?" She offered this hastily not to allow a pause.
"Yes, dear Constance, I have seen Nannie."
"Call me 'Miss Wilder' please."
"I'll be hanged if I will! You've been calling me Tony and Jerry and
anything else you chose ever since you knew me--and long before for the
matter of that."
Constance waived the point.
"Was she glad to see you?"
"She's always glad to see me."
"Oh, don't be so provoking! Give me the particulars. Was she surprised?
How did you explain the telegrams and letters and Gustavo's stories? I
should think the Hotel Sole d'Oro at Riva and the walking trip with the
Englishman must have been difficult."
"Not in the least; I told the truth."
"The truth! Not all of it?"
"Every word."
"How could you?" There was reproach in her accent.
"It did come hard; I'm a little out of practice."
"Did you tell her about--about me?"
"I had to, Constance. When it came to the necessity of squaring all of
Gustavo's yarns, my imagination gave out. Anyway, I had to tell her out
of self-defence; she was so superior. She said it was just like a man to
muddle everything up. Here I'd been ten days in the same town with the
most charming girl in the world, and hadn't so much as discovered her
name; whereas if _she_ had been managing it--You see how it was; I had to
let her know that I was quite capable of taking care of myself without
any interference from her. I even--anticipated a trifle."
"How?"
"She said she was engaged. I told her I was too."
"Indeed!" Constance's tone was remote. "To whom?"
"The most charming girl in the world."
"May I ask her name?"
He laid his hand on his heart in a gesture reminiscent of Tony.
"Costantina."
"Oh! I congratulate you."
"Thank you--I hoped you would."
She looked away, gravely, toward the Maggiore rising from the midst of
its clouds. His gaze followed hers, and for three minutes there was
silence. Then he leaned toward her.
"Constance, will you marry me?"
"No!"
A pause of four minutes during which Constance stared steadily at the
mountain. At the end of that time her curiosity overcame her dignity; she
glanced at him sidewise. He was watching her with a smile, partly of
amusement, partly of something else.
"Dear Constance, haven't you had enough of play, are you never going to
grow up? You are such a kid!"
She turned back to the mountain.
"I haven't known you long enough," she threw over her shoulder.
"Six years!"
"One week and two days."
"Through three incarnations."
She laughed a delicious rippling laugh of surrender, and slipped her hand
into his.
"You don't deserve it, Jerry, after the fib you told your sister, but I
think--on the whole--I will."
Neither noticed that Mr. Wilder had stepped out from the house and was
strolling down the cypress alley in their direction. He rounded the
corner in front of the parapet, and as his eye fell upon them, came to a
startled halt. The young man failed to let go of her hand, and Constance
glanced at her father with an apprehensive blush.
"Here's--Tony, Dad. He's out of jail."
"I see he is."
She slipped down from the wall and brought Jerry with her.
"We'd like your parental blessing, please. I'm going to marry him, but
don't look so worried. He isn't really a donkey-man nor a Magyar nor an
orphan nor an organ-grinder nor--any of the things he has said he was. He
is just a plain American man and an _awful liar_!"
The young man held out his hand and Mr. Wilder shook it.
"Jerry," he said, "I don't need to tell you how pleased--"
"'Jerry!'" echoed Constance. "Father, you knew?"
"Long before you did, my dear." There was a suggestion of triumph in Mr.
Wilder's tone.
"Jerry, you told." There was reproach, scorn, indignation in hers.
Jerry spread out his hands in a gesture of repudiation.
"What could I do? He asked my name the day we climbed Monte Maggiore;
naturally, I couldn't tell him a lie."
"Then we haven't fooled anybody. How unromantic!"
"Oh, yes," said Jerry, "we've fooled lots of people. Gustavo doesn't
understand, and Giuseppe, you noticed, looked rather dazed. Then there's
Lieutenant Carlo di Ferara--"
"Oh!" said Constance, her face suddenly blank.
"You can explain to him now," said her father, peering through the trees.
A commotion had suddenly arisen on the terrace--the rumble of wheels, the
confused mingling of voices. Constance and Jerry looked too. They found
the yellow omnibus of the Hotel du Lac, its roof laden with luggage,
drawn up at the end of the driveway, and Mrs. Eustace and Nannie on the
point of descending. The center of the terrace was already occupied by
Lieutenant di Ferara, who, with heels clicked together and white gloved
hands at salute, was in the act of achieving a military bow. Miss Hazel
fluttering from the door, in one breath welcomed the guests, presented
the lieutenant, and ordered Giuseppe to convey the luggage upstairs. Then
she glanced questioningly about the terrace.
"I thought Constance and her father were here--Giuseppe!"
Giuseppe dropped his end of a trunk and approached. Miss Hazel handed him
the lieutenant's card. "The signorina and the signore--in the garden, I
think."
Giuseppe advanced upon the garden. Jerry's face, at the sight, became as
blank as Constance's. The two cast upon each other a glance of guilty
terror, and from this looked wildly behind for a means of escape. Their
eyes simultaneously lighted on the break in the garden wall. Jerry sprang
up and pulled Constance after him. On the top, she gathered her skirts
together preparatory to jumping, then turned back for a moment toward her
father.
"Dad," she called in a stage whisper, "you go and meet him like a
gentleman. Tell him you are very sorry, but your daughter is not at home
today."
The two conspirators scrambled down on the other side; and Mr. Wilder
with a sigh, dutifully stepped forward to greet the guests.