“The Monsignor, whom I had met in New York, and who is one of the most
courtly gentlemen you can imagine, came to see me this morning and
recommended the count without reserve as one of the first gentlemen of
Italy. I guess he's all right, and I agree with my wife that we will put
it up to Gwendolyn and let her do as she likes. If she must have a title
I presume she couldn't do better.”
I was about to suggest that she would need a special allowance for
hair-restorer, but restrained myself. I thought that I wouldn't say
anything disagreeable unless it should be necessary and also susceptible
of proof.
“What does Gwendolyn think of him?” I asked.
“I haven't said a word to Gwendolyn about him--yet. I'll have a talk
with her tomorrow or perhaps to-night. When I awoke this morning about
two o'clock Gwendolyn and her mother were standing by the bed. The girl
has taken the notion that she must do the nursing herself. I haven't
been fair to them. I guess it's up to me to let them do the marrying.
Mrs. Norris seems to like this man, and if Gwendolyn wants him I
shall fall in line. I'm not going to be a Czar even in the interest of
democracy.”
“It's the wisest possible course,” I agreed.
“I wish that you'd post yourself about the sailings,” said he, as I left
him.
I broke a Roman record that evening--went to bed at eight. In Rome the
day doesn't really begin until about that hour. At two o'clock people
are coming out of the cafés, and the blood of Italy is in full song.
Betsey complained that I yelled in my sleep, and I believed her.
The voice of the nightingales awoke me just before daylight. What a
mellow-voiced chorus it is! A man has got to search his memory if he's
going to try to describe it. The softest tones of the flute are in that
song. It has an easy-flowing conversational lilt. It's a kind of
swift, tumbling brook of flute music. As the light grew a noisy band of
sparrows came on the scene. For a little while the soft phrases of
the nightingales were woven into the sparrows' chatter. They ceased
suddenly. I rose and dressed and went down into the little park outside
my windows just as the sun's light began to show in the sky. In a moment
I saw a young lady approaching in one of the garden paths.
She waved to me and called, “Hello, Uncle Soc!”
It was Gwendolyn.
“Child! Why are you not in bed?” I asked.
“I've worked at idleness so long and so hard that I'm taking a little
vacation,” said she. “I sat all night with father. He couldn't sleep,
and we talked and talked, and then I read to him and he fell asleep half
an hour ago, and I came down for a breath of the morning air.”
“Don't get reckless with your holiday--all night is a rather long pull,”
I suggested.
“I enjoyed every minute. You see, I've never had a chance to do anything
for him. My father has always been so busy, and I away in school or
traveling with my mother or Mrs. Mushtop. I was never quite so happy as
I am now.”
“There's nothing so restful as honest toil,” I said. “The fact is you've
been overworking in the past--struggling with luncheons, teas, dinners,
dressmakers, and dances, and getting through at midnight. It's too much
for any human being. If you could only go to work in a laundry or a
kitchen or a sick-room, how restful and soothing it would be!”
“I understand you now, Uncle Soc,” said she. “We must see that it pays.
Last night I was so well paid for my work! I discovered my father. The
night passed like magic and filled me with happiness. To-day life is
worth living. He told me of his boyhood, and I told him of my girlhood
and that I wanted to make it different.
“'You must let me do the nursing,' I said. “'Why?' he asked.
“'Because I love you,' I told him, and what do you think he said?”
“My thinker got overheated and blew up the other day, and is undergoing
repairs,” I answered. “So you'll have to tell me.”
“I shall remember it so long as I live,” she went on, with tears in
her eyes, “for he said, 'I've found a daughter, and it's the best thing
that's happened to me since I found a wife.'”
“My, what a night! You found the greatest luxury in the world, which is
work,” I said. “Don't go to dissipating like a child with a can of jelly
and make yourself sick of it. Go easy. Be temperate.”
“Uncle Soc, you dear old thing!” she exclaimed. “I'm beginning to know
you better, too. I want you to tell me something. Father said that we
should be going home soon. Now, _what_ can I take to Richard? It must be
something very, very nice--something that he will be sure to like.”
“Why take anything to Richard?” I asked. “I refuse to tell you why,”
she answered. “But please remember that I have not the slightest hope of
every marrying Richard.”
“You have lost your heart in Italy,” I said. “But I was kind o' hoping
that you'd recover it.”
“I know that you and father have been worried about that, but you didn't
know me so well as you thought. I had heard much about these Italians,
and they are handsome men, and the Count Raspagnetti is a very grand
gentleman. I have been impressed, for I am as human as other girls, but
I cannot marry the count, and if he asks me I shall tell him so; and
I can do it with a clear conscience, for _I_ have given him no
encouragement.”