Since their first parting, Vincent and Cranbrook had seen little of
each other. They had met occasionally in the Vatican galleries, in the
palace of the Cæsars, and on the Monte Pincio, and had then stopped to
shake hands and to exchange a few friendly inquiries, but Cranbrook,
for a reason which he strove hard to embellish, had hitherto refrained
from inviting Harry to visit him in his dwelling. The latter had of
course noticed this omission, but had attributed it to a very
pardonable desire on Jack's part to keep him in ignorance as to the
real state of his finances. "He is probably living in some cheap
hovel," he thought, "and he is too proud to wish me to know it. But he
needn't be afraid of my intruding upon his privacy until he himself
opens his door to me." Unfortunately for both, Harry was not destined
to carry out this amiable intention. A hostile fate led him to
encroach upon his friend's territory when he was least suspecting it.
It was a sunny day early in February. Antonio Cæsarelli had saddled an
uncommonly hoary and wise-looking donkey, named Abraham, and, as was
his wont every Saturday, had repaired with it to the Piazza del Fiori,
where he sold _broccoli_ and other vegetables of the cabbage species.
About noon, Annunciata came to bring him his dinner, and after having
enjoyed for a while the sensation she made among the cabbage-dealers,
betook herself on a journey of exploration through the city. Pietro's
tale of the miracles performed at the monkey theatre had given a
lively impetus to her imagination, and being unable to endure any
longer his irritating airs of superior knowledge, she had formed the
daring resolution to put his veracity to the test. She arrived quite
breathless in the Piazza delle Terme, and with much flutter and
palpitation inquired the price of a ticket. The door-keeper paused in
his stentorian address to the multitude that was gathered about him,
and informed her that ten soldi would admit her to the enchanted
realm within. Poor Annunciata's countenance fell; she pulled her seven
soldi from her pocket, counted them three or four times deliberately
in her hand, and cast appealing glances at the stony-hearted Cerberus.
At this moment she discovered a handsome young gentleman who, with his
eyes fixed on her face, was elbowing his way through the crowd.
"Come along, my pretty lass," he said, in doubtful Italian. "Put those
coppers in your pocket and let me get your ticket for you."
Annunciata was well aware that it was a dangerous thing to accept
favors from unknown gentlemen, but just then her conscience refused to
assert itself. Nevertheless, she summoned courage to answer, though in
a voice which betrayed inward wavering:
"No, I thank you, signore; I would rather not."
"Oh, stuff, my child! I won't harm you, and your mother need never
know."
He seized her gently by the arm and pointed toward the canvas door
which was drawn aside to admit another spectator. A gorgeously attired
monkey, riding on a poodle, became visible for an instant through the
aperture. That was too much for Annunciata's conscience.
"But really, signore, I ought not!" she murmured, feebly.
"But we all do so many things that we ought not to do," answered he,
with a brusque laugh. "However, I won't bite you; you needn't be
afraid of me."
And before she knew it he had pushed her in through the door, and she
found herself standing in a large tent, with long circular rows of
benches which rose ampitheatrically from the arena toward the canvas
walls. It was not quite to her taste that he conducted her to a seat
near the roof, but she did not feel at liberty to remonstrate. She sat
staring rigidly at the performances of the poodles and the monkeys,
which were, no doubt, very wonderful, but which, somehow, failed to
impress her as such, for she felt all the while that the gentleman at
her side was regarding her with unaverted gaze. The thought of Signore
Giovanni shot through her mind, and she feared she should never dare
to look into his honest eyes again. Her heart kept hammering against
her side, her blood burned in her cheeks, and she felt guilty and
miserable. And yet she saw, in a sort of blind and unconscious way,
that her escort was a very dazzling phenomenon, and in external finish
much superior to her plain and unassuming lover. Gradually, as she
accustomed herself to her novel situation, she began to bestow her
furtive admiration upon the various ornaments which he carried about
his person in the shape of scarf-pin and sleeve-buttons, and she also
found time to observe that his linen and his handkerchief were
immaculate and of exceeding fineness. The _tout ensemble_ of his
personality made the impression of costliness which, to her
unsophisticated soul, was synonymous with high birth and an exalted
social position.
"If only Signore Giovanni would dress like that," she thought, "how
much more I should love him!"
That was a very disloyal thought, and her conscience immediately smote
her. She arose, thanked her companion tremulously for his kindness,
and hastened toward the door. When she was once more under the open
sky, she drew a full breath of relief, and then hurried away as if the
earth burned under her feet. It was nearly five o'clock when she
reached the garden-gate of the villa; she paused for a moment to
collect her thoughts, to arrange her excuses, and to prepare for the
scolding which she knew was in store for her. She was just about to
turn the key when, to her horror, she saw her unknown companion
stepping out of a _fiacre_, and fearlessly approaching her.
"Surely, child, you didn't imagine you could run away from me in that
style," he said smilingly. "Our acquaintance is not to come to such an
untimely end. You must tell me your name, and, I was going to say,
where you live, but that key will relieve you from the latter
necessity. But, in order to prove to you that I am an honest fellow
and mean no harm to you, here is my card. My name is Henry Vincent, I
am an American, and--and--I should like to meet you again, if you have
no objection."
Annunciata was now seriously alarmed.
"Signore," she faltered, "I am an honest girl, and you must not speak
to me thus."
"By Jove! So am I an honest fellow, and no one need be ashamed of my
acquaintance. If you had anything to fear from me, do you suppose I
would offer you my card, and give you my name? But I _must_ meet you
again; if you don't give me the opportunity, I shall make my
opportunity myself, and that might get you into a scrape and be
unpleasant for both of us. Well, what do you say?"
The young girl stood for a while pondering. Her first impulse was to
cut short the interview by mentioning Cranbrook's name and revealing
her own relation to him. She had an idea that Cranbrook was a sort of
national character and that all Americans must have heard of him. A
second glance at Vincent's splendid attire, however, turned the scale
in his favor.
"About noon next Saturday," she said, scarcely audibly, "I shall be in
the Piazza del Fiori. My father will be there, too."
With a swift movement she tore the garden-gate open, slammed it behind
her and ran up the path toward the terrace.