RI-RI SINGS AGAIN
She told herself that she was foolish to hope for him so soon. Of course
he could not follow at once. He could not leave New York. He had work to
be done. She must not begin to hope until the week-end at least.
But though she talked to herself so wisely, she hoped with every breath
she drew. She was accustomed to Italian precipitancy--and nothing in
Barry Elder suggested delay. If he came, he would come while his memory
of her was fresh.
It would be either here or York Harbor. Either herself or that girl with
the blue eyes. If he really wanted to see her at all, if he had any
memory of their dance, any interest in the newness of her, then he would
come soon.
And so through Maria Angelina's days ran a fever of expectancy.
At first it ran high. The honk of a motor horn, the reverberation of
wheels upon the bridge, the slam of a door and the flurry of steps in
the hall set up that instant, tumultuous commotion.
At any moment, she felt, Barry Elder might arrive. Every morning her
pulses confessed that he might come that day; every night her courage
insisted that the next morning would bring him.
And as the days passed the expectancy increased. It grew acute. It grew
painful. The feeling, at every arrival, that he might be there gave her
a tight pinch of suspense, a hammering racket of pulse-beats--succeeded
by an empty, sickening, sliding-down-to-nothingness sensation when she
realized that he was not there, when her despair proclaimed that he
would never be there--and then, stoutly, she told herself that he would
come the next time.
They were days of dreams for her--dreams of the restaurant, of color,
light and music, of that tall, slim figure . . . dreams of the dance, of
the gay, half-teasing voice, the bright eyes, the direct smile. . . .
Every word he had uttered became precious, infinitely significant.
"_A rivederci_, Signorina. . . . Don't forget me."
She had not forgotten him. Like the wax he had named she had guarded his
image. Through all the swiftly developing experiences of those strange
days she retained that first vivid impression.
She saw him in every group. She pictured him in every excursion. Above
Johnny Byrd's light, straight hair she saw those close-cropped brown
curls. . . . She held long conversations with him. She confided her
impressions. She read him Italian poems.
But still he did not come.
And sharply she went from hope to despair. She told herself that he
would never come.
She did not believe herself. Beneath a set little pretense of
indifference she listened intently for the sound of arrivals; her heart
turned over at an approaching car.
But she did not admit it. She said that she was through with hope. She
said that she did not care whether he came or not. She said she did not
want him to come.
He was with Leila Grey, of course.
Well--she was with Johnny Byrd.
She was with him every day, for with that amazing American freedom,
Bobby Martin came down to see Ruth every day and the four young people
with other couples from the Lodge were always involved in some game,
some drive, some expedition.
But it was not accident nor a lazy concurrence with propinquity that
kept Johnny Byrd at Maria Angelina's side.
Openly he announced himself as tied hand and foot. His admiration was as
vivid as his red roadster. It was as unabashed and clamant as his motor
horn. He reveled in her. He monopolized her. In his own words, he
lapped her up.
With amazing simplicity Maria Angelina accepted this miracle. It was
only a second-rate miracle to her, for it was not the desire of her
heart, and she was uneasy about it. She did not want to be involved with
Johnny Byrd if Barry Elder should arrive. . . . Of course, if she had
never met Barry Elder. . . .
Johnny Byrd was a very nice, merry boy. And he was rich . . .
independent. . . . If one has never tasted _Asti Spumante_, then one can
easily be pleased with _Chianti_.
Her secret dream was the young girl's protection against over-eagerness.
To her young hostess this indifference came as an enormous relief.
"She's all right," Ruth reported to her mother, upon an afternoon that
Maria Angelina had taken herself downstairs to the piano and to a
prospective call from Johnny Byrd while Ruth herself, in riding togs,
awaited Bob Martin and his horses.
"She isn't jumping down Johnny's throat at all," the girl went on. "I
was afraid, that first day, when she asked such nutty questions. . . .
But she seems to take it all for granted. That ought to hold Johnny for
a while--long enough so he won't get tired and throw her down for
somebody else before he goes."
"You think, then, there isn't a chance of----?"
Mrs. Blair left the hypothesis in midair, convicted of ancient sentiment
by the frank amusement of her young daughter's look.
"No, my dear, there isn't a chance of," Ruth so competently informed her
that Mrs. Blair, in revolt, was moved to murmur, "After all, Ruth,
people do fall in love and get married in this world."
"Oh, yes."
Patiently Ruth gave this thought her consideration and in
fair-mindedness turned her scrutiny upon past days to evoke some sign
that should contradict her own conclusions.
"She's got something--it's something different from the rest of us--but
it would take more than that to do for Johnny Byrd."
Definitely, Ruth shook her head.
"You don't suppose she's beginning to think----?" hazarded Mrs. Blair.
Better than her daughter, she envisaged the circumstances which might
have led, in her Cousin Lucy's mind, to this young girl's visit. Lucy,
herself, had been taken abroad in those early days by a competent aunt.
Now Lucy, in the turn of the tide, was sending her daughter to America.
Jane Blair would have liked to play fairy godmother, to make a
benevolent gesture, to scatter largess. . . .
But she was not going to have it said that she was a fortune hunter. She
was not going to alarm Johnny Byrd and implicate Bob Martin and disturb
the delicate balance between him and Ruth.
Lucy's daughter must take her chances. This wasn't Europe.
"Well, I've said enough to her," Ruth stated briskly, in answer to her
mother's supposition. "I don't know how much she believes. . . . You
know Ri-Ri is seething with Old World sentiment and she may be such a
little nut as to think--but she doesn't act as if she really cared about
it. It isn't just a pose. . . . Do you imagine," said Ruth, suddenly
lapsing into a little Old World sentiment herself, "that she's gone on
some one in Italy and they sent her over to forget him? That might
account----"
"Lucy's letter didn't sound like it. She was very emphatic about Maria
Angelina's knowing nothing of the world or young men. I rather
gathered," Mrs. Blair made out, "that the family had a plain daughter to
marry off and wanted the pretty one in ambush for a while--they take
care of those things, you know."
"And I suppose if she copped a millionaire in the ambush they wouldn't
howl bloody murder," said the girl, with admirable intuition.
"Oh, well----" She yawned and looked out of the window. "She's probably
having the time of her life. . . . I'm grateful she turned out such a
little peach. . . . When she goes back and marries some fat spaghetti it
will give her something to moon about to remember how she and Johnny
Byrd used to sit out and strum to the stars---- There he is now."
"Bob?" said Mrs. Blair absently, her mind occupied by her young
daughter's large sophistication.
"Johnny," said Ruth.
She leaned half out the window as the red roadster shot thunderously
across the rustic bridge and brought up sharply on the driveway below.
With a shouted greeting she brought the driver's red-blonde head to
attention.
"Hullo--where's the Bob?"
Johnny grinned. "Trying to ride one horse and lead another. Sweet mount
he's bringing you, Ruth. Didn't like the way I passed him. Bet you he
throws you."
"Bet you he doesn't."
"You lose. . . . Where's the little Wop?"
"You mean Maria Angelina Santonini?"
"Gosh, is that all? Well, you scoot across to her room and tell Maria
Angelina Santonini that she has a perfectly good date with me."
"She powdered her nose and went down stairs an hour ago," Ruth sang
down, just as a small figure emerged from the music room upon the
veranda and approached the rail.
"The little Wop is here, Signor," said Maria Angelina lightly.
Unabashed Johnny Byrd beamed at her. It was a perfectly good sensation,
each time, to see her. One grew to suspect, between times, that anything
so enchanting didn't really exist--and then, suddenly, there she was,
like a conjurer's trick, every lovely young line of her.
Johnny knew girls. He knew them, he would have informed you, backwards
and forwards. And he liked girls--devilish cunning games, with the same
old trumps up their sleeves--when they wore 'em--but this girl was just
puzzlingly different enough to evoke a curiously haunting wonder.
Was it the difference in environment? Or in herself? He couldn't quite
make her out.
He seemed to be groping for some clew, some familiar sign that would
resolve all the unfamiliarities to old acquaintance.
Meanwhile he continued to smile cheerily at the young person he had so
rudely designated as a little Wop and gestured to the seat beside him.
"Hop in," he admonished. "Let us be off before that horse comes and
steps on me. That's a dear girl."
But Maria Angelina shook her dark head.
"I told you, no, Signor, I could not go. In my country one does not ride
with young men."
"But you are in my country now. And in my country one jolly well rides
with young men."
"In your country--but for a time, yes." Unconvinced Maria Angelina stood
by her rail, like the boy upon the burning deck.
"But your aunt--cousin, I mean--would let you," he argued. "I'll shout
up now and see----"
Unrelentingly, "It is not my cousin, but my mother who would object,"
she informed him.
"Holy Saint Cecilia! You're worse than boarding school. Come on, Maria
Angelina--I'll promise not to kiss you."
That was one of Johnny's best lines. It always had a deal of effect--one
way or another. It startled Maria Angelina. Her eyes opened as if he had
set off a rocket--and something very bright and light, like the impish
reflections of that rocket, danced a moment in her look.
"I will write that promise to my mother and see if it persuades her,"
she informed him.
"Oh, all right, all right."
With the sigh of the defeated Johnny Byrd turned off the gas and climbed
out of his car.
"Just for that the promise is off," he announced. "Do you think your
mother would mind letting you sit in the same room with me and teach me
that song you promised?"
"She would mind very much in Italy." Over her shoulder Maria cast a
laughing look at him as she stepped back into the music room. "There I
would never be alone like this."
Incredulously Johnny stared past her into the music room. Through the
windows upon the other side came the voices of bridge players upon the
veranda without. Through those same windows were visible the bridge
players' heads. Other windows opened upon the veranda in the front of
the Lodge from which they had just come. An arch of doorway gave upon
the wide hall where a guest was shuffling the mail.
"_Alone!_" ejaculated Johnny.
"My mother allows this when my sister Lucia and her fiance, Paolo Tosti,
are together," said Maria Angelina. "I am in the next room with a book.
And that is very advanced. It is because Mamma is American."
"I'll say it's advanced," Johnny muttered. "You mean--you mean your
sister and that--that toasted one she's engaged to have never really
seen each other----?"
"Oh, they have _seen_ each other----"
"The poor fish," said Johnny heavily. He glanced with increasing
curiosity at the young girl by his side. . . . After all, this _jeune
fille_ thing might be true. . . .
"Well, I'm glad your mother was American," he declared, beginning to
strum upon the piano and inviting her to a seat beside him.
But Maria Angelina remained looking through her music.
"Then I am only half a Wop," said she. She added, bright mischief
between her long lashes, "What is it then--a Wop?"
Johnny Byrd, striking random chords, looked up at her.
"What is it?" he repeated. "I'll say that depends. . . . Sometimes it's
dark and greasy and throws bombs. . . . Sometimes it's bad and glad and
sings Carmen. . . . And sometimes it's--it's----"
Deliberately he stared at the small braid-bound head, the shadowy dark
of the eyes, the scarlet curve of the small mouth.
"Sometimes it's just the prettiest, youngest----"
"I am _not_ so young," said Maria Angelina indignantly.
"Lordy, you're a babe in arms."
"I am _not_." Her defiance was furious. It had a twinge of
terror--terror lest they treat her everlastingly as child.
"I am eighteen. I am but a year and three months younger than Ruth."
"She's a kid," grinned Johnny.
"The Signor Bob Martin does not think so!"
"The Signor Bob Martin is nuts on that particular kid. And he's a kid
himself."
"And do you think that you are----?"
"Sure. We're all kids together. Why not? I like it," declared young
Byrd.
But Maria Angelina was not appeased. She had half glimpsed that
indefinite irresponsibility of these strangers which treated youth as a
toy, an experiment. . . .
"And is the Signorina Leila Grey," said she suddenly, "is she, also, a
kid?"
Roundly Johnny opened his eyes. His face presented a curious stolidity
of look, as if a protection against some unforeseen attack. At the same
time it was streaked with humor.
"Now where," said he, "did you get that?"
"Is she," the girl persisted, "is she also a kid?"
"The Signorina Leila Grey? No," conceded Johnny, "the Signorina Leila
Grey was born with her wisdom teeth cut. . . . At that she hasn't found
so much to chew on," he murmured cheerily.
The girl's eyes were bright with divinations. "You mean that she did
not--did not find your friend Bob something to chew upon?"
Johnny's laugh was a guffaw. It rang startlingly in that quiet room.
"You're there, Ri-Ri--absolutely there," he vowed. "But where, I
wonder----" He broke off. His look held both surmise and a shrewd
suspicion.
"I--guessed," said Maria Angelina hastily. "And I saw her the first
evening in New York. . . . She is very beautiful."
"She's a wonder," he admitted heartily. "Yes--and I'll say Bob nearly
fell for her. If she'd been expert enough she could have gathered him
in. He just dodged in time--and now he's busy forgetting he ever knew
her."
"Perhaps," slowly puzzled out Maria Angelina, "perhaps the reason that
she was not--not expert, as you say--was because her attention was just
a little--wandering."
Johnny yawned. "Often happens." He struck a few chords. "Where's that
little song of yours--the one you were going to teach me? I could do
something with that at the next show at the club."
"If you will let me sit down, Signor----"
"I'm not crabbing the bench."
"But I wish the place in the center."
"What you 'fraid of, Ri-Ri?" Obligingly Johnny moved over. "Why, you
have me tied hand and foot. I'm afraid to move a muscle for fear you'll
tell me it isn't done--in Italy."
But Ri-Ri gave this an absent smile. For long, now, she had been leading
up to this talk and she felt herself upon the brink of revelations.
. . . Perhaps this Johnny Byrd knew where Barry Elder was. Perhaps they
were friends. . . .
"In New York," she told him, "that Leila Grey was at the restaurant with
a young man--with the Signor Barry Elder."
"Huh? Barry Elder?"
"Are you,"--she was proud of the splendid indifference of her
voice,--"are you a friend of his?"
Uninterestedly, "Oh, I know Barry," Johnny told her. "Bright boy--Barry.
Awful high-brow, though. Wrote a play or something. Not a darn bed in
it. Oh, well," said Johnny hastily, with a glance at the girl's young
face, "I say, how does this go? Ta _tump_ ti tum ti _tump tump_--what do
those words of yours mean?"
"Perhaps this Barry Elder," said Ri-Ri with averted eyes, her hands
fluttering the pages, "perhaps he is the one that Leila Grey's attention
was upon. Did you not hear that?"
"Who? Barry?"
"Has he not," said the girl desperately, "become recently more desirable
to her--more rich, perhaps----"
"That play didn't make him anything, that's sure," the young man
meditated. "But seems to me I did hear--something about an uncle
shuffling off and leaving him a few thous. . . . Maybe he left enough to
buy Leila a supper."
"Here are the English words." Maria Angelina spread the music open
before them. "Mrs. Blair was joking with him," she reverted, "because he
was not going to that York Harbor this summer where this Leila Grey was.
But perhaps he has gone, after all?"
"Search me," said Johnny negligently. "I'm not his keeper."
"But you would know if he is coming to the dance at the Martins--that
dance next week----?"
"He isn't coming to the house party, he's not invited. He and Bob aren't
anything chummy at all. Barry trains in an older crowd. . . . Seems to
me," said Johnny, turning to look at her out of bright blue eyes,
"you're awf'ly interested in this Barry Elder thing. Did you say you met
him in New York?"
"I met him--yes," said Maria Angelina, in a steady little voice,
beginning suddenly to play. "And I thought it was so romantic--about him
and this Leila Grey. She was so beautiful and he had been so brave in
the war. And so I wondered----"
"Well, don't you wonder about who's coming to that dance. That dance is
_mine_," said Johnny definitely. "I want you to look your darndest--put
it all over those flappers. Show them what you got," admonished Johnny
with the simple directness in such vogue.
"And now come on, Ri-Ri--let's get into this together.
'I cannot now forget you
And you think not of me!'
_Come_ on, Maria Angelina!"
And Maria Angelina, her face lifted, her eyes strangely bright, sang,
while Johnny Byrd stared fixedly down at her, angrily, defiantly, sang
to that unseen young man--back in the shadows----
"I cannot now forget you
And you think not of me!"
And then she told herself that she would forget him very well indeed.