NAP--AND OTHER THINGS
A whole day as strenuous as the morning Richard had provided would have
been too much for Irma's strength. Fortunately Aunt Caroline came to her
rescue, and insisted on a rest during the early afternoon, and
prescribed a drive later. But after driving a short time, Aunt Caroline
herself suggested visiting the Oratory of San Bernardino, and one or two
other churches where certain masterpieces of Sodoma and other great
artists were to be seen.
In the evening, after dinner, Uncle Jim brought in a number of letters,
forwarded from Rome. There were three for Marion, whose face brightened
perceptibly as he glanced at the envelopes.
"Here are two from Cranston," added Uncle Jim, as he gave Irma hers.
"Cranston," exclaimed Katie, "is there any one here from Cranston? That
is where my grandmother lives."
"I know it," rejoined Irma, whereupon Katie tossed her head with a
little air of exaggerated surprise, as if to say, "And how does it
happen that you know anything about my grandmother?"
"But I do not know your grandmother," continued Irma. "She has been away
ever since I lived there. It is only Nap,--the little dog----"
She could not bring herself to say "your little dog," even if she had
been willing to admit Katie's ownership.
Instantly Katie comprehended. "Oh, you are the girl," she said, "who
found my little Pat."
"Rescued him," began Aunt Caroline, who well knew the story.
"Whereby hangs a tale," added Uncle Jim.
"A dog's tail?" queried Richard, with a boy's desire to make a joke,
although he didn't yet understand the story of this particular Nap.
"I am sure I am very much obliged to you for taking care of my dog,"
said Katie, "though my relations would have kept him for me."
"They didn't seem able to," thought Irma.
"Well, he's Irma's dog now," said Uncle Jim decidedly. "You would be
quite sure he knows to whom he belongs if you could see him follow Irma
about, as I saw him last summer."
"Nap, as you call him, 'Pat' as I say, is still my dog. I have never
given him away. Every one knows that," and Katie looked in defiance at
Irma.
"As the bone of contention is so far away, by which I do not mean that
Pat is unduly thin, it seems as if we might leave the subject in peace
for the present."
"Of course," continued Katie, "I did not expect to be in Europe so long.
But I am to join grandma in Paris next month, and a week or two later we
shall sail. I shall be glad enough to see Pat again."
There was no more just then for Irma to say. She wondered if Katie
really meant what she said. Later, when they were alone, she would ask
her.
Soon Katie left the sitting-room, and Marion and Irma and one or two
others for whom letters had come proceeded to read them.
Richard, who had been politely silent for some time, now turned to
Irma, when he saw she was at leisure. "Would you mind telling us about
the little dog. All I could understand was that Katie intends to have
her own way about something, and when that is the case, it is very hard
to make her change her mind."
"I should like to hear about it, too," said Marion. "I know just a
little about Nap."
"I'll tell you what," cried the resourceful Richard. "There's a little
balcony outside, at the end of the hall, just large enough for four. If
we go there, Ellen, Marion, and Miss Derrington, we can have the whole
story, without disturbing any one else."
"There's really little enough to tell," began Irma, as they seated
themselves outside. "Only, about three years ago, a little less,
perhaps, when I first went to Cranston to live, one morning I met a boy
with a small dog. He asked me to buy it to save it from being shot. The
lady who owned it was going abroad, he said, and had ordered it shot.
But he thought it cruel, and was willing to sell it. Well, I took a
great fancy to the little creature, he had such lovely brown eyes; and
while I was wondering whether I could buy him, Gertrude came along, and
between us we bought him. Gertrude is always so generous." For a moment
Irma was silent, as her mind went back to that memorable October day,
and to the way in which the little dog had helped settle the
misunderstanding between her and Gertrude.
"Then we had to name him, and happened to choose Nap, which sounds so
much like his original 'Pat' that he must have felt pleased."
"But where does Katie come in?" asked Richard.
"That's the strange part of it. We took Nap with us on an excursion to
Concord, and there we ran across Ada Amesbury, who is old Mrs.
Grimston's granddaughter. Nap and she recognized each other at once,
because, you see, he really belonged to Katie Grimston, whose home, you
know, is in Concord."
"Well, if Mrs. Grimston or Katie wished to have the dog shot, just
because they were going to Europe, I can't see why they should object to
your having him!"
"Oh, naturally that story of the boy's was only made up. He saw a
chance to get a little money by selling the dog, and Katie's family
thought Pat was lost. Ada Amesbury was to have taken care of him in
Katie's absence. When I first heard about it I thought I ought to give
Nap up, but Mrs. Amesbury said it was fair for me to keep him until
Katie's return."
"I should say so!" interpolated Richard.
"But now Katie has stayed away so long it will be very hard for us to
part with Nap, especially for my little sister Tessie,--Theresa, I
mean."
"Oh, you and Katie can surely settle the matter now," said Ellen. "She
should be glad enough to let you keep him. A dog is a great trouble to
any one who travels much."
"I suppose Katie will stay at home for some time after she returns.
Perhaps I oughtn't to say Katie behind her back, but I know so many who
speak of her in that way. She has quantities of friends in Cranston."
"Ellen," said Richard, "even though Katie is our cousin, don't you know
her well enough to be sure that if she has once said she would claim
Nap, she is not likely to give in, or give up, or whatever you call it?"
"That's the worst of it," said Ellen; "she isn't easy to influence."
"Oh, well," sighed Irma, "I suppose if she is so fond of Nap, she has a
right to him. Of course we have written to Mrs. Grimston and Ada has
written to Katie, but she has always said she expected to have the dog
on her return."
"You could easily get another pet dog," interposed Marion, who thus far
had taken no part in the discussion.
"It couldn't possibly be the same," and Marion knew that Irma was
despondent.
"It is cold," cried Ellen. "Let us go back to the sitting-room," and as
they passed through the dimly lit hall, Marion saw Irma wipe away a
tear. Had she known that he noticed this, and had she thought the matter
worth explaining, she might have told him that Nap was not alone
responsible for the tear, but that behind it was the feeling of
homesickness, her very strong desire to see Tessie and the boys and her
parents, and yes, even Mahala and Gertrude, and in fact every one in
Cranston.
Marion this evening was more sympathetic than usual, because he had
received a letter with better news than any he had had since leaving
home. Yet such was his reticence that he could not talk of it, even to
Aunt Caroline.
On their return to the sitting-room, when Irma was introduced for the
first time to Mrs. Sanford, she partly understood the reason for
Richard's extreme energy. Mrs. Sanford was pale and delicate in
appearance, and as Richard's father had long been dead, she could see
that he not unnaturally had to take great responsibility, and had had to
make plans that under other conditions would have been first proposed by
his mother.
"It seems a great pity," he was saying to Aunt Caroline, "that you
should not go on with us to San Gimignano. It's a fine drive, right
through the heart of Tuscany, to the queerest old town. You may never
have such a chance again."
"Richard!" exclaimed his mother, smiling, even while her tone held more
or less reproof.
"A chance, I mean, to go with us."
"One carriage would hardly hold seven persons."
"No, there would be two carriages, and each would have a pair of these
fine Sienese horses. I have never seen stronger or better kept beasts in
Europe, and one carriage shall be driven by that rosy-cheeked
_cocchiere_, who has been so devoted to you, mother, and we'll find his
twin for the other carriage, and when any two in one carriage grow tired
of any other two, why they will change places with the others. And we'll
have two huge luncheon baskets for supper on the way, for of course to
avoid the heat we must leave late in the afternoon. Oh, it will be
great; and it's only twenty-five miles, and if you wished you couldn't
go by train, nearer than Poggibonsi."
"You seem to have it so well arranged that the rest of us need not say
or do anything," said Uncle Jim, with an attempt at sarcasm that could
not cut very deep.
"Well, what do the others say? You, Marion, for example?"
"Oh, it might be worth trying," responded Marion, and when no one really
disagreed with Richard, he felt that the matter was settled as he
wished.
The next day Aunt Caroline and Uncle Jim devoted themselves to the
Accademia. With Ellen and Marion, Irma did walk through the Accademia,
with its countless pictures, a complete exhibition of the renowned
Sienese school, but there were very few paintings before which she cared
to linger.
"You won't go shopping with me?" asked Aunt Caroline, as she turned
away. "They make fine old furniture here and beautiful carved frames."
"Yes, and genuine old masters,--madonnas, bambinos, and all the saints,"
said Marion. "Some one has been telling me about them."
"Ah, but I am not looking for an old master," said Aunt Caroline, "and I
shall like the furniture all the better if it isn't old."
The rest of this morning the young people strolled along the narrow
picturesque streets, occasionally going inside some old building where
Richard knew there was something to see, or standing at a corner, he
would give them the details of some bloody street combat between Guelphs
and Ghibellines. Once he took them up into a high building, from which
they viewed the old city wall, and from the same window he pointed
toward the field of Montaperto where the Sienese completely routed their
great enemies, the Florentines.
"The battlefield is six miles away," he explained. "I am only pointing
in its general direction. It's hard to believe that the Sienese killed
twelve thousand Florentines and made six thousand prisoners, though that
was when Siena had a hundred thousand inhabitants, instead of
twenty-five thousand, as now."
Richard took them to the Litza, the pretty park that is thronged with
Sienese, old and young, every afternoon, and he explained the nearness
of the farms that Irma had noticed between the Litza and the back of
their hotel.
Finally in the afternoon she went with Richard and Marion to visit the
house of the famous Saint Catherine, in the street of the dyers, for
Catherine's father, Bernincasa, had been a dyer, and in this small house
Catherine was born in 1347.
Every room of the small house on this steep street had been turned into
a chapel or oratory. Life-size paintings of St. Catherine were on the
wall. The pavement she had trodden was covered with wooden slats. The
rooms where, as a little girl, she had helped her mother in her humble
household tasks were now richly decorated with paintings. There was a
certain solemnity in all the rooms, in the smaller oratories, as in the
larger lower church. The pictures on the walls spoke of the saint's good
deeds, and Richard told stories he had read of her kindness to the poor,
of her comfort to prisoners, in one case staying by young Niccolo di
Toldo, holding his head even while the executioners were severing it.
One of her missions was to the pope at Avignon, another to Rome, where
she went with a band of her disciples, and her influence made itself
felt wherever she was.
"She must have been a wonderful woman. Her memory is as fresh in Siena
as if she had lived but last year, and the reverence for her began even
before her death, more than six hundred years ago."
The rest of the afternoon passed quickly, and all the young people spent
the evening pleasantly together. Although Irma was aware of a slight
unfriendliness on Katie's part, the two girls talked and laughed about
Cranston people, some of whom Katie knew better than Irma, as she had
made many visits at her grandmother's in Cranston.
When the day dawned when Mrs. Sanford and her party were to drive to
San Gimignano, it was clear that Richard had carried his point. Aunt
Caroline at breakfast announced that she had decided to shorten her stay
at Siena. "Our trunks have already gone on to Florence, and there is
nothing to prevent our driving to San Gimignano with the Sanfords." The
plan pleased Irma, who was really anxious to see the strange town that
Richard had described. Uncle Jim professed to be resigned to anything
that suited Aunt Caroline; and Marion, although he said nothing, was
evidently interested in what promised to be a novel experience.
Accordingly, toward four o'clock, two large comfortable carriages drove
up to the door of the _pension_, each drawn by a pair of sturdy horses,
with a young, red-cheeked, amiable driver. All the employes of the
house, down to the cook and a little scullion, lined up beside the door,
with hands extended for the centimes and francs that Uncle Jim and
Richard doled out, some of the boarders waved a good-by from the little
balcony--and then they were off.
At first Marion and Aunt Caroline were in the carriage with Mrs. Sanford
and Katie.
"Families do get so bored by one another travelling," said Richard.
"That's one reason I hoped we might take this trip together. Any one who
grows particularly tired of any one else has only to ask to exchange to
the other carriage. Ellen and I usually get on very well together, but
Katie----"
"Hush, Richard," and Ellen laid a warning finger on her brother's lips.
The road over which they travelled was hard and smooth, and although
houses were few, there was much of interest on every side. Richard
invented many tales by the way, about noble Florentines riding this
road, only to be waylaid and killed by Sienese rivals. In his stories
the Sienese were always as successful as they were in the paintings on
the walls of the public buildings in Siena. Once they stopped to look
back, and the coachman chose the most favorable point for a last view of
the city wall, with one of the old gates.
Richard and Ellen both understood Italian, and spoke it fairly well.
"I have just been complimenting the _cocchiere_ on his accent," said
Richard, "and he took it quite as a matter of course. He says that every
one knows that only in Siena can one hear the true Italian, and that the
strangers who wish to speak Tuscan properly come to Siena to study."
"I thought that it was Florence where one must go," said Ellen.
"Hush, hush," whispered Richard; "if our coachman should understand you,
I should fear for our lives. The very horses might run away and dash us
into a ditch. Florence and Siena forsooth!"
The coachman himself did his part in entertaining them. He pointed out
the entrance to one estate, and told a story or two about its owner,
whose house was set far back and hidden from the road by extensive
woods.
"Where do the working people live who cultivate these great farms?"
asked Ellen, and the man answered by pointing to a large house in the
distance. "Sometimes twenty or thirty people live in one of the houses
of the _contadino_, or farmer. Their real home is in some town, but they
stay with the farmer while he needs them."
Even with the best of company a long ride on a warm afternoon becomes
tiresome. After a time Irma found herself counting the milestones, or
kilometre stones, and she saw that instead of being perfectly plain
blocks, most of them had some little carved ornament. On one hill they
saw a wall that enclosed an old town, and the coachman could hardly find
words to express the rapidity with which the population was diminishing.
"Why in the world should any one wish to live on the top of a hill?"
asked Uncle Jim. "It was all very well when war was their occupation,
but in these piping days of peace it would be too much like work to have
to mount that hill daily for the protection of that old castle wall."
After a while the party came to a place where they could draw up by the
side of the road and examine their lunch baskets.
"The first hotel luncheon I ever saw," exclaimed Uncle Jim, "without
chicken legs and butterless rolls."
"You never before had me to order for you," said Richard. "I know their
tricks and their manners, and so I did a little shopping on my own
account. At this time of day I knew we would need nothing very
substantial, and now you may praise the Sienese fruit and pastry to your
heart's content, for that luncheon came chiefly from the little shops,
and not from the landlady's larder."
"We can show appreciation without mere words." And soon the luncheon
was finished to the last crumb, with due appreciation.
The air was cooler, and shortly they were passing through a factory town
at the foot of a hill. As working hours were just over, people were
sitting at their open doors, or going in and out of the little shops,
much as they would in a New England village. Indeed, Uncle Jim said it
made him think of a certain New Hampshire town that he knew well, until,
as the horses clattered up the hilly street, suddenly at one side were
the high substantial walls of a mediaeval town.
Through an open gate they could see the old, narrow streets and high
houses. In the beginning there had been but a castle here, around which
the town had grown. Now, in modern times, it had spread all over the
hill, or perhaps had spread up from the little mill that had had its
first humble beginning on the stream below.
"I seem to be looking at history as it is made," said Irma.
"That's a fine way of putting it," cried Richard.
"Irma sees things exactly as they are," added Uncle Jim.
Soon they had descended the other side of the high hill they had so
lately mounted. Ahead of them, and still a good distance away, was
another hill with a coronet of slender towers.
"San Gimignano!" exclaimed Richard.
"I have never seen it before, but I know it from the pictures. Isn't it
picturesque? I wanted to surprise you, Ellen, so I have said hardly
anything to you about it. But you all know," and he included Uncle Jim
and Irma in his remarks, "that you are soon to be inside of the one town
in Italy that has kept its old mediaeval towers. If the whole town is as
quaint as the towers, you will thank me for bringing you here."
"We thank you now," said Uncle Jim.
"Why is the carriage ahead waiting for us?" asked Ellen.
"Katie thought you might like to come in here for the rest of the
journey."
"Probably Katie herself wishes to change," whispered Richard.
Whereupon Ellen jumped lightly from the carriage, and a moment later she
and Katie had exchanged places.
San Gimignano lost none of its picturesqueness as they drew near it,
passing olive orchards and vineyards as they went up the hill.
"What a beautiful country!" cried Irma. "The people up there must be
very happy if it is all as pretty."
It was now growing dusk, and the horses took the last turn very quickly.
Irma noticed that Katie was quiet. Could it be that she and Marion had
had some disagreement? The driver hurried on through an arched gateway.
"Oh, a narrow, city street," cried Irma, in a tone of disappointment.
"No matter," responded Richard, as their horse clattered along. "We'll
get some fun out of it to-morrow. Now, in the dusk, I'll admit it does
look rather like a tenement district."
After their long, warm drive, it wasn't a pleasing prospect to find
their hotel on this narrow street instead of in a pleasant garden, as
Katie said she had pictured it.
"At least it is different from any other hotel we have seen," said
Ellen, philosophically, "and we hoped San Gimignano would be rather
queer."
"But not this kind of queerness," Katie continued to protest.