Jerry

‘Yes, really and truly—almost as well as I do. He has lived in New York and he speaks English like a dream—real English—not the Gustavo—Lieutenant di Ferara kind. I can understand what he says.’

‘How simply horrible!’

‘Very convenient, I should say.’

‘If there’s anything I detest, it’s an Americanized Italian—and here in Valedolmo of all places, where you have a right to demand something unique and romantic and picturesque and real. It’s too bad of Gustavo! I shall never place any faith in his judgment again. You may talk English to the man if you like; I shall address him in nothing but Italian.’

As they rose from the table she suggested pessimistically, ‘Let’s go and look at the donkeys—I suppose they’ll be horrid, scraggly, knock-kneed little beasts.’

They turned out, however, to be unusually attractive, as donkeys go, and they were innocently engaged in nibbling, not rose leaves, but grass, under the tutelage of a barefoot boy. Constance patted their shaggy mouse-coloured noses, made the acquaintance of the boy, whose name was Beppo, and looked about for the   driver proper. He rose and bowed as she approached. His appearance was even more violently spectacular than she had ordered; Gustavo had given good measure.

He wore a loose white shirt—immaculately white—with a red silk handkerchief knotted about his throat, brown corduroy knee-breeches, and a red cotton sash with the hilt of a knife conspicuously protruding. His corduroy jacket was slung carelessly across his shoulders, his hat was cocked jauntily, with a red heron feather stuck in the band; last, perfect touch of all, in his ears—at his ears rather (a close examination revealed the thread)—two golden hoops flashed in the sunlight. His skin was dark—not too dark—just a good healthy out-door tan: his brows level and heavy, his gaze candour itself. He wore a tiny suggestion of a moustache which turned up at the corners (a suspicious examination of this, might have revealed the fact that it was touched up with burnt cork); there was no doubt but that he was a handsome fellow, and his attire suggested that he knew it.

Constance clasped her hands in an ecstasy of admiration.

‘He’s perfect!’ she cried. ‘Where on earth did Gustavo find him? Did you ever see anything so beautiful?’ she appealed to the others. ‘He looks like a brigand in opera bouffe.’

The donkey-man reddened visibly and fumbled with his hat.

‘My dear,’ her father warned, ‘he understands English.’

She continued to gaze with the open admiration one would bestow upon a picture or a view or a blue-ribbon horse. The man flashed her a momentary glance from a pair of searching grey eyes, then dropped his gaze humbly to the ground.

‘Buon giorno,’ he said in glib Italian.

Constance studied him more intently. There was something elusively familiar about his expression; she was sure she had seen him before.

‘Buon giorno,’ she replied in Italian. ‘You have lived in the United States?’

‘Si, signorina.’

‘What is your name?’

‘I spik Angleesh,’ he observed.

‘I don’t care if you do speak English; I prefer Italian—what is your name?’ She repeated the question in Italian.

‘Si, signorina,’ he ventured again. An anxious look had crept to his face and he hastily turned away and commenced carrying parcels from the kitchen. Constance looked after him, puzzled and suspicious. The one insult which she could not brook was for an Italian to fail to understand her when she talked Italian. As he returned and knelt to tighten the strap of a hamper, she caught sight of the thread that held his earring. She looked a   second longer, and a sudden smile of illumination flashed to her face. She suppressed it quickly and turned away.

‘He seems rather slow about understanding,’ she remarked to the others, ‘but I dare say he’ll do.’

‘The poor fellow is embarrassed,’ apologized her father. ‘His name is Tony,’ he added—even he had understood that much Italian.

‘Was there ever an Italian who had been in America whose name was not Tony? Why couldn’t he have been Angelico or Felice or Pasquale or something decently picturesque?’

‘My dear,’ Miss Hazel objected, ‘I think you are hypercritical. The man is scarcely to blame for his name.’

‘I suppose not,’ she agreed, ‘though I should have included that in my order.’

Further discussion was precluded by the appearance of a station-carriage which turned in at the gate and stopped before them. Two officers descended and saluted. In summer uniforms of white linen with gold shoulder-straps, and shining top-boots, they rivalled the donkey-man in decorativeness. Constance received them with flattering acclaim, while she noted from the corner of her eye the effect upon Tony. He had not counted upon this addition to the party, and was as scowling as she could have wished. While the officers were engaged   in making their bow to the others, Constance casually reapproached the donkeys. Tony feigned immersion in the business of strapping hampers; he had no wish to be drawn into any Italian tête-à-tête. But to his relief she addressed him this time in English.

‘Are these donkeys used to mountain-climbing?’

‘But yes, signorina! Sicuramente. Zay are ver’ strong, ver’ good. Zat donk’, signorina, he go all day and never one little stumble.’

His English, she noted with amused appreciation, was an exact copy of Gustavo’s; he had learned his lesson well. But she allowed not the slightest recognition of the fact to appear in her face.

‘And what are their names?’ she inquired.

‘Dis is Fidilini, signorina, and zat one wif ze white nose is Macaroni, and zat ovver is Cristoforo Colombo.’

Elizabetta appeared in the doorway with two rush-covered flasks, and Tony hurried forward to receive them. There was a complaisant set to his shoulders as he strode off, Constance noted delightedly; he was felicitating himself upon the ease with which he had fooled her. Well! she would give him cause before the day was over for other than felicitations. She stifled a laugh of prophetic triumph and sauntered over to Beppo.

‘When Tony is engaged as a guide do you always go with him?’

‘Not always, signorina, but Carlo has wished me to go to-day to look after the donkeys.’

‘And who is Carlo?’

‘He is the guide who owns them.’

Beppo looked momentarily guilty; the answer had slipped out before he thought.

‘Oh, indeed! But if Tony is a guide why doesn’t he have donkeys of his own?’

‘He used to, but one unfortunately fell into the lake and got drowned, and the other died of a sickness.’

He put forth this preposterous statement with a glance as grave and innocent as that of a little cherub.

‘Is Tony a good guide?’

‘But yes, of the best!’

There was growing anxiety in Beppo’s tone. He divined suspicion behind these persistent inquiries, and he knew that in case Tony were dismissed, his own munificent pay would stop.

‘Do you understand any English?’ she suddenly asked.

He modestly repudiated any great knowledge. ‘A word here, a word there; I learn it in school.’

‘I see!’ She paused for a moment and then inquired casually, ‘Have you known Tony long?’

‘Si, signorina.’

‘How long?’

Beppo considered. Some one, clearly, must vouch for the man’s respectability. This was not in the lesson that had been taught him, but he determined to branch out for himself.

‘He is my father, signorina.’

‘Really! He looks young to be your father—have you any brothers and sisters, Beppo?’

‘I have four brothers, signorina, and five sisters.’ He fell back upon the truth with relief.

‘Davvero!’

The signorina smiled upon him, a smile of such heavenly sweetness that he instantly joined the already crowded ranks of her admirers. She drew from her pocket a handful of coppers and dropped them into his grimy little palm.

‘Here, Beppo, are some soldi for the brothers and sisters. I hope that you will be good and obedient and always tell me the truth.’

CHAPTER V

After some delay—owing to Tony’s inability to balance the chafing-dish on Cristoforo Colombo’s back—they filed from the gateway, an imposing cavalcade. The ladies were on foot, loftily oblivious to the fact that three empty saddles awaited their pleasure. Constance, a gesticulating officer at either hand, was vivaciously   talking Italian, while Tony, trudging behind, listened with a sombre light in his eye. She now and then cast a casual glance over her shoulder, and as she caught sight of his gloomy face the animation of her Italian redoubled. The situation held for her mischief-loving soul undreamed-of possibilities; and though she ostensibly occupied herself with the officers, she by no means neglected the donkey-man.

During the first few miles of the journey he earned his four francs. Twice he reshifted the pack because Constance thought it insecure (it was a disgracefully unprofessional pack; most guides would have blushed at the making of it); once he retraced their path some two hundred yards in search of a veil she thought she had dropped—it turned out that she had had it in her pocket all of the time. He chased Fidilini over half the mountainside while the others were resting, and he carried the chafing-dish for a couple of miles because it refused to adjust itself nicely to the pack. The morning ended by his being left behind with a balking donkey, while the others completed the last ascent that led to their halting-place for lunch.

It was a small plateau shaded by oak trees with a broad view below them, and a mountain stream foaming down from the rocks above. It was owing to Beppo’s knowledge of the mountain paths rather   than Tony’s which had guided them to this agreeable spot; though no one in the party except Constance appeared to have noted the fact. Tony arrived some ten minutes after the others, hot but victorious, driving Cristoforo Colombo before him. Constance welcomed his return with an off-hand nod and set him about preparing lunch. He and Beppo served it and repacked the hampers, entirely ignored by the others of the party. Poor Tony was beginning to realize that a donkey-man lives on a desert island in so far as any companionship goes. But his moment was coming. As they were about to start on, Constance spied high above their heads, where the stream burst from the rocks, a clump of starry white blossoms.

‘Edelweiss!’ she cried. ‘Oh, I must have it—it’s the first I ever saw growing; I hadn’t supposed we were high enough.’ She glanced at the officers.

The ascent was not dangerous, but it was undeniably muddy, and they both wore white; with very good cause they hesitated. And while they hesitated, the opportunity was lost. Tony sprang forward, scrambled up the precipice hand over hand, swung out across the stream by the aid of an overhanging branch, and secured the flowers. It was very gracefully and easily done, and a burst of applause greeted his descent. He divided   his flowers into two equal parts, and sweeping off his hat, presented them with a bow, not to Constance, but to the officers, who somewhat sulkily passed them on. She received them with a smile; for an instant her eyes met Tony’s, and he fell back, rewarded.

The captain and lieutenant for the first time regarded the donkey-man, and they regarded him narrowly, red sash, earrings, stiletto and all. Constance caught the look and laughed.

‘Isn’t he picturesque?’ she inquired in Italian. ‘The head-waiter at the Hotel du Lac found him for me. He has been in the United States and speaks English, which is a great convenience.’

The two said nothing, but they looked at each other and shrugged.

The donkeys were requisitioned for the rest of the journey; while Tony led Miss Hazel’s mount, he could watch Constance ahead on Fidilini, an officer marching at each side of her saddle. She appeared to divide her favours with nice discrimination; it was not her fault if the two were jealous of one another. Tony could draw from that obvious fact what consolation there was in it.

The ruined fortress, their destination, was now exactly above their heads. The last ascent boldly skirted the shoulder of the mountain, and then doubled upward in a series of serpentine coils. Below them   the whole of Lake Garda was spread like a map. Mr. Wilder and the Englishman, having paused at the edge of the declivity, were endeavouring to trace the boundary line of Austria, and they called upon the officers for help. The two relinquished their post at Constance’s side, while the donkeys kept on past them up the hill. The winding path was both stony and steep, and, from a donkey’s standpoint, thoroughly objectionable. Fidilini was well in the lead, trotting sedately, when suddenly, without the slightest warning, he chose to revolt. Whether Constance pulled the wrong rein, or whether, as she affirmed, it was merely his natural badness, in any case, he suddenly veered from the path and took a cross cut down the rocky slope below them. Donkeys are fortunately sure-footed beasts; otherwise the two would have plunged together down the sheer face of the mountain. As it was it looked ghastly enough to the four men below; they shouted to Constance to stick on, and commenced scrambling up the slope with absolutely no hope of reaching her.

It was Tony’s chance a second time to show his agility—and this time to some purpose. He was a dozen yards behind and much lower down, which gave him a start. Leaping forward, he dropped over the precipice, a fall of ten feet, to a narrow ledge below. Running toward them at an   angle, he succeeded in cutting off their flight. Before the frightened donkey could swerve, Tony had seized him—by the tail—and had braced himself against a boulder. It was not a dignified rescue, but at least it was effective; Fidilini came to a halt. Constance, not expecting the sudden jolt, toppled over sidewise, and Tony, being equally unprepared to receive her, the two went down together rolling over and over on the grassy slope.

‘My dear, are you hurt?’

Mr. Wilder, quite pale with anxiety, came scrambling to her side. Constance sat up and laughed hysterically, while she examined a bleeding elbow.

‘N—no, not dangerously—but I think perhaps Tony is.’

Tony however was at least able to run, as he was again on his feet and after the donkey. Captain Coroloni and her father helped Constance to her feet while Lieutenant di Ferara recovered a side-comb and the white sun hat. They all climbed down together to the path below, none the worse for the averted tragedy. Tony rejoined them somewhat short of breath, but leading a humbled Fidilini. Constance, beyond a brief glance, said nothing; but her father, to the poor man’s intense embarrassment, shook him warmly by the hand with the repeated assurance that his bravery should not go unrewarded.

They completed their journey on foot;   Tony following behind, quite conscious that, if he had played the part of hero, he had done it with a lamentable lack of grace.

CHAPTER VI

Tony was stretched on the parapet that bordered the stone-paved platform of the fortress. Above him the crumbling tower rose many feet higher, below him a marvellous view stretched invitingly; but Tony had eyes neither for mediæval architecture nor picturesque scenery. He lay with his coat doubled under his head for a pillow, in a frowning contemplation of the cracked stone pavement.

The four other men, after an hour or so of easy lounging under the pines at the base of the tower, had organized a fresh expedition to the summit a mile farther up. Mr. Wilder, since morning, had developed into an enthusiastic mountain-climber—regret might come with the morrow, but as yet ambition still burned high. The remainder of the party were less energetic. The three ladies were resting on rugs spread under the pines; Beppo was sleeping in the sun, his hat over his face, and the donkeys, securely tethered (Tony had attended to that), were innocently nibbling mountain herbs. There was no obvious reason why, as he lighted a cigarette and stretched himself on the parapet, Tony should not have   been the most self-satisfied guide in the world. He had not only completed the expedition in safety, but had saved the heroine’s life by the way; and even if the heroine did not appear as thankful as she might, still, her father had shown due gratitude, and, what was to the point, had promised a reward. That should have been enough for any reasonable donkey driver.

But it was distinctly not enough for Tony. He was in a fine temper as he lay on the parapet and scowled at the pavement. Nothing was turning out as he had planned. He had not counted on the officers or her predilection for Italian. He had not counted on chasing donkeys in person while she stood and looked on—Beppo was to have attended to that. He had not counted on anything quite so absurd as his heroic capture of Fidilini. Since she must let the donkey run away with her, why, in the name of all that was romantic, could it not have occurred by moonlight? Why, when he caught the beast, could it not have been by the bridle instead of the tail? And above all, why could she not have fallen into his arms, instead of on top of him?

The stage scenery was set for romance, but from the moment the curtain rose the play had persisted in being farce. However, farce or romance, it was all one to him so long as he could play leading-man;   what he objected to was the minor part. The fact was clear that sash and earrings could never compete with uniform and sword and the Italian language. His mind was made up; he would withdraw to-night before he was found out, and leave Valedolmo to-morrow morning by the early boat. Miss Constance Wilder should never have the satisfaction of knowing the truth.

He was engaged in framing a dignified speech to Mr. Wilder—thanking him for his generosity, but declining to accept a reward for what had been merely a matter of duty—when his reflections were cut short by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. They were by no means noiseless footsteps; there were good strong nails all over the bottom of Constance’s shoes. The next moment she appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were centred on the view; she looked entirely over Tony. It was not until he rose to his feet that she realized his presence with a start.

‘Dear me, is that you, Tony? You frightened me! Don’t get up; I know you must be tired.’ This with a sweetly solicitous smile.

Tony smiled too and resumed his seat; it was the first time since morning that she had condescended to consider his feelings. She sauntered over to the opposite side and stood with her back to him examining the view. Tony turned his   back and affected to be engaged with the view in the other direction; he too could play at indifference.

Constance finished with her view first, and crossing over, she seated herself in the deep embrasure of a window close beside Tony’s parapet. He rose again at her approach, but there was no eagerness in the motion; it was merely the necessary deference of a donkey-driver toward his employer.

‘Oh, sit down,’ she insisted, ‘I want to talk to you.’

He opened his eyes with a show of surprise; his hurt feelings insisted that all the advances should be on her part. Constance seemed in no hurry to begin; she removed her hat, pushed back her hair, and sat playing with the bunch of edelweiss which was stuck in among the roses—flattening the petals, rearranging the flowers with careful fingers; a touch, it seemed to Tony’s suddenly clamouring senses, that was almost a caress. Then she looked up quickly and caught his gaze. She leaned forward with a laugh.

‘Tony,’ she said, ‘do you spik any language besides Angleesh?’

He triumphantly concealed all sign of emotion.

‘Si, signorina, I spik my own language.’

‘Would you mind my asking what that language is?’

He indulged in a moment’s deliberation. Italian was clearly out of the question, and French she doubtless knew better than he—he deplored this polyglot education girls were receiving nowadays.

He had it! He would be Hungarian. His sole fellow guest in the hotel at Verona the week before had been a Hungarian nobleman, who had informed him that the Magyar language was one of the most difficult on the face of the globe. There was at least little likelihood that she was acquainted with that.

‘My own language, signorina, is Magyar.’

‘Magyar?’ She was clearly taken by surprise.

‘Si, signorina, I am Hungarian; I was born in Budapest.’ He met her wide-opened eyes with a look of innocent candour.

‘Really!’ She beamed upon him delightedly; he was playing up even better than she had hoped. ‘But if you are Hungarian, what are you doing here in Italy, and how does it happen that your name is Antonio?’

‘My movver was Italian. She name me Antonio after ze blessed Saint Anthony of Padua. If you lose anysing, signorina, and you say a prayer to Saint Anthony every day for nine days, on ze morning of ze tenth you will find it again.’

‘That is very interesting,’ she said   politely. ‘How do you come to know English so well, Tony?’

‘We go live in Amerik’ when I li’l boy.’

‘And you never learned Italian? I should think your mother would have taught it to you.’

He imitated Beppo’s gestures.

‘A word here, a word there. We spik Magyar at home.’

‘Talk a little Magyar, Tony. I should like to hear it.’

‘What shall I say, signorina?’

‘Oh, say anything you please.’

He affected to hesitate while he rehearsed the scraps of language at his command. Latin—French—German—none of them any good—but, thank goodness, he had elected Anglo-Saxon in college; and thank goodness again the professor had made them learn passages by heart. He glanced up with an air of flattered diffidence and rendered, in a conversational inflection, an excerpt from the Anglo-Saxon Bible.

‘Ealle gesceafta, heofonas and englas, sunnan and monan, steorran and eorthan, hè gesceop and geworhte on six dagum.’

‘It is a very beautiful language. Say some more.’

He replied with glib promptness, with a passage from Beowulf—

‘Hie dygel lond warigeath, wulfhleothu, windige naessas.’

‘What does that mean?’

Tony looked embarrassed.

‘I don’t believe you know!’

‘It means—scusi, signorina, I no like to say.’

‘You don’t know.’

‘It means—you make me say, signorina,—“I sink you ver’ beautiful like ze angels in Paradise.”’

‘Indeed! A donkey-driver, Tony, should not say anything like that.’

‘But it is true.’

‘The more reason you should not say it.’

‘You asked me, signorina; I could not tell you a lie.’

The signorina smiled slightly and looked away at the view; Tony seized the opportunity to look sidewise at her. She turned back and caught him; he dropped his eyes humbly to the floor.

‘Does Beppo speak Magyar?’ she inquired.

‘Beppo?’ There was wonder in his tone at the turn her questions were taking. ‘I sink not, signorina.’

‘That must be very inconvenient. Why don’t you teach it to him?’

‘Si, signorina.’ He was plainly nonplussed.

‘Yes, he says that you are his father, and I should think–’

‘His father?’ Tony appeared momentarily startled; then he laughed. ‘He did not mean his real father; he mean—how   you say—his godfather. I give to him his name when he get christened.’

‘Oh, I see!’

Her next question was also a surprise.

‘Tony,’ she inquired with startling suddenness, ‘why do you wear earrings?’

He reddened slightly.

‘Because—because—der’s a girl I like ver’ much, signorina; she sink earrings look nice. I wear zem for her.’

‘Oh!—But why do you fasten them on with thread?’

‘Because I no wear zem always. In Italia, yes; in Amerik’, no. When I marry dis girl and go back home, zen I do as I please, now I haf to do as she please.’

‘H’m–’ said Constance, ruminatingly. ‘Where does this girl live, Tony?’

‘In Valedolmo, signorina.’

‘What does she look like?’

‘She look like–’ His eyes searched the landscape and came back to her face. ‘Oh, ver’ beautiful, signorina. She have hair brown and gold, and eyes—yes, eyes! Zay are sometimes black, signorina, and sometimes grey. Her laugh, it sounds like the song of a nightingale.’ He clasped his hands and rolled his eyes in a fine imitation of Gustavo. ‘She is beautiful, signorina, beautiful as ze angels in Paradise!’