Jerry

  CHAPTER IV

  The table was set on the terrace; breakfast was served and the companywas gathered. Breakfast consisted of the usual caffe-latte, rolls andstrained honey, and--since a journey was to the fore and somethingsustaining needed--a soft-boiled egg apiece. There were four personspresent, though there should have been five. The two guests were anEnglishman and his wife, whom the chances of travel had brought overnight to Valedolmo.

  Between them, presiding over the coffee machine, was Mr. Wilder's sister,'Miss Hazel'--never 'Miss Wilder' except to the butcher and baker. It wasthe cross of her life, she had always affirmed, that her name was notMary or Jane or Rebecca. 'Hazel' does well enough when one is eighteenand beautiful, but when one is fifty and no longer beautiful, it islittle short of absurd. But if any one at fifty could carry such a namegracefully, it was Miss Hazel Wilder; her fifty years sat as jauntily asConstance's twenty-two. This morning she was very business-like in hershort skirt, belted jacket, and green felt Alpine hat with a feather inthe side. No one would mistake her for a cyclist or a golfer or amotorist or anything in the world but an Alpine climber; whatever MissHazel was or was not, she was always _game_.

  Across from Miss Hazel sat her brother in knickerbockers, his Alpinestock at his elbow and also his fan. Since his domicile in Italy, Mr.Wilder's fan had assumed the nature of a symbol; he could no more beseparated from it than St. Sebastian from his arrows or St. Laurence fromhis gridiron. At Mr. Wilder's elbow was the empty chair where Constanceshould have been--she who had insisted on six as a proper breakfast hour,and had grudgingly consented to postpone it till half-past out ofdeference to her sleepy-headed elders. Her father had finished his eggand hers too, before she appeared, as nonchalant and smiling as if shewere out the earliest of all.

  'I think you might have waited!' was her greeting from the doorway.

  She advanced to the table, saluted in military fashion, dropped a kiss onher father's bald spot, and possessed herself of the empty chair. She toowas clad in mountain-climbing costume, in so far as blouse and skirt andleather leggings went, but above her face there fluttered the fluffywhite brim of a ruffled sun hat with a bunch of pink rosebuds set overone ear.

  'I am sorry not to wear my own Alpine hat, Aunt Hazel; I look sodeliciously German in it, but I simply can't afford to burn all the skinoff my nose.'

  'You can't make us believe that,' said her father. 'The reason is, thatLieutenant di Ferara and Captain Coroloni are going with us to-day, andthat this hat is more becoming than the other.'

  'It's one reason,' Constance agreed imperturbably, 'but, as I say, Idon't wish to burn the skin off my nose, because that is unbecoming too.You are ungrateful, Dad,' she added as she helped herself to honey with aliberal hand, 'I invited them solely on your account because you like tohear them talk English. Have the donkeys come?'

  'The donkeys are at the back door nibbling the buds off the rose bushes.'

  'And the driver?'

  'Is sitting on the kitchen doorstep drinking coffee and smiling over thetop of his cup at Elizabetta. There are two of him.'

  'Two! I only ordered one.'

  'One is the official driver and the other is a boy whom he has broughtalong to do the work.'

  Constance eyed her father sharply. There was something at once guilty andtriumphant about his expression.

  'What is it, Dad?' she inquired sternly. 'I suppose he has not got a sashand earrings.'

  'On the contrary, he has.'

  'Really? How clever of Gustavo! I hope,' she added anxiously, 'that hetalks good Italian?'

  'I don't know about his Italian, but he talks uncommonly good English.'

  'English!' There was reproach, disgust, disillusionment, in her tone.'Not really, father?'

  'Yes, really and truly--almost as well as I do. He has lived in New Yorkand he speaks English like a dream--real English--not theGustavo--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 inValedolmo of all places, where you have a right to demand somethingunique and romantic and picturesque and real. It's too bad of Gustavo! Ishall never place any faith in his judgment again. You may talk Englishto 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 andlook at the donkeys--I suppose they'll be horrid, scraggly, knock-kneedlittle beasts.'

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

  He wore a loose white shirt--immaculately white--with a red silkhandkerchief knotted about his throat, brown corduroy knee-breeches, anda red cotton sash with the hilt of a knife conspicuously protruding. Hiscorduroy jacket was slung carelessly across his shoulders, his hat wascocked jauntily, with a red heron feather stuck in the band; last,perfect touch of all, in his ears--at his ears rather (a closeexamination revealed the thread)--two golden hoops flashed in thesunlight. His skin was dark--not too dark--just a good healthy out-doortan: his brows level and heavy, his gaze candour itself. He wore a tinysuggestion of a moustache which turned up at the corners (a suspiciousexamination of this, might have revealed the fact that it was touched upwith 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 youever see anything so beautiful?' she appealed to the others. 'He lookslike 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 apicture or a view or a blue-ribbon horse. The man flashed her a momentaryglance from a pair of searching grey eyes, then dropped his gaze humblyto the ground.

  '_Buon giorno_,' he said in glib Italian.

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

  '_Buon giorno_,' she replied in Italian. 'You have lived in the UnitedStates?'

  '_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 yourname?' She repeated the question in Italian.

  '_Si_, signorina,' he ventured again. An anxious look had crept to hisface and he hastily turned away and commenced carrying parcels from thekitchen. Constance looked after him, puzzled and suspicious. The oneinsult which she could not brook was for an Italian to fail to understandher when she talked Italian. As he returned and knelt to tighten thestrap of a hamper, she caught sight of the thread that held his earring.She looked a second longer, and a sudden smile of illumination flashedto 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 isTony,' he added--even he had understood that much Italian.

  'Was there ever an Italian who had been in America whose name was notTony? Why couldn't he have been Angelico or Felice or Pasquale orsomething decently picturesque?'

  'My dear,' Miss Hazel objected, 'I think you are hypercritical. The manis scarcely to blame for his name.'

  'I suppose not,' she agreed, 'though I should have included that in myorder.'

  Further discussion was precluded by the appearance of a
station-carriagewhich turned in at the gate and stopped before them. Two officersdescended and saluted. In summer uniforms of white linen with goldshoulder-straps, and shining top-boots, they rivalled the donkey-man indecorativeness. Constance received them with flattering acclaim, whileshe noted from the corner of her eye the effect upon Tony. He had notcounted upon this addition to the party, and was as scowling as she couldhave wished. While the officers were engaged in making their bow to theothers, Constance casually reapproached the donkeys. Tony feignedimmersion in the business of strapping hampers; he had no wish to bedrawn into any Italian _tete-a-tete_. But to his relief she addressed himthis time in English.

  'Are these donkeys used to mountain-climbing?'

  'But yes, signorina! _Sicuramente_. Zay are ver' strong, ver' good. Zatdonk', signorina, he go all day and never one little stumble.'

  His English, she noted with amused appreciation, was an exact copy ofGustavo's; he had learned his lesson well. But she allowed not theslightest 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 Tonyhurried forward to receive them. There was a complaisant set to hisshoulders as he strode off, Constance noted delightedly; he wasfelicitating himself upon the ease with which he had fooled her. Well!she would give him cause before the day was over for other thanfelicitations. She stifled a laugh of prophetic triumph and saunteredover 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 lookafter the donkeys.'

  'And who is Carlo?'

  'He is the guide who owns them.'

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

  'Oh, indeed! But if Tony is a guide why doesn't he have donkeys of hisown?'

  '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 andinnocent 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 behindthese 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; Ilearn it in school.'

  'I see!' She paused for a moment and then inquired casually, 'Have youknown Tony long?'

  '_Si_, signorina.'

  'How long?'

  Beppo considered. Some one, clearly, must vouch for the man'srespectability. This was not in the lesson that had been taught him, buthe determined to branch out for himself.

  'He is my father, signorina.'

  'Really! He looks young to be your father--have you any brothers andsisters, Beppo?'

  'I have four brothers, signorina, and five sisters.' He fell back uponthe truth with relief.

  '_Davvero_!'

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

  'Here, Beppo, are some soldi for the brothers and sisters. I hope thatyou will be good and obedient and _always_ tell me the truth.'