He reached the place to find Lieutenant Carlo di Ferara already there. Now the Lieutenant’s purpose was exactly as innocent as Tony’s own; he merely wished to assure himself that Captain Coroloni was not before him. It was considered a joke at the tenth cavalry mess to detail one or the other of the officers to call on the Americans at the same time that Lieutenant di Ferara called. He was not spying on the family, merely on his meddling brother officers.
Tony of course could know nothing of this, and as his eyes fell upon the lieutenant, there was apparent in their depths a large measure of contempt. A lieutenant in the Royal Italian Cavalry can afford to be generous in many things, but he cannot afford to swallow contempt from a donkey-driver. The signorina was not present this time; there was no reason why he should not punish the fellow. He dropped his hand on Tony’s shoulder—on his collar to be exact—and whirled him about. The action was accompanied by some vigorous colloquial Italian—the gist of it being that Tony was to mind his own business and mend his manners. The lieutenant had a muscular arm, and Tony turned. But Tony had not played quarterback four years for nothing; he tackled low, and the next moment the lieutenant was rolling down the bank of a dried stream that stretched at their feet. No one likes to roll down a dusty stony bank, much less an officer in immaculate uniform on the eve of paying a formal call upon ladies. He picked himself up and looked at Tony; he was quite beyond speech.
Tony looked back and smiled. He swept off his hat with a deferential bow. “Scusi,” he murmured, and jumped over the wall into the grounds of Villa Rosa.
The lieutenant gasped. If anything could have been more insultingly inadequate to the situation than that one word scusi, it did not at the moment occur to him. Jeering, blasphemy, vituperation, he might have excused, but this! The shock jostled him back to a thinking state.
Here was no ordinary donkey-driver. The hand that had rested for a moment on his arm was the hand of a gentleman. The man’s face was vaguely, elusively familiar; if the lieutenant had not seen him before, he had at least seen his picture. The man had pretended he could not talk Italian, but—scusi—it came out very pat when it was needed.
An idea suddenly assailed Lieutenant di Ferara. He scrambled up the bank and skirted the wall, almost on a run, until he reached the place where his horse was tied. Two minutes later he was off at a gallop, headed for the house of the prefect of police of Valedolmo.
CHAPTER XVI
Tony jumped over the wall. He might have landed in the midst of a family party; but in so much luck was with him. He found the Farfalla bobbing at the foot of the water steps with Mr. Wilder and Miss Hazel already embarked. They were waiting for Constance, who had obligingly run back to the house to fetch the rainbow shawl (finished that afternoon) as Miss Hazel distrusted the Italian night breeze.
Constance stepped out from the door as Tony emerged from the bushes. She regarded him in startled surprise; he was still in some slight disarray from his encounter with the lieutenant.
“May I speak to you, Miss Wilder? I won’t detain you but a moment.”
She nodded and kept on, her heart thumping absurdly. He had received the letter of course; and there would be consequences. She paused at the top of the water steps.
“You go on,” she called to the others, “and pick me up on your way back. Tony wants to see me about something, and I don’t like to keep Mrs. Eustace and Nannie waiting.”
Giuseppe pushed off and Constance was left standing alone on the water steps. She turned as Tony approached; there was a touch of defiance in her manner.
“Well?”
He came to her side and leaned carelessly against the parapet, his eyes on the Farfalla as she tossed and dipped in the wash of the Regina Margarita which was just puffing out from the village landing. Constance watched him, slightly taken aback; she had expected him to be angry, sulky, reproachful—certainly not nonchalant. When he finally brought his eyes from the water, his expression was mildly melancholy.
“Signorina, I have come to say good bye. It is very sad, but tomorrow, I too—” he waved his hand toward the steamer—“shall be a passenger.”
“You are going away from Valedolmo?”
He nodded.
“Unfortunately, yes. I should like to stay, but—” he shrugged—“life isn’t all play, Miss Wilder. Though one would like to be a donkey-man forever, one only may be for a summer’s holiday. I am your debtor for a unique and pleasant experience.”
She studied his face without speaking. Did it mean that he had got the letter and was hurt, or did it perhaps mean that he had got the letter and did not care to appear as Jerry Junior? That he enjoyed the play so long as he could remain incognito and stop it where he pleased, but that he had no mind to let it drift into reality? Very possibly it meant—she flushed at the thought—that he divined Nannie’s plot, and refused also to consider the fourth candidate.
She laughed and dropped into their usual jargon.
“And the young American man, Signor Abraham Lincoln, will he come tomorrow for tea?”
“Ah, signorina, he is desolated, but it is not possible. He has received a letter and he must go; he has stopped too long in Valedolmo. Tomorrow morning early, he and I togever, we sail away to Austria.” His eyes went back to the trail of smoke left by the little steamer.
“And Costantina, Tony. You are leaving her behind?” It took some courage to put this question, but she did not flinch; she put it with a laugh which contained nothing but raillery.
Tony sighed—a deep melodramatic sigh—and laid his hand on his heart.
“Ah, signorina, zat Costantina, she has not any heart. She love one man one day, anozzer ze next. I go away to forget.”
His eyes dropped to hers; for an instant the mocking light died out; a questioning, wounded look took its place.
She felt a quick impulse to hold out her hands, to say, “Jerry, don’t go!” If she only knew! Was he going because he thought that she wished to dismiss him, or because he wished to dismiss himself? Was it pique that bade him carry the play to the end, or was it merely the desire to get out of an awkward situation gracefully?
She stood hesitating, scanning the terrace pavement with troubled eyes; when she raised them to his face the chance was gone. He straightened his shoulders with an air of finality and picked up his hat from the balustrade.
“Some day, signorina, in New York, perhaps I play a little tune underneaf your window.”
She nodded and smiled.
“I will give the monkey a penny when he comes—good-bye.”
He bowed over her hand and touched it lightly to his lips.
“Signorina, addio!”
As he strode away into the dusky lane of cypresses, she heard him whistling softly “Santa Lucia.” It was the last stroke, she reflected, angrily; he might at least have omitted that! She turned away and dropped down on the water steps to wait for the Farfalla. The terrace, the lake, the beautiful Italian night, suddenly seemed deserted and empty. Before she knew it was coming, she had leaned her head against the balustrade with a deep sob. She caught herself sharply. She to sit there crying, while Tony went whistling on his way!
As the Farfalla drifted idly over the water, Constance sat in the stern, her chin in her hand, moodily gazing at the shimmering path of moonlight. But no one appeared to notice her silence, since Nannie was talking enough for both. And the only thing she talked about was Jerry Junior, how funny and clever and charming he was, how phenomenally good—for a man; when she showed signs of stopping, Mr. Wilder by a question started her on. It seemed to Constance an interminable two hours before they dropped their guests in the garden of the Hotel du Lac, and headed again for Villa Rosa.