He bowed stiffly. “I beg of you to convey my thanks to Elizabetta.”
“Tony!” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and glanced apprehensively over her shoulder to see if the jailor were listening. “If by any chance they should identify you as that deserter, just get word to me and I will have Elizabetta bake you a veal pasty with a rope ladder and a file inside. I would have had her bake it this morning, only Wednesday is ironing-day at the villa, and she was so awfully busy—”
“This is your innings,” Tony rejoined somewhat sulkily. “I hope you’ll get all the entertainment you can out of the situation.”
“Thank you, Tony, that’s kind. Of course,” she added with a plaintive note in her voice, “this must be tiresome for you; but it is a pleasant surprise for me. I was feeling very sad last night, Tony, at the thought that you were going to Austria and that I should never, never see you any more.”
“I wish I knew whether there’s any truth in that statement or not!”
“Any truth! I realize well, that I might search the whole world over and never find another donkey-man who sings such beautiful tenor, who wears such lovely sashes and such becoming earrings. Why, Tony—” she took a step nearer and her face assumed a look of consternation. “You’ve lost your earrings!”
He turned his back and walked to the window where he stood moodily staring at the market. Constance watched his squared shoulders dubiously out of the corner of her eye; then she glanced momentarily into the hall where the jailor was visible, his face flattened against the bars of an open window; and from him to her father, still deep in the columns of his paper, oblivious to both time and place. She crossed to Tony and stood at his side peering down at the scene below.
“I don’t suppose it will interest you,” she said in an off-hand tone, her eyes still intent on the crowd, “but I got a letter this morning from a young man who is stopping at the Sole d’ Oro in Riva—a very rude letter I thought.”
He whirled about.
“You know!”
“It struck me that the person who wrote it was in a temper and might afterwards be sorry for having hurt my feelings, and so”—she raised her eyes momentarily to his—“the invitation is still open.”
“Tell me,” there was both entreaty and command in his tone, “did you know the truth before you wrote that letter?”
“You mean, did I know whom I was inviting? Assuredly! Do you think it would have been dignified to write such an informal invitation to a person I did not know?”
She turned away quickly and laid her hand on her father’s shoulder.
“Come, Dad, don’t you think we ought to be going? Poor Tony wants to read the paper himself.”
Mr. Wilder came back to the jail and his companions with a start.
“Oh, eh, yes, I think perhaps we ought. If they don’t let you out this afternoon, Tony, I’ll make matters lively for ’em, and if there’s anything you need send word by Gustavo—I’ll be back later.” He fished in his pockets and brought up a handful of cigars. “Here’s something better than lemon jelly, and they’re not from the tobacco shop in Valedolmo either.”
He dropped them on the table and turned toward the door; Constance followed with a backward glance.
“Good-bye, Tony; don’t despair. Remember that it’s always darkest before the dawn, and that whatever others think, Costantina and I believe in you. We know that you are incapable of telling anything but the truth!” She had almost reached the door when she became aware of the flowers in her hand; she hurried back. “Oh, I forgot! Costantina sent these with her—with—” She faltered; her audacity did not go quite that far.
Tony reached for them. “With what?” he insisted.
She laughed; and a second later the door closed behind her. He stood staring at the door till he heard the key turn in the lock, then he looked down at the flowers in his hand. A note was tied to the stems; his fingers trembled as he worked with the knot.
“Caro Antonio mio,” it commenced; he could read that. “La sua Costantina,” it ended; he could read that. But between the two was an elusive, tantalizing hiatus. He studied it and put it in his pocket and took it out and studied it again. He was still puzzling over it half an hour later when Gustavo came to inquire if the signore had need of anything.
Had he need of anything! He sent Gustavo flying to the stationer’s in search of an Italian-English dictionary.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon and all the world—except Constance—was taking a siesta. The Farfalla, anchored at the foot of the water steps in a blaze of sunshine, was dipping up and down in drowsy harmony with the lapping waves; she was for the moment abandoned, Giuseppe being engaged with a nap in the shade of the cypress trees at the end of the drive. He was so very engaged that he did not hear the sound of an approaching carriage, until the horse was pulled to a sudden halt to avoid stepping on him. Giuseppe staggered sleepily to his feet and rubbed his eyes. He saw a gentleman descend, a gentleman clothed as for a wedding, in a frock coat and a white waistcoat, in shining hat and pearl gray gloves and a boutonnière of oleander. Having paid the driver and dismissed the carriage, the gentleman fumbled in his pocket for his card-case. Giuseppe hurrying forward with a polite bow, stopped suddenly and blinked. He fancied that he must still be dreaming; he rubbed his eyes and stared again, but he found the second inspection more confounding than the first. The gentleman looked back imperturbably, no slightest shade of recognition in his glance, unless a gleam of amusement far, far down in the depths of his eye might be termed recognition. He extracted a card with grave deliberation and handed it to his companion.
“Voglio vedere la Signorina Costantina,” he remarked.
The tone, the foreign accent, were both reminiscent of many a friendly though halting conversation. Giuseppe stared again, appealingly, but the gentleman did not help him out; on the contrary he repeated his request in a slightly sharpened tone.
“Si, signore,” Giuseppe stammered. “Prego di verire. La signorina è nel giardino.”
He started ahead toward the garden, looking behind at every third step to make sure that the gentleman was still following, that he was not merely a figment of his own sleepy senses. Their direction was straight toward the parapet where, on a historic wash-day, the signorina had sat beside a row of dangling stockings. She was sitting there now, dressed in white, the oleander tree above her head enveloping her in a glowing and fragrant shade. So occupied was she with a dreamy contemplation of the mountains across the lake that she did not hear footsteps until Giuseppe paused before her and presented the card. She glanced from this to the visitor and extended a friendly hand.
“Mr. Hilliard! Good afternoon.”
There was nothing of surprise in her greeting; evidently she did not find the visit extraordinary. Giuseppe stared, his mouth and eyes at their widest, until the signorina dismissed him; then he turned and walked back—staggered back almost—never before, not even late at night on Corpus Domini day, had he had such overwhelming reason to doubt his senses.
Constance turned to the visitor and swept him with an appreciative glance, her eye lingering a second on the oleander in his buttonhole.
“Perhaps you can tell me, is Tony out of jail? I am so anxious to know.”
He shook his head.
“Found guilty and sentenced for life; you’ll never see him again.”
“Ah; poor Tony! I shall miss him.”