CHAPTER VI
Tony was stretched on the parapet that bordered the stone-paved platformof the fortress. Above him the crumbling tower rose many feet higher,below him a marvelous view stretched invitingly; but Tony had eyesneither for medieval architecture nor picturesque scenery. He lay withhis coat doubled under his head for a pillow, in a frowning contemplationof the cracked stone pavement.
The four other men, after an hour or so of easy lounging under the pinesat the base of the tower, had organized a fresh expedition to the summita mile farther up. Mr. Wilder, since morning, had developed into anenthusiastic mountain-climber--regret might come with the morrow, but asyet ambition still burned high. The remainder of the party were lessenergetic. 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 nibblingmountain herbs.
There was no obvious reason why, as he lighted a cigarette and stretchedhimself on the parapet, Tony should not have been the most self-satisfiedguide 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 didnot appear as thankful as she might, still, her father had shown duegratitude, and, what was to the point, had promised a reward. That shouldhave been enough for any reasonable donkey-driver.
But it was distinctly not enough for Tony. He was in a fine temper as helay on the parapet and scowled at the pavement. Nothing was turning outas he had planned. He had not counted on the officers or herpredilection for Italian. He had not counted on chasing donkeys in personwhile she stood and looked on--Beppo was to have attended to that. He hadnot counted on anything quite so absurd as his heroic capture ofFidilini. Since she must let the donkey run away with her, why, in thename 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 bridleinstead of the tail? And above all, why could she not have fallen intohis arms, instead of on top of him?
The stage scenery was set for romance, but from the moment the curtainrose the play had persisted in being farce. However, farce or romance, itwas all one to him so long as he could play leading-man; what he objectedto was the minor part. The fact was clear that sash and earrings couldnever compete with uniform and sword and the Italian language. His mindwas made up; he would withdraw tonight before he was found out, andleave Valedolmo tomorrow morning by the early boat. Miss Constance Wildershould never have the satisfaction of knowing the truth.
He was engaged in framing a dignified speech to Mr. Wilder--thanking himfor his generosity, but declining to accept a reward for what had beenmerely a matter of duty--when his reflections were cut short by the soundof 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 centered onthe view; she looked entirely over Tony. It was not until he rose to hisfeet that she realized his presence with a start.
"Dear me, is that you, Tony? You frightened me! Don't get up; I know youmust be tired." This with a sweetly solicitous smile.
Tony smiled too and resumed his seat; it was the first time since morningthat she had condescended to consider his feelings. She sauntered overto 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 theother direction; he too could play at indifference.
Constance finished with her view first, and crossing over, she seatedherself in the deep embrasure of a window close beside Tony's parapet. Herose again at her approach, but there was no eagerness in the motion; itwas merely the necessary deference of a donkey-driver toward hisemployer.
"Oh, sit down," she insisted, "I want to talk to you."
"She seated herself in the deep embrasure of a windowclose beside Tony's parapet"]
He opened his eyes with a show of surprise; his hurt feelings insistedthat all the advances should be on her part. Constance seemed in no hurryto begin; she removed her hat, pushed back her hair, and sat playing withthe bunch of edelweiss which was stuck in among the roses--flattening thepetals, rearranging the flowers with careful fingers; a touch, itseemed to Tony's suddenly clamoring senses, that was almost a caress.Then she looked up quickly and caught his gaze. She leaned forward with alaugh.
"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 thequestion, and French she doubtless knew better than he--he deplored thispolyglot education girls were receiving nowadays.
He had it! He would be Hungarian. His sole fellow guest in the hotel atVerona the week before had been a Hungarian nobleman, who had informedhim that the Magyar language was one of the most difficult on the face ofthe globe. There was at least little likelihood that she was acquaintedwith 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 herwide-opened eyes with a look of innocent candor.
"Really!" She beamed upon him delightedly; he was playing up even betterthan she had hoped. "But if you are Hungarian, what are you doing here inItaly, and how does it happen that your name is Antonio?"
"My movver was Italian. She name me Antonio after ze blessed SaintAnthony of Padua. If you lose anysing, signorina, and you say a prayer toSaint Anthony every day for nine days, on ze morning of ze tenth you willfind it again."
"That is very interesting," she said politely. "How do you come to knowEnglish so well, Tony?"
"We go live in Amerik' when I li'l boy."
"And you never learned Italian? I should think your mother would havetaught it to you."
He imitated Beppo's gesture.
"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 hiscommand. Latin--French--German--none of them any good--but, thankgoodness, he had elected Anglo-Saxon in college; and thank goodness againthe professor had made them learn passages by heart. He glanced up withan air of flattered diffidence and rendered, in a conversationalinflection, an excerpt from the Anglo-Saxon Bible.
"_Ealle gesceafta, heofonas and englas, sunnan and monan, steorran andeorthan, he 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 likeze 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 seizedthe 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 weretaking. "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 h
is father and I should think--"
"His father?" Tony appeared momentarily startled; then he laughed. "Hedid not mean his real father; he mean--how you say--his god-father. Igive 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 wearearrings?"
He reddened slightly.
"Because--because--der's a girl I like ver' moch, signorina; she sinkearrings 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 Imarry dis girl and go back home, zen I do as I please, now I haf to do asshe 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 herface. "Oh, ver' beautiful, signorina. She have hair brown and gold, andeyes--yes, eyes! Zay are sometimes black, signorina, and sometimes gray.Her laugh, it sounds like the song of a nightingale." He clasped hishands and rolled his eyes in a fine imitation of Gustavo. "She isbeautiful, signorina, beautiful as ze angels in Paradise!"
"There seem to be a good many people beautiful as the angels inParadise."
"She is most beautiful of all."
"What is her name?"
"Costantina." He said it softly, his eyes on her face.
"Ah," Constance rose and turned away with a shrug. Her manner suggestedthat he had gone too far.
"She wash clothes at ze Hotel du Lac," he called after her.
Constance paused and glanced over her shoulder with a laugh.
"Tony," she said, "the quality which I admire most in a donkey-driver,besides truthfulness and picturesqueness, is imagination."